THE LOCKET
by Kenneth Merle Morrison
I counted them one by one until I reached the number five - six if you counted the one with the broken hinge - a hinge that was intended to keep the lid securely in place. The inside of box number six was lined with a faded material that reminded me of velvet. The outside of the box was equally unimpressive. It was some kind of a dull cast metal. There was, however, one remarkable saving grace attached to this otherwise ordinary box.The saving grace was the work of a skilled artist who had engraved on the lid a beautiful rose surrounded by other attractive flowers that might be found in someone's favorite garden. This unexpected beauty on a rather inexpensive jewelry box gently brought my attention back to the unwelcome project at hand.
Six months had gone by since my wife, Doris, had died from Non¬ Hodgkins Lymphoma. It was now time for the three of us - my daughter, my granddaughter and me - to go through the emotion filled experience of going through the personal possessions of the one with whom we had all shared a deep love and respect. Earlier, I had asked a number of friends who had lost a spouse to death, just how and when they were able to successfully travel through this formidable undertaking. Without hesitating some said, "The sooner the better." Others said, "You will know when the time is right."
It was now the right time for us. They came over on a Saturday morning and I became busy with other activities so they would not be burdened with the sight of tears that might escape from my eyes as each new article they were examining flooded my mind with vivid memories - some from long ago and some as fresh as the recent past. Dresses and coats and shoes were all handled with a gentle touch and placed in an organized grouping so that we would make the best use of them.
And now, we had before us six jewelry boxes including the one with the broken hinge. They were made of all kinds of materials - beautiful grained wood, attractive metal, and combinations of both. The one that attracted my attention was the smallest of all. It was the one with the engraved rose on the lid and it appeared to be the oldest and the most used which, without doubt, was the reason for the damaged hinge. And now it was time to discover what treasures it held. With the lid set aside, it seemed to contain the most curious mixture of articles ever to be found in a jewelry box.
First, there was a copper penny with a date I could not decipher. There was a green plastic sewing thimble surrounded by buttons of all sizes. Gold and silver chains were so tangled that I did not attempt to untangle them. One loose silver chain led to a rectangular shaped watch with the name Doris engraved on it.
And then, I saw it! I saw THE LOCKET! It was gold in color, heart shaped in form and made so that small pictures of loved ones could be inserted inside. Although there were many other interesting and valuable pieces of jewelry to be found in box number six, none could compare to the value I placed on this piece which I simply called THE LOCKET. It was of great value to me because of the memories I found flooding in on me like a giant, irresistible ocean wave that forcefully moved out of the way every other emotional feeling that had been experienced during this undertaking, and I was left with a vivid memory of life in a small West Texas town with a courthouse square and a high school that sat on a hill a few blocks from where I lived.
The year was 1941. It was a critical period of time between the Great Depression and the beginning of World War II. My older brother was one of the first ones to be drafted into the Armed Forces and it was my intention to join the Navy as soon as I could. But first, I needed to finish my high school education. As president of my class, I expected to be the first in line as I led my classmates to the graduation platform.
And then, there was THE GIRL. Her name was Doris. She was older than I and was working in a lawyer's office above the corner drug store across the street from the courthouse. She was the one I walked with to her home after church and sat with at parties and social functions. And it was our mutual feeling of love for each other that began the story of THE LOCKET.
Although the Great Depression had left many people without jobs, I was fortunate in that I had a part time job. Unlike the job Doris had which I considered to be glamorous, mine was the opposite. I was the janitor of a nearby church. I swept the floors, dusted the pews and polished the pulpit. I cut the grass and pulled the rope that rang the bell in the bell tower on Sunday morning to alert the members that it was time for Sunday morning church service. For all of this work I was thankful to receive the depression era salary of seventy five cents a week.
If all of this makes me sound like a teenage saint, don't you believe it. I did it for the money. I did it for the seventy five cents I received each week. I did it for the fulfillment of a dream of what that money could buy.
Every time I received my salary, I hid it away in a secret place and watched it grow and it became another step toward making my dream come true. With discipline and patience as my helpers, my weekly salary soon turned into five dollars, then ten, then twenty dollars and then even more. My heart quickened as I thought of the variety of things that amount of money could buy.
I lived only a short distance from the courthouse square and the office where Doris worked. On my way there I passed by many retail stores with a variety of merchandise for sale. Among the establishments was a jewelry store owned by the parents of one of my classmates. A quick glance at the prices convinced me that I would always be a looker and never a buyer. But one day I took a closer look at a small heart shaped object that caught my attention. As my vision focused on it, I thought I could hear it talking to me. I thought I heard it say, "Look at me. I am just what you are searching for. I am that dream you have been saving your money for. Buy me and I will become a part of your life and history for now and forever more."
I now knew that my dream had become a reality and on Doris' birthday, March 2, 1941, I gave to her THE LOCKET. And now, sixty six years later, with my daughter and granddaughter by my side, I looked down inside the jewelry box with the broken hinge and I saw THE LOCKET again. When I picked it up, I noticed that it had lost some of its luster and the chain looked worn with age. But that was not the only thing worn with age. I too, with age, had lost the luster and brightness of younger years. But neither THE LOCKET nor I have been devalued by the passing of time.
When I hold THE LOCKET in my hand and examine it closely, it still remains the bright and shining morning star of gifts as it was when I saw it in the window sixty six years ago. On March 2, 1941 I gave THE LOCKET to Doris as a gift of my love. On January 11, 1998, the date of her death, she gave it back to me with an equal amount of love.
And I shall cherish it now as she cherished it then.
Kenneth Merle Morrison
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
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MILESTONES
Stories by Kenneth Merle Morrison
"MILESTONE": 2. An important event, as in a person's life; a turning point.
DOCTOR, DOCTOR!
by Kenneth Merle Morrison
His name was Wade Jakeway. We were sitting across from each other in a restaurant in Birmingham, Alabama where we were attending a church related conference. He was a talented artist and a freelance writer. I remember the quizzical look on his face as he asked me a personal question: “Kenneth, is it true that during a major operation the surgical team left a surgical sponge inside you?”
I could tell from his body language that the matter had caught his attention and filled him with a journalistic curiosity that would not be satisfied until he heard the complete story. “Tell me how it happened,” he said. “How did it affect you and what were your thoughts and feelings when you finally became aware of it?”
His questions were numerous - each one seeking out another detail. It became a full-fledged interview as though I had attained some kind of unique status that set me apart from other people. The intensity of the mode of his questioning led me to believe that he was planning to write a story about “the man who lived with a surgical sponge inside.” I do not know if the story was ever written; I do know that it is a story that needs to be told because it explores the intricacies of the relationship that exists between a patient and his/her doctor.
