The nothing that is not there…

'Nothing’ is not in the blindy DIY books. It’s not a treatable symptom, more one of those things waiting to whack you when you don't need it. In my case it interrupts the re-grouping process in times of that form of stress, monopolising parts of the brain, accusing me of inactivity while smothering the parts struggling to remember where I left the hearing aids. I reckon Nothing's been around for ages, as far as blindies are concerned but, in my opinion, it’s been totally overlooked in the pursuit of breakthroughs and warm, PC fuzzies. Chronic sufferers should be schooled against Nothing – anything from iPad updates to ill-matched chargers can bring on an attack. While it doesn't rank up there with Charles Bonnet's revelations, there must be something there for the enquiring academic and the possibility of a paper or two. I will, of course, be happy to assist in any way with the research on this one.

…the nothing that is there

In my experience, Nothing fights dirty. Once I've retreated to the armchair, it lays siege, blocking off constructive or independent thought. Thus, my “Don't just sit here! Get off your butt and look for them”, gets a retort from Nothing, like “Why not wait for Pam to come home?”.

In an effort to shed a bit of light on the matter, I mentioned it to a few people in our support group, but nobody owned up to experiencing it. I consider myself many things but psychologically unique is not one of them, so my first thought was that, like the first outing with the white cane, it was an acceptance thing. My second theory didn't fit so well – it shifted things back to me, since the possibility existed that all those other blindies were too busy doing stuff for Nothing to have any effect.

And there's no doubt they're all busier than I am. Camille is a retired journalist and, as with most of that calling, shows a seemingly limitless curiosity in all manner of worldly things. Plus, she's highly social, to the point that I often suspect her of being capable of holding two phone conversations at the same time. Peter, a retired mechanic, is an 'out there' blindy – swimming, biking and travelling to Brisbane or Bali – it’s all the same to him. It’s distinctly possible he doesn't even own an armchair.

Susan is the brainiac blindy. A retired audiologist and thoroughly organised, she does stuff I don't, like travel by bus and join protest marches. And with her addiction to word games and near resident status at the public library, there seems little chance of Nothing finding much of a role there. Finally, there's Janet, another 'out there' blindy – art teacher, artist and recent book author. Janet's what's best described as 'active'; she also does stuff I don't, like sit through committee meetings and brave theatre access. Last I heard, she was off to the Highland Games in Hamilton – not to compete, of course, but even at 80-plus I wouldn't put it past her.

... and how I deal with it

It seems to me that those guys, defeating the threat of Nothing when it comes to sight loss, attack it with 'busy'. For me, though, it’s to be coped with rather than defeated. Although I think optometrists and the good folk at the Blind Foundation should be fully au fait with the thing, as with most things blindy, it boils down to personal choice, so I've opted for a tri-party truce between the keyboard, the armchair and Glenmorangie. Meantime, there are questions I need to consider from politicians and the like, such as, do I consider myself handicapped or disabled? It’s a tricky one – there might be nothing in it but, like I said, ya gotta watch that Nothing!

Born in the UK, our ‘white-caner’ columnist, retired Dunedin antiques dealer Trevor Plumbly, was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa more than 20 years ago and now lives in Auckland.