[Critique Group 1] Marcia's April submission Bathrooms for the Blind

[Marcia Wick]

Bathrooms for the Blind

Marcia J. Wick, The Write Sisters

April 2019

Word Count:  767

 

 

 

 

The high-pitched screeching, screaming sound track  from the bathroom scene
in the Hitchcock thriller "Psycho" Plays in the back of my brain as my guide
dog and I, with fear and trepidation,  enter an unfamiliar public restroom.
Since going blind, I approach bathrooms at airports, restaurants, or
shopping malls hoping to escape alive. 

 

Architects and designers fail to consider using standard materials or
logical floor plans to clue a person with low vision in on where to find the
toilet, sink, hand towels, or garbage bin. With the help of my guide dog, I
can zig and zag through the entryway, although we then have a 50/50 chance
of finding the toilets on the right and the sinks on the left, or vice
versa. Once in the right aisle, we often finds the larger compartment for
persons with disabilities at the end of the row, although on occasion we hit
the probervial brick wall, having passed the accessible stall first on the
way in. Fellow restroom visitors typically come to our rescue as we hunt for
the correct stall. Once found, my guide dog and I dance the two-step around
our overly-helpful bathroom volunteer while fumbling for the handle to
determine if the door swings in or out. Think of the possibilities!

 

Safe inside the cubicle, I secure the lock - once I figure out whether it is
a slide bolt, a rotating knob, or a hook and eye apparatus. I fish around
for the coat hook (if there is one) on which to hang my backpack to avoid
parking my belongings on the "iffy" clean and dry floor. 

 

Once ensconced on the throne, I begin to search for toilet paper, praying I
don't touch unseen surprises along the way - the sanitary product
receptacle, for one. Toilet paper dispensers may be mounted to the left or
right, high or low; Machines may (or may not) hold up to four rolls, if
they've been replenished. (Note:  Always carry a personal tissue pack in
case of emergencies.)

If a spare roll of toilet paper is precariously balanced atop the dispenser,
I inevitably will knock the roll to the floor and listen with chagrin while
it unravels under the door out into the main area of the lavatory. As I lift
my hips to wipe, I may be surprised when the automatic flush mechanism
responds prematurely prompting me to spring up to avoid the aggressive
action and likely overspray; or, I may be forced to hunt for the manual
mechanism -on the top, left, or right of the tank, or perhaps find a button
or lever mounted on the wall.

 

I check my zipper and secure my backpack, becoming self-conscious of the
time it's taking me to dispense of my duty. My guide dog waits patiently but
refuses to help. It must amuse her, I think, to watch my gyrations inside
this box. 

 

the screeching in my ears increases in volume as I direct my dog to leave
the stall and turn right, if I remember correctly, to find the sinks. If the
facility is large, like at an international airport, the echo chamber is
deafening. Toilets flush, water whooshes, towel dispensers whir, and hot air
dryers churn like the jet engines on the runway.  The cacophony bounces off
the cold, ceramic tile. 

 

Following the sound of water falling, I inch forward searching for the
nearest sink. Reaching for a knob or handle without success, I discover the
faucet turns on automatically when my fingers flutter under the nozzle.

 

"The soap's to the right," another helpful bathroom-goer says. I reach up
and stab the back of my hand on the spicket.

 

"I found it," I say to no one longer there.

 

Now, what to do about hand-drying? I turn toward the jet propulsion lab on
the opposite wall. The air dryer I bump into refuses to function by motion
or touch, so I double cross the room to the wall flanking the sinks. With
luck, I locate a loaded paper towel dispenser that operates with a simple
crank handle - I can exact precisely the amount I desire. An automatic
machine always seems to crank out too much or too little paper with each
motion. By good fortune, I find the container for used hand towels directly
under the towel dispenser! How often have I navigated the perimeter of a
bathroom with my foot to hunt for the rubbish pail, often tucked diagonally
across the way? 

 

"Find the door, outside," I command my guide dog. Get me out of here, I
pray, feeling lucky to escape the horror chamber alive.

# # #

 

-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://bluegrasspals.com/pipermail/group1/attachments/20190416/88df0df1/attachment.html>