In a recent TV interview on the popular NBC Today Show a Dr. Hellman was questioned about the importance of doctor/patient relationships. Without hesitation he declared that it was number one in importance for those who were interested in maintaining good health. One participant in the discussion called it a “sacred relationship.” With this kind of high praise, it is ironic that this segment of the Today Show was called “When To Fire Your Doctor.”
I vividly remember the time when I faced the painful decision of “firing my doctor.” Actually I did not go through the process of issuing him a formal notice, I took the less stressful way of simply canceling my next appointment and declining to make a new one. The decision was based on a series of events that covered an extended period of time.
My story, which could be called “The Saga of the Elusive Sponge.”, had an interesting set of characters. Surrounded by a cast of bit players, the main characters were four doctors who lived and practiced medicine in three different cities. For identification purposes I will refer to them as Dr. Number One, Dr. Number Two, Dr. Number Three and Dr. Number Four.
Dr. Number One was a respected and reputable Shreveport physician with whom I had a congenial relationship. On his advice I consented to have gall bladder surgery - a prophylactic procedure because of the presence of numerous gallstones. The surgery was performed; the desired results were obtained; I was released to return to my normal duties.
Dr. Number Two became a member of the cast of characters when I moved from Shreveport to St. Louis a few years after my gall bladder surgery. When my energy level became noticeably low and continued a downward slide, a friend referred me to Dr. Number Two who, after a thorough examination, put me in the hospital for extensive tests which revealed that I was losing blood internally from some as yet unknown source.
Visiting with me in the hospital the next day, Dr. Number Two took me by total surprise by saying: “Mr. Morrison your X-Ray shows the presence of a wire in your abdomen which I assume was placed there to properly position one of your internal organs.” As I listened to his commentary about my condition, I was incredulous. Although I did not dispute his findings, my personal feelings went beyond skepticism to total disbelief. It was beyond rational thinking that a wire would be placed in my body without my knowledge or authorization.
In addition to my lack of trust in his diagnosis, I became disenchanted with his program of watchful waiting concerning my continued loss of blood. This internal bleeding resulted in a dangerously low hemoglobin count. The time had come for me to make the painful decision of “firing my doctor” which I did without compunction. This led me to contact Dr. Number Three, a prominent St. Louis internist.
After further examinations, I waited with considerable apprehension in his office for his analysis of the state of my health. Using layman’s language he said pointedly and bluntly, “Mr. Morrison you are sitting on a powder keg! Someone has left a surgical sponge in you and it must come out.” Without waiting for my response, he quickly added, “And furthermore I will not be a part of any legal action you may choose to take regarding this medical mistake.” While I had appreciation for his honesty, there was no display of sympathy for my precarious situation - a dismissive attitude that seemed to indicate that he had no desire to keep me as a patient.
It was now indisputable that the story of the discovery of a wire by Dr. Number Two was a misdiagnosis. What he interpreted as a wire was in reality the blue thread that is woven into a sponge for the purpose of identifying it as such on an X-Ray film. The doctor had that knowledge but chose to withhold it from me to the detriment of my health and well-being.
When the Today show aired their segment called “When to Fire Your Doctor,” there must have been some evidence to indicate that it was not an uncommon experience. And when they introduced the concept that the most important thing that can happen between a doctor and a patient, is to establish a congeal and trustworthy relationship, they gave us valuable counsel on how to prevent minor problems from becoming major problems.
Establishing that relationship is a two way street - both patient and doctor are equally responsible. I was made aware of that when I read a small booklet in my doctor’s waiting room. In bold print on the cover I read: “The most important part of your treatment is you.” Then, inserted within a square border were the words: “Be a partner in your care.”
Many seniors and most elderly patients may need help in learning how to be a partner with health care providers. In addition to literature that is available for guidance, this is a time when understanding physicians can help by going beyond the guidelines of their Hippocratic Oath and demonstrating a sensitive and compassionate concern for the patient’s physical, mental and emotional health.
An example of this came to my attention when a friend gave me a copy of a Physician’s Prayer she found hanging on the examining room wall of her oncologist, Dr. Howard Wold. The prayer, written by Dr. O.L. Parsons, is a reflection of both doctor’s faith. The last paragraph of the prayer read: “Direct our thoughts, guide our actions, and purge our motives that we may be worthy instruments of healing in Thy hands.” It has been my experience and observation that the overwhelming majority of doctors who have a practice in Central Louisiana would look with favor on such a prayer.
It was that knowledge that enabled me to come back home to Louisiana for the writing of the final chapter of “The Saga of the Elusive Sponge.”
Family and friends highly recommended the services of Alexandria surgeon Dr. Lee Jarrell. Dr. Jarrell, now deceased, located and verified the presence of the sponge, surgically removed it from its attachment to the liver and repaired the area where the internal bleeding had occurred. Dr. Jarrell became Dr. Number Four in my saga - a heroic figure that reinforced my belief that physicians who are dedicated to the high calling of the healing of the body and mind are among God’s greatest gifts to humankind.
Kenneth Merle Morrisonon
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
GIFTS FROM THE HEART
by Kenneth Merle Morrison
The Marketplace seems to be worried about this year’s holiday shopping. A recent newspaper article informed us that the nation’s retailers are “focused on what steps they need to take to get consumers excited about shopping again.” The suggestion is that they may have to be more aggressive in discounting their prices than they had originally planned. That is good news for those of us who purchase presents for family and friends. But that does not solve our major problem which is: what do we buy for the senior citizens in our lives? What do we buy for moms and dads? What do we buy for grandmas and grandpas? What do we buy for elderly friends who seem to have everything they need?
I remember getting my family together one year and saying to them, “Look, please do not buy me another sweater for my November birthday nor as a present for Christmas. I know it is winter time and I know the stores are discounting the price of winter clothing, but I have enough sweaters to last me until I am 102 years old. I will run out of years before I run out of sweaters.”
Don’t misunderstand. I love sweaters. I start wearing them when the temperature hovers around the 50 degree mark and I don’t put them away until the early azaleas start showing their welcome array of colors and the late blooming camellias say their final goodbye with one last burst of beauty.
My fondness for sweaters keeps me wearing them long after others have put them away for another year. Knowing this, my family has brought joy to my heart with gifts of sweaters - all kinds of sweaters: pull-over sweaters, vest sweaters, sleeveless sweaters, jacket sweaters and some I don’t know how to describe. And I love every one of them, especially the beautiful designer sweater my late wife, Doris, purchased in Italy and brought back with her carry-on luggage - using that precious space that could have been used for some valuable personal item.
All of this creates a problem for my family. If they are forbidden from buying me another sweater, what can they give? Please, no more socks! At last count I had forty pairs which is a number that is only ten more than the number of sweaters I have. The older we get, the more we accumulate and the more we accumulate the more difficult it becomes for family and friends to give meaningful, thoughtful and useful presents.
