“Am I even still a man? Is there anything left worth living for? How will I feed my family?”

“It would have been better for all of us if I had just stayed dead.”

Everything I knew was gone. Ripped away from me like a stolen baby. I was blind, stroked out, and searching for any reason to keep living. I sat that day in my front yard and bawled like a small child missing their mother.

At The Beginning 

My career is over. The Department of Defense does not want blind database administrators: my employer was the first to give me the big wet kiss goodbye. I hadn’t been out of intensive care for more than a few days when I got the call telling me to “Heal fast, so you can go to work and clean out your desk.”

My friends are disappearing in droves. I make them uncomfortable. They can’t picture being blind themselves, and so have zero concept of what it might be like for me. I am a constant reminder of mortality, and no one wants to face a reminder of the possibility of catastrophic injury every time they see an old friend.

I had a photographic memory last week. Now my brain is like Swiss cheese; there are holes in my memory everywhere, and I can’t remember my pretty wife’s name. I can’t remember raising my kids, or how many I have, or even their names…

My brand-new Camaro sits in the driveway a few feet away, mocking me. I can’t see enough to walk safely by myself. How in the hell am I ever going to drive again?

I hear my wife Shelley’s voice, concerned, asking me if I am okay, and what am I doing sitting in the wet grass in my front yard by myself?

I had meant to go sit in my Camaro and figure out a way to drive it far enough and fast enough to kill myself, without killing anyone else, but a stumble on the porch stairs had wound me up in the middle of the lawn, on my ass, and crying again.

This is a real  memory of my “New Life.” This was my reality. All I knew was pain, blindness, confusion, and profound loss. I was a badly broken reminder of a man who had died sneezing.

Mourning What Was

I couldn’t see my pretty wife’s face due to blindness, and to this day I still mourn the loss of that sight more than any other. When I came home from the hospital I sat with Shelley and offered her a “free pass.” A “get out of crippled blindness free” card so to speak. I told her that this was bad, and that it was not going to get better. I said, “You didn’t sign up for this, you can be free and walk away without recrimination right now.”

She punched me in the arm.

My story is not unique, unfortunately. Every blind or disabled person you meet today has a similar story of loss and horror at what has happened to them. 

When you see us in your store, I hope you smile. We represent loyalty as customers. We have overcome the unsurpassable. We are beacons of hope for the future. If you treat us like humans instead of broken crayons that should be thrown away, we will be your best customers.

We do not want to stand out because of your employees’ reactions to us. What we want is to be treated like normal humans. We absolutely do not want to draw attention to ourselves. We know we are different from you, we don’t want or need reminders; my white cane or my wheelchair already set me apart in public like a bright orange freak flag shining in the sunlight. 

The Importance of Braille Packaging

As a “Blindy” (yes you can call me that) I need a little more help making my selections than other people do, and anything you can do to make my experience in your store less stressful will be greatly appreciated. Things like braille labels, or a current braille menu will make my experience in your store a thousand times better, and you better bet that I will tell everyone I know that your store is “Blind-Friendly.”

When I get home, I won’t know which package is which without braille labeling. I do not want to have to ask anyone what I am putting in my bowl or joint. Simple braille labeling can fix this problem.

Let’s say I am looking at a quarter ounce of an Indica called “Truffle Queen,” which has a THC percentage of 29%. The braille tag could read “I  TQ 29.”

There is enough information on the tag for me to distinguish it from anything else. I can tell what’s in my package without further help and will be able to know at home too.

Maybe try to remember my name. Maybe try not to speak loudly or slowly to me. Grant me the dignity of not being pointed out as a freak in your store. Allow me to shop with confidence through the simple use of braille labels. 

Braille labels cost pennies, take seconds to make and apply, and will guarantee that I will be back to see you next time I go shopping for products like yours.

The technology involved is simple. The return on investment is immeasurable. The growth of your loyal customer base will blow you away.

Remember This

Please remember that we are still human just like you. We want to feel appreciated just like you do. We want to be treated like a normal person, even though we have overcome catastrophic things you would pale at imagining. 

I am still a man. I am still a husband, a father, a grandfather. I am not who I used to be; that man is dead. His dreams and hopes died with him. I have been forced to be more than I ever was before I died. I am different from you, but you and I are still more alike than we are different. 

Please help me keep my dignity by making your store and/or products blind-friendly.

Braille = loyalty. Cheers!

Lance Mathena is the owner of 2Blind Hippie LLC. He is a mostly blind veteran, and life-long hippie with a love for people, and not big corporations. He is a father of seven children, a grandfather of ten children, and the husband of the most beautiful girl in the world.