The Current - The Current Introduces | Personally: Short Sighted

Episode Date: November 28, 2024

People don’t think Graham Isador is losing his sight. They think he’s an asshole.Short Sighted is an attempt to explain what vision loss feels like by exploring how it sounds.Written and hosted by master storyteller Graham Isador, the show’s mini episodes are an intimate and irreverent look at accessibility and its personal impacts.Get lost in someone else’s life. From a mysterious childhood spent on the run, to a courageous escape from domestic violence, each season of Personally invites you to explore the human experience in all its complexity, one story — or season — at a time. This is what it sounds like to be human.More episodes of Personally are available at: lnk.to/NGDubIQS

In 2017, it felt like drugs were everywhere in the news, so I started a podcast called On Drugs. We covered a lot of ground over two seasons, but there are still so many more stories to tell. I'm Jeff Turner, and I'm back with Season 3 of On Drugs. And this time, it's going to get personal. I don't know who Sober Jeff is. I don't even know if I like that guy.

On Drugs is available now wherever you get your podcasts. This is a CBC Podcast. Hello, we have a special bonus episode for you today from a podcast that attempts to explain what vision loss feels like by exploring how it sounds. Graham Isidore has a degenerative eye disease called keratoconus. It is slowly taking his vision. Because there are no visual identifiers for the disability, people don't think he's going blind. Instead, they think he's a jerk. Problems due to his vision include misspelling words in emails, the inability to recognize people from a distance, even the way his face looks during Zoom calls. They're all attributed to a snooty personality or general carelessness

rather than a disability. To try to combat that perception, he started talking about his vision loss in public. And in this new podcast on Short Sighted, the show is meant to give people, particularly a sighted audience, some insight into the experience of low vision people. Here is the first episode of Short Sighted. My name is Graham Isidore. You're listening to Short Sighted. Keratoconus is progressive. That's the structure of the form. The, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, the, three months auditioning to be the host of Breakfast Television in Montreal. When I got the call to audition, I was actually really confused. This is because for the past decade or so, I've built a public persona that's entirely dependent on seeming aloof and mysterious. An aloof and mysterious are two qualities you don't generally look for in a

morning television host. On the call with the producer, I told them that I was grateful for the opportunity, but I also asked if they are familiar with my work, and the producer stopped me right there. They said, yeah, we know who you are. For those of you who don't know me, my name is Graham Isidore. I'm a writer based in Toronto. My work frequently appears at places like GQ and the Globe and Mail, but I think primarily what I'm known for is my time as a contributing editor at Vice. At Vice, I would pen these long-form confessional essays, trying to relate personal anecdotes to broader societal themes. I would also undergo eating challenges, where I'd try to consume as much food as I could in as little time as humanly possible. I once ate 50 chicken McNuggets in 37

minutes and 12 seconds, so what I'm trying to say is I'm a real serious journalist. I'm basically Peter Mansbridge. Anyway, on the phone, the producer said some complimentary things about my work. And then they said something that to this day, I'm never going to forget. We want to take breakfast television

in an edgy new direction. They wanted a morning show with attitude. The Zack Snyder Cut of daytime news. And I was going to be the person to take them there. Edgy. It's such a strange and relative term, right? People call me edgy because I have a penchant for vintage clothing and I use the word fuck in casual conversation.

Comparatively, when I think edgy, I think of a promoter I met named Kyle. Kyle's version of a party story is explaining how one time he shot a guy in the hand because that guy was trying to steal his cocaine. But me, Kyle, edgy. Tomato, tomato, right? Aside from the general tone of the thing, there were a lot of reasons why the breakfast television gig seemed like an odd fit. One of the reasons is that I have a progressive eye disease called keratoconus. I was diagnosed with keratoconus at 13, after the realization that my glasses were no longer correcting my sight. The doctors scheduled a number of appointments, tests, and follow-ups, and eventually the optometrist sat me down with my mom.

Over a large stack of paper, they explained things in a hushed tone. Most eyeballs are shaped like a basketball, and yours are shaped like a football. Do you understand what this means? It wasn't the most medical of descriptions. Later, at home, I found out that keratoconus is a progressive thinning of the cornea. The eye gradually bulges outward, causing blurred vision, sensitivity to light, ghost images, irritation, and eye pain. Most of the time, keratoconus isn't actually that big of a deal. The disease stops on its own.

But some people need to wear specialty contact lenses. Others require invasive surgery. Over time, if the cornea continues to thin, the eyes don't respond well to treatment at all. During these stages, cornea transplant may be necessary. Very rarely, it results in legal blindness. Practically, for the job, my eye condition means I would never be able to do something like read a teleprompter. The producer assured me this wouldn't be a problem. They'd make accommodations, which was great, because there was reasons to take the gig. Reason number one, the most obvious reason.