We do not have this same problem with children. Early on they let us know what is on their wish list for Christmas. Our major problem is keeping the total cost of those desired items within the budget we have to work with. In the year 1930, when I was eight years old, my parents were limited by a budget which in this present day is difficult to comprehend. My three brothers and I were fortunate to receive gifts which, in total, cost less than ten dollars. The first Christmas gift I can remember receiving was a $1.98 set of Tinker Toys. I was absolutely ecstatic with joy! My imagination allowed me to build all kinds of creations with a set of round wooden hubs, which were full of holes, and various lengths of wooden dowels that fit snugly into the holes. It was the only gift I received that year, but it was a gift of love that filled my heart with joy and gave me many pleasurable moments.
Many decades have passed since that time and each year has brought me new gifts, each with its own meaningful story and lingering memory. Among those that I cherish, along with the sweaters, is a gift I received from a young friend a couple of years ago. I received a call from Sheri during the week before Christmas. She asked if it was a convenient time for a visit, which I assured her it was. Standing on my front porch I watched her as she drove up my driveway; parked her car; opened the car door and got out; then she reached back in the car and removed what appeared to be a musical instrument. It was just that - her beloved guitar.
Sheri is a talented artist, as well as a gifted musician. Her artistic work can be observed throughout Alexandria - murals on the outside walls of city buildings, on the inside walls of public school rooms and in many private homes. She created a large, dramatic diorama for the Lecompte Historical Museum that has received critical acclaim.
With her guitar in hand, I welcomed Sheri into my home where she said, “I have a present for you. What is your favorite Christmas song? I want to play and sing it for you.” I hesitated with my answer for a moment, while rolling over in my mind the names of well known carols. Before I could answer, Sheri started singing. Her soft, mellow voice filled my room with the beautiful sounds of Christmas. One after another the songs retold the story of the birth of the Christ Child. She then started singing a carol with the fascinating melody of Greensleeves - “What Child Is This.” Then, she asked again, “And what is your favorite carol?” “You just sang it,” I answered, as the words of the refrain kept going over in mind, “This, this is Christ the King, whom Shepherds guard and angels sing. Haste, haste to bring him laud, the babe the
son of Mary.”
This was a new and different kind of gift - a personal gift that came from her heart and warmly touched mine. This suggests all kinds of Christmas gifts that can be given to Seniors. The monetary value of the gift becomes insignificant when compared to a present that can only be described as a gift from the heart. How about giving the gift of a personal prayer; the gift of reading a meaningful poem; the gift of a long distance telephone call; the gift of a forgiving spirit; the gift of a long overdue visit; the gift of a comforting word and a loving hug? The list is endless. Trust your own heart to select the right one.
I do not expect to receive another sweater as a gift for Christmas this year. But I do expect warm thoughts, kind words, gentle hugs, and gifts from the heart from family and friends. And, oh yes, one other thing, I would like for Santa to bring me a special gift - another set of Tinker Toys.
Kenneth Merle Morrisonon
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
THE TWISTS AND TURNS OF FATE
By Kenneth Merle Morrison
Fate, dressed in her finest clothing and with a smile on her face, did me a good favor on a pleasant afternoon a few years ago. Some may call it good luck. However, I was never inclined to believe in luck, either good or bad. Perhaps I should call it destiny - a combination of human intelligence and divine will. Whatever it was, it gave me a good feeling and an illusion of good things to come.
Driving into the parking lot of my greenhouses on that day was a large delivery truck filled with a variety of bedding plants, an assortment of hanging baskets filled with lush looking ferns and other trailing plants whose branches hang out over the sides of the basket creating a cascade of attractive leaves.
The driver of the truck was a man we called Duffy, a congenial and knowledgeable man who walked with a limp that was only noticeable the first time you met him. After that, everything seemed normal – Duffy’s personality overshadowed any physical disability he might have.
After our order was unloaded and the plants placed in the areas where they would be on display, my attention was focused on a hanging basket containing a plant called German Ivy, an old fashioned plant with oval leaves that are a solid green in color. But this basket looked different. A close examination revealed one long stem with leaves that were variegated - green with shades of a cream color on each leaf. This was an exciting discovery and I immediately set the basket aside for further investigation, knowing that mutations like this could be developed into a new variety of the old fashioned German Ivy plant.
My intention was to discover if this mutation could be replicated by causing roots to grow on a vegetative cutting from the plant. With diligent care and a sharp knife, I removed a cutting about four inches in length, leaving about three inches of the stem with the variegated leaves for a second try if the first one failed. Inserting the cutting in a growing medium that I had used before with success, I carefully placed it on the inside ledge of a picture window in my house that faced the east.
After a period of about two weeks, with the help of daily prayers and crossed fingers, I had success! Roots had formed and I transplanted the rooted cutting into a larger container where it continued to grow in a twining fashion just like the mother plant. I continued the process of removing tip cuttings from new rooted plants until I had produced about six generations of this new unique German Ivy plant.
The thought then occurred to me that new and different strains of plants could be patented if they passed all the stipulations, regulations and rules of the United States Patent Office. I knew that being granted a patent was a formidable effort on my part, but it was a challenge that I could not turn away from. I knew there were Patent Attorneys available, but this was my own new born baby who needed what only I could give - my personal and undivided attention.
So, the adventure began. Publications from the Patent Office were obtained. They were numerous in number and extremely detailed in nature. They outlined the kind of information that was needed and the high quality color photos that would reveal how the variegated colors of the new plant differed from the solid green color of the mother plant.
I applied for and was granted the status of being a Friend of the L.S.U. Library in Baton Rouge. Using their vast storehouse of valuable information, I was now ready to begin my adventure with a heartless government bureaucracy.
Correspondence with the Patent Office was very frequent. Before it was over, I had accumulated a two inch compressed stack of legal size forms and letters, all of which reflects the careful process an application must go through before a patent if granted. In the months that followed there were low moments filled with anxiety. But, thankfully, there were high moments that indicated progress was being made.
Then, it happened! I was granted Plant Patent Number 5,571 for a new and distinct variety of a plant with the botanical name of Senico Mikanioides (German Ivy). I had persevered and my new born baby had given me the prestige of owning a United States Plant Patent. The official patent folder was bound together with a purple ribbon while an impressive gold seal was placed in the lower left hand corner of the folder covering the end of the ribbon. I must say that it was beautiful to behold and it filled my heart with pride. Fate had dressed herself in new, expensive clothing and had smiled on me once again.
My next step was to give it some publicity. I traveled across the country to Seattle, Washington where the Society of American Florist was conducting their annual meeting. A part of their convention was devoted to introducing new varieties of plants and flowers. My German Ivy hanging basket was entered along with hundreds of other new introductions. Once again Fate smiled on me and my plant was awarded a third place ribbon. As I stood in the aisle, I glanced at the tag identifying my entry. It read: Golden Glow German Ivy. Plant Patent 5571.
