The past few weeks, I’ve been asked by the Tour de Cure committee to reach out to our Red Riders (Tour riders with diabetes) and let them know we’re here to help with reaching their fundraising goals. Essentially, I need to light a fire under the folks who haven’t raised any of the $150 minimum. This is not my favorite part of being on the Tour Committee, because I hate any job resembling telemarketing – but fundraising is what Tour is all about. No dollars, no cure. So, last night I got on the phone and began calling. “Hi this is Alexis with the Tour de Cure Committee, waaaaait don’t hang up!!” is how most of my calls began.
I worked my way down the list and came to an unassuming name: Arthur J___. I punched in his number and was greeted by a friendly voice; “Yes, this is Arthur.”
“Hi Arthur, this is Alexis and I am a volunteer with the American Diabetes Association. I’m riders about the upcoming Tour de Cure, just to see if they need any help with fundraising or anything else. How are things going?”
“Just fine,” Arthur starts, “but I can’t seem to find the link to my personal fundraising page. I want to send it out over email and put it on my Facebook, but I don’t have it. Can you help me with that?”
“Of course Arthur– that’s so strange that you don’t have a link– as soon as you register you should get that info emailed to you. Let me get this straight- you don’t have a page set up at all?” I ask.
“Well, people tell me they can’t find it. I’m blind so it’s a little hard for me to just look it up on the main website.”
My heart stops. Blind. Arthur is blind. Suddenly I know exactly who I’m talking to. He usually goes by just “Art,” and I had never known his last name. Arthur is a rider who was blinded by Type 1 diabetes due to lack of access to care in his earlier years with the disease. Every year, he rides the 30 mile route on a tandem bike with his brother or a friend. He is an inspiration to everyone who rides at Tour. For all the folks who think they can’t do it, who struggle on those hills, they see Arthur out there on the course and know that nothing is impossible. Even though I have known Arthur for a few years now, I am shocked to find myself struggling with the right words to use to address his needs. But I have to ask so that I can send him the right information.
“Arthur, let me ask you this, when I find out what’s going on with your page, what’s the best way to reach you – email? Do you use the computer?” I ask, feeling so stupid.
“Oh yes, I have voice typing software so I can use the computer,” he replies.
“Oh cool – I could use some of that software, I’m sick of typing! Haha!” I say back nervously, and immediately regret. He doesn’t use it because he’s tired of typing. He uses it because he cannot see. I want to retract my words from the phone and shove them back in the “Uncomfortable Responses-Do Not Use” bucket of my brain.
He laughs politely and moves on. “How about you just give me a call tomorrow and tell me what you find out?” he asks.
“Perfect Arthur, you’ve got it,” I tell him. We exchange goodbyes and hang up.
After I got off the phone, I thought about how little I know about how blind people live – how they get around, what they use to help them, and what limitations they don’t have. I am uneducated on the subject and I sounded like it, even with the best intentions to be helpful. Which is exactly how a lot of people sound about diabetes when I tell them I have it. It made me think about how harshly I judge their ignorance sometimes. How I get personally offended at their comments. How defensive I can get. And maybe, that I should be giving them a break more often for simply not knowing what it’s like to walk in someone else’s shoes because they’re lucky enough not to have to. I can still patiently educate, without the chip on my shoulder. Thank you Arthur, for that lesson.
