I had a friend named Lindsey Douglas who was blind. I met her while on a run. I turned a corner and saw her in the middle of Craighead street off West End. I stopped to tell her that she was in the middle of the street and that it was dangerous. She told me that no, she couldn't possibly be in the middle of the street, that she was certain she was on the sidewalk. That began my friendship with Lindsey over 8 years ago. Last week she died suddently and without warning.
I had seen her 3 days before when I brought her a zucchini muffin from Dose. I had been feeling guilty that I neglected to see her the week before and so squeezed in an impromptu stop on Tuesday. She wasn't in a good mood. She was waiting for yet another visit from the Physical Therapist for treatment that wasn't helping her any. (She had broken her ankle a couple years before and was still not back to normal.) We laughed as she told me that yes, she was being evaluated that day, and he would ask her to "put her foot out and bend her knee" insinuating her exasperation of being treated like a child. That happens a lot to a blind person. Especially when they're 76. If I'm with her, people will talk to me, as if she can't answer a question about her own life, bank account, condominuim, health. I wrote the below that I had planned to use in my Nov/Dec editors note this year. I can't bear to put it in past tense.
I have a blind friend named Lindsey, who I affectionately referred to as “my blind friend Lindsey.” This is because I frequently walk in her house saying things like “omg, you should see the sunset” We laugh.
Cliché’s are clichés for a reason, because they’re true. And it’s true that Lindsey has given me way more than I could ever give her, no matter how many sweets I bake her, or plays I take her to at TPAC.
Lindsey has seen me through job changes, kid problems, boyfriend issues, boss issues, loneliness and the start of this magazine. Her answering machine says “this is Dr Douglas, leave a message or better yet, call me back direct.” She is a Doctor of psychology and one hell of a smart independent woman. She took the bus to her job downtown with her seeing eye dog for years until she retired. She’s crusty, mean at times, and short, as we all are. What she isn’t is a victim to pity. A victim to a deteriorating blindness from age 30, but that’s all.
I will miss the hell out of her, but hope she is in a better place where she can see all the beautiful sunsets, again.
I frequently cooked for Lindsey, for obvious reasons. One time I brought over these cookies. She loved them and told me that we should name them Good Karma cookies. We did, and now they're simple known as Karma cookies.
Copyright ©2024 Edible Nashville. All rights reserved