Then, in an unexpected turn of events, Fate's smile turned into an ugly frown and I was left bewildered, baffled and utterly disappointed. While the American Florist Society convention continued, my wife Doris and I took a boat trip up the western coast of Canada to Vancouver to the Winter Olympics of 2010
While there, we traveled by a double-decker bus to visit the beautiful hanging Gardens located east of the fascinating city of Vancouver.
When we returned to the convention site, to our dismay, we discovered that during our absence someone had moved my German Ivy basket and it was nowhere to be found. Other new varieties were still on display. The convention staff was informed and, after an investigation, the unhappy conclusion was reached that my plant had been stolen. Somewhere in the enchanting city of Seattle, an unscrupulous thief had conspired with Fate and I suffered a great loss.
The loss involved far more than the monetary value of the plant. This unique German Ivy was the only one of its kind in the world and my investment in it - time, labor, intellect, ingenuity and a belief in its artistic value - made it a part of me. When my plant was stolen, a part of me was stolen, a part that could not be recovered. Fate was now twisting and turning in an unimaginable fashion. Her smile was gone and in its place an ugly face. Her beautiful clothing was now tattered, torn and dirty. She was despicable and I despised her for what she had done to me.
But Fate also taught me a needed lesson I hope I will never forget. Just about the time some measure of success will tempt us to believe that we are in control, some unexpected event will cross our pathway and we are forced to face the realities of life. This is the time when we must reject the power of Fate and replace it with the power of Faith. The strength of Fate will always fade when we allow the strength of Faith to rule our lives.
I am, however, not through with the unpredictable antagonist I call Fate. Though life can often seem to be unfair, I still believe that Fate has not spoken her last word. So, I am patiently waiting for another smile, another gentle twist and another turn, because Fate now owes me another favor.
Kenneth Merle Morrison
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
MIRACLE IN THE ATTIC
by Kenneth Merle Morrison
There are all kinds of miracles. Some are big, exciting and life changing in nature, like those reported to have happened at the Lourdes Sacred Shrine located in France. The strict documentation of these events allows many of us to add our names to the list of true believers while others continue to remain skeptical.
But what about little miracles - those events that happen in our lives that are not life changing, but which we label as something other than a coincidence? What about a little miracle like losing a wedding ring in a snow bank on a trip up Pike's Peak, and then finding it as one of its diamonds glistened in the sunlight? What about losing the same ring on another occasion in a bin of Kentucky Wonder green beans in a neighborhood food store and then finding it the next day?
And then, somewhere in between the little and the big miracles, are those events for which we can find no logical explanation. They unexpectedly happen and we are left to ponder a mystery and to wonder if there is some element of the supernatural involved. More than a few people have such stories to tell and I have mine.
On a warm, spring day a few years ago, my son Ronald Merle and I decided to install a blanket of insulation in the attic of the house where I was living in south Rapides Parish. It was a project that required two workers - ¬one to operate the machinery that would blow the insulation material from the ground floor through a flexible hose into the attic. It seemed like a simple operation - Ronald Merle would stay downstairs and fill the hopper with the insulation and I would climb the stairs to the attic where I would spray the required thickness of the insulation over the entire area.
Although neither of us had any experience on such a project, we followed the directions and after a few rest breaks we were nearing the completion of the job. Because of the heat in the attic I came down for one last break and a glass of cold water. Going back up in the attic I had to traverse the rafters and other assorted construction materials. In the process I had to climb over some two by fours and duck under some two by sixes as I made my way to the far end of the area to be covered.
It was with a feeling of exhilaration that I aimed the nozzle of the hose toward the last corner of the attic and filled it with the insulation. We did it! Two inexperienced workers completed the project in record time and we began cleaning up the job site and putting away the machinery.
As I dusted off my clothing, I made a startling discovery - my left back pocket where I carried my wallet was empty. It was in my pocket when I started the job and now it was gone. My worst fear was that it was lost under six inches of insulation somewhere in the attic. A careful search of the downstairs area confirmed that fear. My wallet was up there hidden from sight under the insulation! How would I ever find it and how long would it take? All kinds of thoughts raced through my mind; would I have to remove all the layers of insulation to locate it; would I need to call in more people to help with the search; would I be unsuccessful in finding it and face the prospect of having to replace all the assorted material which a man carries in his wallet?
In despair, I was about to make a deal with God: If He would help me find the wallet, I would give Him half of the money that it contained. My better judgment caused me to ignore that temptation and I settled into a serious mood of determining the next step to take. Our peaceful and successful workday was being turned into one giant question mark - where to begin? Unanswerable questions have a way of producing stress and this was not the time for stress, anxiety and worry to roll in like a spring fog and cloud our ability to think clearly and logically.
So I went back in time when I faced other answerable questions. I had always believed that when facing an insurmountable problem that a silent, sincere prayer would be a helpful step to take. That is what my heart told me.
And my mind told me that if the wallet was to be found, it would take one of God's little miracles. So I left it at that and started on my adventure.
At the top of the stairs I surveyed the scene before me - everywhere I looked there was a smooth layer of insulation and somewhere underneath was a wallet filled with all of my valuable and important possessions. I had no guidelines to follow; no book of instructions to start me in the right direction; no audible voice to prompt me on what to do, like an actor receiving directions from an offstage playwright. But I did have something else. In spite of the odds stacked against me, I had an inner sense of peace which kept stress under control and allowed me to be open to the possibility of experiencing my own little miracle in the attic.
There was no light at the end of the tunnel, but there did seem to be a guiding presence that took me from the top of the stairs to the far end of the attic where the sloping roof line descended down to the level of the rafters. Just before I ran out of space to crawl, I stopped and felt an impression to begin my search at that point. Kneeling on the rafters, I raised my arm in the air, pointed my hand in a downward position and slowly inserted fingers into the six inch thick layer of insulation. AND THERE IT WAS! My fingers were touching the lost wallet. Some unknown guiding force had taken me to the exact location.
When my fingers touched the smooth surface of the wallet, there was a moment of silence - like the silence that occurs when overtaken by unbelief. It was total unbelief that I would be led to the exact spot where my wallet slipped out of my pocket. I was led by some external influence, not just to the general area; not just one foot away; not just six inches away, but to the only location in the attic where my fingers could penetrate the layer of insulation and retrieve the lost wallet.
It will take someone with more wisdom and insight than I possess to reach a definitive explanation as to how and why all of this happened in the way it did. Without this intervention of outside help, I would have been lost in a maze of endless wandering. We live in a world where all mysteries can never be solved, so I do not allow that to become a frustrating circumstance. I only know that I experienced one of God's little miracles and it left me with the belief that if it happened once, it could happen again.
And that prompts me to ask, "Have you had your little miracle recently?"
If you haven't, why not open yourself to the possibility that it could become a reality.
There are all kinds of miracles out there waiting to happen and one of them may have your name on it.
