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Blind Discovery

FROM
Break Out: Finding Freedom
When You Don't Quite Fit The Mold
James R. Hasse

"Even in the common affairs of life, in love, friendship, and marriage, how little security have we when we trust our happiness in the hands of others!"
William Hazlitt

Forty years of living had prepared me for this moment. But, I didn't realize it then. I sat there, calm but brimming with anticipation -- so involved with my own dread of yet another polite but stiff evening with a blind date that my eyes rested blankly on the carpeting of the reception area.

"Jim?!" I heard a woman's voice say. I looked up and saw Pam's broad smile, highlighted by ruby red lipstick.

"Oh, yeah," I answered clumsily and struggled to stand up to introduce myself. "Jim Hasse. You're Pam?"

"That's right," she said, still smiling. She was petite and wore a blue suit. I shook her right hand, a hand so small it covered only half of my palm. Her right wrist was scarred and came out of her sleeve at an odd angle.

"Well, welcome to the Boar's Head," I said lightly. It seemed the natural thing to say, since I had arrived first. It was 7:05 by my watch. Being five minutes late was only a minor annoyance, but I had learned to pick up on the little things on blind dates.

"Let's get a booth," I suggested.

I retrieved my crutches from the floor, and we followed the maitre d' to the booth I had reserved. I noticed a slight wobble in Pam's gait. She didn't seemed surprised by my crutches, which I parked beneath the booth.

"I have cerebral palsy," I said matter-of-factly. Women, I had found, generally were impressed by my willingness to be up front with them. "If you don't understand me, just say so. I'll repeat ..."

"I know."

"Have had it since birth," I added, interjecting a detail in anticipation of the next question that always seemed to follow such an admission.

"I know," Pam repeated in what seemed to be a slight German accent.

I was curious about the letter I had received from her. It only read, "I work with a man who knows a friend of yours. I would like to meet you. Pam Gaukel 322-9836." So, I called Pam and asked her to join me for dinner, a ritual I had mastered during my middle-age efforts to gain a social life.

"How did you get my name?" I bluntly asked.

"I'm a nursing assistant at the clinic on campus," Pam explained, in a louder than normal voice. "Professor Lister knows someone you used to go out with."

"Carol?" I asked, still not clear about the connections.

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