Literally: In the black.
I'm talking the kind of blackness that makes you feel like you're swimming in ink. The kind of impenetrable darkness where you cannot see your own hand in front of your face.
That is how we ate our dinner last night, at the Dans Le Noir? restaurant here in London.
The idea of eating in a completely pitch dark room, guided and served by blind staff, is a novel one, at least to me. And it proved to be an experience on so many levels.
The evening began with our group forming a chain, locking on to each others' shoulders as we were led by our waiter, Graham, into the darkness. One by one Graham led us to our seats and, in a complete reversal of preconceived roles, we became totally dependent upon him.
We were asked as we entered the dark room to keep our voices quiet and warned, quite accurately, that our sense of hearing would become more acute. Deprived of vision, we quickly came to rely on our other senses. Unable to simply glance down the table to see who was seated where, we had to use our voices to map out a plan of the table. I quickly developed a need to touch anything and everything on the table, to fill in for the missing sensory feedback from my eyes.
We all learned a lot sitting there in the dark. We learned how to do familiar things, that we normally take for granted, without visual feedback, such as pouring wine into a glass without spilling it. Placing food in our mouths without being able to see what it was. In this respect, it struck me that we had one important advantage over a truly blind person. We were all blinded. Many of us resorted to picking our food apart wit our fingers and putting it in our mouths, perhaps being quite messy along the way in what might normally be deemed a socially unacceptable manner. But then, no one could see us, so it was easy for us not to let it matter.
We learned about communication and the role that sight plays. In the darkness you cannot read visual clues or body language, but this actually makes it easier to be a little more spontaneous in what you say and makes behaviour more free without the pressure of conforming to accepted standards.
We learned, too, about taste. You do not order specific dishes at Dans Le Noir? Instead, you select a 'surprise' menu, with a choice of meat, fish or both or a vegetarian option. It is only afterwards that you see the actual content of your dishes. Not knowing what food is in front of you forces you to concentrate on taste and texture and removes preconceived ideas about whether you will like a particular dish based on how it appears or what it is called. Without sight, we weren't very accurate at identifying our food. I was completely stumped by an item on my plate that felt like a bird's nest and tasted fired - it turned out to be crispy noodles. Of those who selected the menu containing Guinea Fowl, none identified it correctly. Rob ate cold Parma ham that he would normally have not given a second glance to.
Of course the evening presented particular challenges to me. All objects that can produce light, such as mobile phones, are banned from the dark room. Whether to take or leave my little Freestyle meter was a difficult decision. I actually ended up leaving it in the outside locker, knowing I could get to it at any time if I needed to. My pump, on the other hand, I kept on. But I then found myself faced with a very difficult problem. I did actually hit the backlight button at one point, ready to perform the preconditioned reflex of bolusing before my food. I left the light on for about 3 seconds, instantly mortified at having introduced even a tiny bit of light in to this experience, and suddenly realsising that without being able to see my food, there was no way at all for me to assess the carbohydrate content.
Looking back, I probably could have arranged with staff to view my meal beforehand, but I'm glad I didn't. It would have ruined somewhat the experience that I've already outlined. I'd had a good reading going in to the meal and so elected to bolus immediately after leaving the dark room with what is a fairly average amount for a restaurant meal for me. Something worked, because by the time we got home, my blood sugar was 4.0 (72).
I learned though, how vital a tool sight is in the management of diabetes. We use it each time we test our blood glucose, each time we bolus and, most difficult of all to find a replacement method for, we use it to count carbohydrates.
I truly discovered the irony of diabetic vision-loss.
And perhaps this principle was the biggest part of the night. That we all learned things about ourselves. Each of us had fears to face in that room. Some were claustrophobic, simply afraid of the darkness. Some had a fear of eating food they could not see.
For me, it was like facing my fear of blindness head-on.
And it was scary.
For several minutes all I could think was that this was what it would be like to have that ultimate fear realised. And for several minutes it seemed overwhelming. I wanted to shout for Graham and have him take me back outside to the light. But then it hit me that if this were for real, I wouldn't have that option. There would be no returning to the light. Rather than freak me out more, that thought made me more determined to stay, to work through it. That was the point at which my hands went in to overdrive, seeking out the missing feedback. Learning. Discovering.
By the end of the evening I realised that yes, being totally blind, living in a world devoid of colour and faces would be awful. But we still had good food and wine. We still had voices and laughter. We found new ways of doing familiar old tasks. I felt safe with the support of others - Graham our guide, and Rob sitting to my left, holding my hand and reassuring me it would be ok.
I learned that if it ever happens, I could find a way to cope. And my little daily worry knot loosened just a little.