Kennneth Merle Morrison
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
Hope - A Word to Remember
By Kenneth Merle Morrison
The day was not a pleasant one to be making a trip into Alexandria from my home south of the city. It was cold, windy and a little rain was falling, making for a gloomy day. But I had a deadline facing me - Easter was almost here and I had no appropriate cards to send. As I shopped I was looking for a suitable match between the message on the card and the friend to whom it was being sent.All went well until I began looking for a card for a friend who was going through a very difficult time. Life changing problems were being faced and a word of encouragement was needed. So, I looked for a card with the word hope on it. I looked and I looked and I looked, and I discovered that hope was nowhere to be found. Time passed by; sunlight turned into darkness; still, no word of hope. As I traveled home, this question was eating itself in my head: where has hope gone? I could not find hope and I was disappointed.
It was not until after Easter that I discovered what a dreadful mistake I had made. I was looking for hope on the face of a card when I should have been looking for it on the face of a person. Authentic hope is always more than just a word; it is the belief that no matter how dark our own night may be, the sun is still shining somewhere. It may just be over the brow of the hill or around the bend of the road, but the sun is there waiting to illuminate the shadow1ands of our lives, and what I found was most inspirational.
I had read in a doctor's column in a newspaper a statement that read, "This year more than 24,000 North American women will discover they have ovarian cancer and more than 15,000 will die from it."
I have a friend, June, who read the same column but with a more intense interest because she had recently been diagnosed with ovarian cancer. In the beginning it was given a stage four rating which meant that she was more likely to die than to live. Surgery was scheduled; it was successfully completed chemotherapy was begun; then, after consultation with doctors in Houston, June went to the world renowned M.D. Anderson Cancer Clinic where she had her case reviewed by oncologist Dr. Andrejz Kudelka.
Following a few visits, the doctor asked June about her mental and emotional well-being. An important step in the process of the healing of the physical is the healing of the inner person - the heart, mind and spirit. This was an important step in June's recovery because, over the years, there had been an accumulation of unresolved grief experiences. June related a litany of events that seemed endless.
The list of unresolved grief experience began with the death from breast cancer of a twin sister. When a twin dies, part of the life of the surviving twin also dies. Then there was the accidental death of June's husband, the father of her three small children. Sometime later there was the pressing need for a liver transplant for her youngest daughter; then her oldest daughter was diagnosed with breast cancer. Following that was the medical evacuation of her son from an oil rig in Chad, Africa to Paris to receive treatment for excessive loss of blood from internal bleeding.
As the doctor listened, tears streamed down his face and he gave her a loving embrace, an unrehearsed act of compassion from one broken heart to another. Before June left the hospital that day, she was placed under the care of Dr. Michael Fisch, a young, knowledgeable and skilled palliative care oncologist. The inner self was now being treated as well as the outer.
Back home, under the watchful eye of Dr. Howard Wold, an experienced Alexandria oncologist, June continued to receive chemotherapy that resulted in the complete loss of her hair. While she expected this to happen, she was not prepared for the psychological impact it would produce. She later said, "I was not mentally prepared to cope with the person I saw staring back at me in the mirror. The person appeared to be very old, very sick and very ugly."
It was then that something unexpected happened. A visiting bird, a dove, build her nest in a fern basket hanging on an outside patio near a bedroom window. In past years other birds had built their nests in the same location, but this time it was different. This bird displayed no fear. When June watered the basket, the bird did not move. On one occasion I was a witness to this unusual behavior. When June held a camera close and took a picture, the dove remained calm. Later, she wrote, "I will always believe that God sent this dove to me as a sign - for peace of mind and an omen of good things to come."
From the beginning of her illness, I had encouraged June to write about her precarious journey with ovarian cancer. Keeping a journal of the hopes and the fears, the joys and the sorrows, the ups and the downs is a therapeutic exercise of immeasurable value.
" Gaining confidence in her ability to compose and produce a story, she began writing about her unresolved grief related experiences. In response to her palliative care doctor, she courageously faced the major road block in the healing of the inner person. For many years she had been haunted by the vivid memory of her husband's accidental death. The memory was with her in the darkness of the night; in the bright sunshine of the day; in the privacy of her home and in the public arena of the office. It was a memory full of the twin enemies called hopelessness and despair.
One day she had an impulse to write a different kind of story - a story of the memory of happy times in her life, such as the time she and her husband first met; the delightful dating occasions and a joy filled wedding ceremony. Later there was the blessed addition of children - two girls and a boy. In the process of writing, she began to relive, in a very vivid way, those happy moments in her life that no one could take away from her. Whatever sadness there had been, there was now equal time given to cherish the happy and joyful moments of her life. This was the beginning of the healing of the inner person.
This healing of the inner person had a beneficial effect on the outer person, and, in due time, the dreaded ovarian cancer was considered to be in remission. In a recent visit with a consulting doctor who knew about the initial staging of her cancer, he asked a revealing question: "Mrs. Stokes, do you know how lucky you are?" It was a question indicating his belief that June should be dead by now instead of standing before him alive and well. It has now been nine years since she was diagnosed with ovarian cancer and it is now time for me to say that her survival was not a matter of being lucky. June, fortified by a strong faith, pitched her tent in the field of HOPE.
I was looking for hope on the face of an Easter card; I found it on the face of a friend who had made the discovery that happy memories are more powerful than the sad ones; joyful memories are more powerful than those full of despair; and a steadfast hope is more powerful than the sorrows that seek to enslave us.
Kenneth Merle Morrison
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
JOHNNY'S STORY - Six Feet Two To Two Feet Six
By Kenneth Merle Morrison
When I first met Johnny, he reminded me of an uncultured Jimmy Stewart - tall and lanky but short on manners and good taste. He was a member of the great American laboring force and he made no pretense at being anything other than that. When I was introduced to him I found him to be pleasant, likable and friendly and I had no reason to believe that he would be otherwise should we meet again.
The second time I met Johnny he was in the hospital. Dolly, his estranged wife, called me and informed me that he was in the county hospital and was not expected to live. She was concerned that should he die without being reconciled with his family, that it would create an undesirable sorrow that would adversely affect everyone concerned.
The hospital was an old red brick building with multiple steps leading up to an unimposing front entrance. I was directed to the second floor where I found his room with an open door. Just inside the door was a box of surgical masks for visitors to wear. The room had a high ceiling, white plaster walls, one bare window and an ominous silence. Approaching his bed, I discovered that Johnny was asleep. Not wanting to disturb him, 1 stood against the wall waiting for some sign of arousal.
Looking at the form of his body under the sheet, I could verify what Dolly had told me - Johnny had no legs. Both had been amputated just below the hips. The sense of sadness that overwhelmed me was interrupted when Johnny awoke from his sleep. He did not seem surprised by my visit, so, I assumed that Dolly told him that I was coming. He gave me a friendly greeting and then, without any questions being asked by me, he related the events that led up to his being hospitalized.
He told me that he had been drinking some Sweet Lucy; had met some buddies, had gone to what he described as a hobo jungle where they built a fire and continued their drinking spree. Becoming unsteady on his feet, he accidently fell into the fire where his legs were burned to a crisp before he could be pulled out by his disoriented companions.
He then made a statement I was not expecting to hear. He said quietly but firmly, "I want you to know that I don't believe in death bed confessions." Knowing that his chances for survival were very slim, he wanted to maintain the degree of integrity he still had by not giving in to what he believed to be a mockery and a coward's way out.
Johnny's medical condition was considered to be critical because the medical staff was unable to control the insidious infection that was threatening his life. They had now reached the point where further amputations were impossible - there was nothing left to amputate.
Although Johnny's physical body was in harm's way, his mind was still alert and told him there was a strong possibility he would not survive. So, he was not giving me an offhand statement when he said, in a decisive manner, "I don't believe in death bed confessions." It was a well thought out conviction as to how he would face the end of his life.
Standing close to his bed, I gave to him my own well thought out belief about the matter under discussion. In response to his I don't believe declaration, I said, "And neither do I." My clear statement seemed to give him an opportunity to rethink his defiant attitude that was a clear symptom of a life that had long been lived in rebellion against any symbol of authority. He had lived in a prison house of the mind that told him that the heroic thing to do was to defy the ultimate symbol of authority - that which we attribute to God.
When it became apparent to him that I had not come as another authority figure, but that I had come as a fellow traveler on the road of life, his assertive defiance became softened and he began to be open minded. Resistance turned into acceptance as we discussed the blessings that flow out from being reconciled with family and with one's own self. It proved to be the beginning of a new self esteem - the knowledge that he was of great value to his family, to his friends and to God. The demons that had haunted the prison house of his mind were given notice that they were no longer welcome and were evicted. Johnny was beginning to walk on a freedom road he had never traveled before.
For the next five months the County Hospital was his home. During the first two months of his stay, Johnny lingered on the threshold of death while the doctors struggled to save his life. Multiple surgeries were performed, each one bringing him closer to the time when the healing of his body would be as complete as medical science could make it.
But what about his mind and his emotional well being? How would he survive in a world where others walked about at will, and he, wanting to walk, was unable to do so? What would this do to his newly established self esteem? This and other penetrating questions were many in number but the answers were few.
Five months after Johnny entered the hospital, he was allowed to go home. There, with the help of a friend, he wrote the story of his journey from self destruction to self fulfillment. He wrote: "Sometimes there were disappointments. My heart was laboring under the heavy strain. One day, as the doctors removed tissue, it was more than I could take. I had to have help if I was to endure the agony. It was then that two arms gathered me gently and a voice said tenderly, 'John, I am with you.' I will never forget that voice.
Doctors waited patiently as Charlie, the black operating room attendant, asked God to help me over the pain. The miracle happened and I was able to bear up under the pain. When I think of Charlie, I thank God for him and for people like him who can feel your pain and help lift your burden."
Johnny is now two feet six inches tall. But never has he stood taller. After one of his many surgeries, his mind went back to our first visit when he won the battle over a rebellious spirit and embraced the happiness that comes from being reconciled with family, self and God. This enabled him to write: "As the doctors struggled to save my physical life, they were unaware that I had, just hours before, really found life."
On his personal road to self destruction, Johnny met some friends who, like Charlie, demonstrated that love and compassion were more powerful than all of the personal demons that lay in wait along that deceptive road. Just when life was ebbing away, he experienced the peace of being reconciled and, for Johnny, life was now worth living.
Kenneth Merle Morrison
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
JOURNEY INTO THE UNKNOWN
By: Kenneth Merle Morrison
The known and the unknown stand at the beginning point of any journey we make during our life time. If the knowledge we possess at the beginning of a journey suggests that it will be filled with satisfying and rewarding experiences, then we begin with happy steps that will lead us to a desirable destination.
But if we begin the journey with insufficient knowledge as to where our journey is taking us, then our steps become unsteady and our thinking becomes cloudy and we face the prospect of reaching an unhappy ending at an undesirable destination.
All of us have experienced both kinds of journey beginnings. You have had yours and I have had mine - one bringing a sense of comfort and delight - the other bringing a sense of fear and trepidation. We love the first and we have a genuine distaste for the second. Unfortunately, it is the second that presents a serious problem for me, and I can find no comfort zone in it, leaving me with a sense of fear and anxiety. It has become my personal journey into the unknown.
As I gave serious thought to this new journey, my memory took me back to the beginning of this journey into the unknown. It began with visits to my ophthalmologist, Dr. Bernard Patty. I was experiencing vision problems and he informed me that the tests he had made indicated that I had an eye disorder called macular degeneration. Not being familiar with this disorder, I began asking questions and doing personal research. What I discovered was not good news - not good news at all!
For starters, I discovered that age related macular degeneration (AMD) is the leading cause of irreversible vision loss for people living in the United States. This incurable condition attacks the central portion of the retina, the part of the eye that receives light patterns and transmits them to the brain. Furthermore, macular degeneration progressively damages or destroys the part of the vision used for reading or seeing fine details. No good news in that either - no good news at all!.
Those of us who have this disorder develop an area of vision loss that slowly increases in diameter until, over a period of time, we are unable to read small print and even see groups of two or three words at normal reading distance. There is no good news here either – it is all bad, really, really bad!
And, if that isn't enough, AMD targets the most sensitive part of the retina, a cluster of cells called the macula located directly in its center. There are two forms of AMD, dry and wet. I, and 90 percent of others who are afflicted with this disorder, have the dry kind. In the dry kind the macular cells slowly waste away, causing gradual vision loss. The unwelcome words "slowly waste away" accurately describes what has happened to me. While there is no physical pain associated with AMD, the emotional pain is severe and long lasting.
A letter to me from Dr. Patty confirms that all my fears concerning the seriousness of AMD are justified. He wrote: "Dear Mr. Morrison: As you are aware, you have a...history of macular degeneration. Your maculae are predominately dry and no treatment other than antioxidant vitamins is indicated at this time... Your vision is diminished because of your macular degeneration... "
This information confirmed my fear that the slow progression of my macular degeneration was launching me closer and closer to the time when critical changes to my life style would begin to happen - changes over which I had little or no control.
This was a continuation of my journey into the unknown and it began to take on an identifiable form and shape that presented a new challenge to my ability to navigate through the emotional terrain that is associated with learning to live with an age related disability
The list of activities that are affected by AMD is so long that to mention all of them would be tedious to read. And, standing at the top of that list is the privilege of driving an automobile. My progressive AMD changed a significant question from "should I continue driving" to "when will I" stop driving? Wisdom dictates that I set a date when I would remove the key from the ignition of my faithful Chevrolet, park it under the drooping limbs of an ancient magnolia tree and never drive it again.
Wisdom tells me it is the correct decision to make, but that same wisdom cannot keep the tears from flowing freely from my eyes. Wisdom correctly tells me to end my driving, but wisdom cannot rescue me from the loss of independent living - one of life's most valuable possessions a person can enjoy.
I now became more acutely aware of the meaning of my journey into the unknown, and curious kinds of thoughts began coursing through my brain, like: What would be my choice of a final destination after 65 years of driving? The choice I made would the value I placed on that destination, wherever it might be.
The choices were many, but only one would receive the honor of being the last destination to visit before surrendering my privilege to drive. This was a one-time event that could never be repeated. It would go down in history as either the best or the worst decisions of a lifetime.
When I drove out of my driveway on a pleasant afternoon, only I and my faithful car knew where we were going. The two of us had gone there many times before. Turning west, I traveled to Forest Hill where I turned north toward Woodworth. Continuing on toward Alexandria, I began slowing down before I reached the entrance of Alexandria Golf and Country Club. No, the Country Club was not my destination.
Just south of the Country Club was another well known entrance used by the citizens of Alexandria and Central Louisiana. The sign read: Alexandria Memorial Gardens, a lovely and well kept cemetery where my wife's grave site is located. This is it! This is my destination and my heart grew warm with the anticipation of spending quiet time with grateful thoughts going through my mind about life with Doris. And soon there were other thoughts - serious thoughts about my continuing journey into the unknown.
It is an Indian Summer day and there is silence all around, except for the sound of pine tree branches as they are moved about by a gentle breeze. I find it to be a tranquil setting and I feel calm and am at peace with myself. This is what I have always experienced when I visited her grave. During her eighteen years of an adventure with two different forms of cancer, she demonstrated a remarkable ability to stay in charge of her life. This was her personal journey into the unknown and it was her vital faith and victorious spirit that enabled her to navigate through the emotional terrain of deadly cancer cells.
Now you know why I chose this destination. It was to remind me of the power of a vital faith and a victorious spirit. It was my desire to allow the spiritual ambience of this sacred place - a place where the memories of how she made a successful journey into the unknown. The question now is: Will I be as successful in my journey as she was in her journey? Only the passage of time will tell.
To be continued . . .
Kenneth Merle Morrison
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
JOURNEY INTO THE UNKNOWN Part 2
By: Kenneth Merle Morrison
My journey into the unknown has gradually taken me to the dark edge of the world of blindness - a totally different world from the world of sight with its large population of normal vision people.
In the world of blindness there are different levels of vision impairment - from the extreme of experiencing total darkness to the beginning stages of macular degeneration when the patient can still report to his doctor at his six month appointment date that he can still read the small print of the newspaper.
However, at the next six month appointment, the story line has changed - the progressive nature of macular degeneration has increasingly damaged the macula and now the small print in the newspaper can no longer be read and the patient becomes acutely aware that his journey into the unknown is in dire jeopardy.
When this happened to me, my first reaction was one of denial. “Oh no,” I said to myself, “My macular degeneration will be different. The progressive nature of it will be so slow that I will die before I will go blind.” During that critical time of thinking about all the negative possibilities that are associated with the irreversible damage to the macula, I was tempted to think that life without sight would be unthinkable.
At one point in my journey into the unknown I became emotionally unhinged during a conversation with a family member and I uncharacteristically made an absolutely unthinkable statement. In all seriousness I said, “I would rather be dead than blind.” Her reaction was one of incredulity, “Kenneth, you cannot believe that. You cannot be serious.” But I was. The overwhelming fear of the unknown can cause reasonable people to say unreasonable things.
The world of sight has always found it difficult to relate in a meaningful way to the world of blindness. I know because I once lived in the world of normal sight. Back then, my feelings toward the blind, no matter what their level of blindness might be, never passed the threshold of having sympathy for the unfortunate blind. However, let it be known far and wide that the blind, whatever their level of blindness, do not want the sympathy of the more fortunate members of the world of sight.
More than anything else, we desire your understanding of why we are unable to function as we once did. Independent living is now gone for good.
We are no longer able to live independent lives. We are now dependent people and we dislike that condition with a passion.
I use the word “we” in a very deliberate fashion. I am no longer an outsider, simply looking at the blind as unfortunate members of society. I am now a certified member of that segment. After one of my six month visits to my doctor’s office, he notified me that my tests revealed that my visual acuity had reached intolerable levels. The visual acuity in my right eye was 20/200 and in my left eye 20/400. These numbers, he informed me, were consistent with legal blindness.
Of all the words I wanted to hear from the doctor, those were the two I did not want to hear. Immediately I had to fend off the thought that there was some kind of stigma attached to this loss of vision - as if my inattention to healthy living was to blame for my entry into the world of the legally blind.
Rational thinking enabled me to put aside the thought that there was some stigma attached to the loss of normal vision. The most reasonable explanation for the loss of normal vision was given by an optometrist’s technician who, after an examination, said with an authority that belied her young age, “Mr. Morrison, you have outlived your eyes.”
It was only a chance remark for her to make, but I gladly accepted it as wisdom from above - a wisdom that explained the mystery as to why I was now an authenticated (though unwilling) member of the world of the legally blind. We now know why ophthalmologists classify this kind of macular degeneration as being age related. This has an important meaning for the senior community: if you live long enough, your chances are greatly increased that you also will outlive your eyes.
A friend once said to me, “I want to live to be one hundred.” My quick reply was, “Not me. I have no desire to live beyond the time when I can no longer be productive and useful.” At my advanced age, I am now more concerned with the quality of life rather than the length of time life may offer me. So, at this milestone in my journey, I choose quality rather than quantity.
However, realistically, the choice is not mine to make. Inherited genes may decree that I will live to be 101 or older. The best thing I can do at this milestone in my journey is to be open and receptive to what I call the “wisdom words” of life. These are the words (spoken and written) from the minds and hearts of poets, religious philosophers, inspired spiritual writers and others who have something of uncommon value to share with us. It is with the help of these “wisdom words” that has enabled me to reach a critical tipping point in my continuing journey. So, I choose to listen very carefully to these “wisdom words” from the past. I also choose to listen to contemporary “Wisdom Words” that come from the most unlikely sources.
When I was in high school one of the most popular songs of the day was called “You’ve Got To Accentuate the Positive.” I kept the words of that song in the music memory box of my mind for all these years. Written by Johnny Mercer, it had an upbeat tune that sent its message directly to the heart and mind of anyone facing a period of discouragement.
The words, as I remember them, are: “You’ve got to accentuate the positive, eliminate the negative, latch on to the affirmative and don’t mess with Mr. In Between.” These contemporary “Wisdom Words” spoke directly to my mind as I sought to find the right path that would lead me to a successful destination at the end of my journey.
Johnny Mercer was not the only popular song writer to give us “Wisdom Words.” A few years later the musical team of Richard Rogers and Oscar Hammerstein II produced one of the most noted popular inspirational songs of my generation called “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” The words Hammerstein wrote gave me needed encouragement as I continued my journey. He wrote, “When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high and don’t be afraid of the dark.”
Those were “Wisdom Words” I needed to hear; those were “Wisdom Words” full of the kind of encouragement that my heart needed to hear. They were also words that challenged my faith to take a strong stand against the unknown, saying “Don’t be afraid of the dark.”
So, with the aid of “Wisdom Words,” from the past and the present, plus the help from family and friends, I have turned the corner in my journey; I am now content to face the unknown future with a renewed confidence that a vital faith and a victorious spirit will enable me to safely find my way along the dim path my doctor calls legal blindness. Fear is now banished and when I walk through the storm, I will hold my head up high because I do not walk alone. Someone else is walking with me - a friend we call God.
To be continued . . .
Kenneth Merle Morrison
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
JOURNEY INTO THE UNKNOWN Part 3
By: Kenneth Merle Morrison
Standing in line at the service desk at Sam's Club, I became aware of a spirited conversation taking place in the line to my left. The conversation was between a tall, slender young man and the Sam's Club employee on the other side of the desk, a young, pleasant looking lady who was much shorter in height than the blond haired man.
Although I could not hear the words that were spoken, my peripheral vision enabled me to determine that there was something unusual happening in the line next to mine. Although the young man was much taller, he never lowered his head to make eye contact. She was looking up, but he was not looking down.
There was a momentary silence during which there was not the slightest bit of head movement by' the young man - it was as if he was transfixed on some distant object. He then resumed the conversation with words I could not hear, but it seemed to me that he was making some final statement to the Sam's Club employee, because he slowly turned around, joined his companions and headed toward the store exit.
As I watched the group make their way outside, the mysterious circumstances surrounding this event suddenly became clear. The young man held in his right hand a cane like long stick that was extended forward so that its end touched the floor. The cane was painted white and as he walked, he moved the cane from the left to the right, sometimes touching the shopping cart being pushed by one of his companions. The young man who had stood tall and motionless in the line next to mine was blind.
It was the kind of blindness that indicated the complete absence of any form of light; it was the kind of blindness where the retina was no longer able to receive common light patterns and transmit them to the brain; it was the kind of blindness that would prevent him from ever knowing the beauty on the face of the person with whom he has fallen in love; it was the kind of blindness that would forever keep him living in a world of total darkness.
When I saw the movement of his white cane moving endlessly back and forth, my mind focused in on what the possibilities were that one day my progressive macular degeneration would place a white cane in my hand and I would be turned loose to make my way safely through a crowded Sam's Club at Christmas time.
The frightening prospect of that kind of blindness brought me back to a more rational state of mind and thinking. Beginning with uncorrectable low vision a few years ago, my journey into the unknown has slowly but progressively taken me to the dangerously elevated visual acuity of 20/400 in both eyes.
To better understand the importance of visual acuity, my research gave me the following information: "Vision experts assess an individual's sight using two measurements: visual acuity and visual field. Visual acuity is the ability to see details, such as symbols or letters of specific sizes. Normal vision is described as 20/20. A person with any degree of sight loss has a higher second number, such as 20/200. This means that an individual with a visual acuity of 20/200 must stand at a distance of 20 feet to observe an object that a person with normal vision can see at a distance of 200 feet." This means that my visual acuity of 20/400 is about as bad as it can get for a person who is not yet walking in darkness.
However, the good news is that my journey into the unknown will not end on such a sad and hopeless note. There are other notes on the musical scale of vision that have yet to make their impact on those of us who suffer from vision impairment. The good news is there is remarkable, almost miraculous, help at every dangerous corner in the journey beginning with low vision and progressing to being visually impaired (Legal blindness). I first became aware of the new technological device and innovations when my low vision was diagnosed as macular degeneration. My doctor provided me with an attractive 98 page catalog called "Independent Living Aids."
This catalog opened up a whole new window of opportunity to obtain devices that make it possible for visually impaired people to live productive lives. I eagerly entered this world of innovative devices and I was able to obtain an electronic device that seemed to be tailor made for my needs.
The technical name for this marvelous device is CCTV (Closed-Circuit TV). Situated on a sturdy table is a digital camera mounted on a flexible arm that allows the camera to be turned in any desired direction.
When the object to be viewed is placed under the lens of the camera, it captures the image and sends it in magnified form to a 19 inch flat screen monitor. The device is capable of amplifying a screen image of 2 to 32 times its normal image. What a welcome and ingenious way to compensate for the low vision person’s inability to read small print. The availability of this remarkable device is great news for the visually impaired.
There is more good news to be found in the steady increase in the number of tools available for visual rehabilitation. A recent innovation is the voice output print scanner. The one that I have added to my collection of visual aids is called SARA - Scanning and Reading Appliance. It scans a book, document or letter into a computer and then converts the text into voice output - that is, the computer reads the material in a human voice.
These innovative devices were a godsend to me, but, in essence, they remained cold and impersonal. While exciting the mind, they failed to warm the heart as I continued my journey under the dark shadow of blindness.
Help came from an unexpected source. I received a gift from the heart in the form of a musical CD of worship and inspirational songs composed by and sung by local artist Sheri Bennet. One of the songs on the CD is called "Sail On." Sheri uses an ocean sea as a metaphor for life. Travelers on the ocean sometimes need to be rescued from dangerous situations.
The song "Sail On" paints a graphic picture of an interchange of words between a beleaguered seaman who needs to be rescued and the pilot on board a sea worthy ship. As I listened to the words of the song, something inside prompted me to take on the character of the beleaguered seaman. It became my own personal reality drama. For my own peace of mind, I needed to find relief from harmful, negative thoughts of what life would be like living in the dark shadows of legal blindness.
In Sheri's song, the helpless seaman is able to attract the attention of the Pilot whose help the seaman needs. As he waits for a reply that help is on the way, he hears these words of encouragement from the Pilot: "Sail on, sail on to me and I will be your Pilot and I will lead you on. Sail on, sail to me and I will be your Pilot and I will lead you home."
As I approach the end of my journey into the shadow land of legal blindness, I welcome the help from two different sources: (1) The help that comes from the physical world - the marvelous devices that enable me to put these words down on paper, and (2) the help that comes from the spiritual world - the help that comes from the knowledge that we do not walk alone. This is help from above - the help that encourages us to never give up, closely listening to the voice of the Pilot (God) "Sail on, Sail on to me and I will lead you home."
I am now at peace with myself and with my circumstances. I will no longer refer to myself as a blind writer; rather, I will say that I am a writer who happens to be blind.
Kenneth Merle Morrison
www.kennethmerlemorrison.com
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HOPE
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These stories were published in the Alexandria Town Talk Senior News.