After asking around, I was told that the BT job started at $70,000 a year with three weeks off paid vacation and benefits. Now at that point in my life, I was living with three roommates in a two-bedroom apartment and my retirement plan was to die young. 70k felt like a lot of money. The second reason is a bit more personal. Since around the age of 11, I've had this giant, gaping, existential hole that can really only be filled with external validation. And I thought, hey, maybe being a TV host might fix that. So I agreed to audition. And together, the producer and I tried to create an edgy version of breakfast television in order to impress the producer's boss. But the biggest problem with this concept is that edgy breakfast television is not a very good idea.

It's just not. The two things are fundamentally opposed to one another. It's like trying to create a Christian rock band. Best case scenario, you end up as Creed. But I want the job. So, with arms wide open, I go through a series of interviews. I pitch a number of different segments I could do on the show, bringing my devil-may-care attitude to local news, weather, and traffic. In-your-face reminders about regional charity bake sales. The iStuff gets

mentioned once or twice, but neither side makes a big deal of it. With the momentum of the addition, there are a lot of other things to focus on. And finally, after weeks of work, everything comes down to a screen test. There are days in your life where the stakes are so high that all the details are kind of painted on to the back of your eyelids. To me, the screen test was one of those days. I was acutely aware that if things went well, my life would dramatically change. So, if you can imagine it. Despite the show being based in Montreal, the audition takes place at Toronto's Young and Dundas Square, like Times Square, but Canadian. Walking up to the studios,

massive screens flank the building, projecting a wash of color over the early morning commuters. There's a chirp of a pedestrian cross, the grind of a streetcar track. I get to the doors and security signs me in. They gesture towards an elevator and I make my way over. The trip upwards feels like it's in slow motion. upwards feels like it's in slow motion. When the elevator chimes open, it's like walking into a movie. There are cameras all around, television's flashing information, scattered desks for weather and traffic.

I'm taking everything in when a handler introduces themselves. Someone takes me to a dressing room for makeup. After a few minutes of powder and paint, I'm left alone to prepare. I move closer to the mirror to actually get a good look at myself. My suit is midnight blue, a red silk pocket square for a pop of color, a crew neck tee with a waft of chest hair spilling over the collar to signal that, yes, I'm a bit dangerous. Yeah, I'm edgy. And standing there, if I squint, I can almost see it. For the first time in my life, I believe that this could actually work. Then there's a knock on the door, and we're off.

Showtime. On set, I'm looking over my notes when someone from the team walks in. Hey, so great to have you. During the first segment, we're going to need you to read a quote from the premiere. It's on the TV over there. We made the font big. Oh, um, I've got this thing with my eyes. There's this thing with my eyes, and it means that reading anything from the

screen is... We made the font big, so yeah. Yeah. Thank you. It's just that I have this eye thing, and it's a... Well, you know how most eyeballs are shaped

like a basketball? It just might be hard for me to read and... Oh, cool, no problem. Just do the best you can. And I will do the best I can. I will. It's no big deal. In 2017, it felt like drugs were everywhere in the news.

So I started a podcast called On Drugs. In 2017, it felt like drugs were everywhere in the news. So I started a podcast called On Drugs. We covered a lot of ground over two seasons, but there are still so many more stories to tell. I'm Jeff Turner, and I'm back with season three of On Drugs. And this time, it's going to get personal. I don't know who Sober Jeff is. I don't even know if I like that guy. On Drugs is available now wherever you get your podcasts.

During the segment, I'm supposed to make banter with a co-host. The cameras roll and I start talking. I'm talking and there are definitely words coming out of my mouth, but my mind is spinning. I'm tripping out on how I'm supposed to read the quote. The quote from the television with the big font. The big font. I don't know if I could read and it's coming up. The quote is coming up. And despite the ironic detachment I've used to protect myself from the idea of rejection during this entire process with the producer and the

interviews and the segments. I do want the job. I do. I want this job. This job would change my life. And if the job is going to happen, then I need to be able to read the sentence from the television, read it real good, like an actual news anchor. But my eyes, my eyes are sore. And then suddenly there are words on the screen and I squint. And I try to make out what's there, but it's a blur. And I stumble over my words and I squint and I turn my head to where the camera is directly down the lens. And it feels like everyone in the room is looking at me even though I can't make out what their expressions are. It feels like everyone in the room is looking at me even though I can't make out what their expressions are.

And then we move on. About a week later, I get a message from the producer. They thank me for my effort, they appreciate all the work I put in, but they won't be needing my services at this time. If something comes up in the future, they'll be sure to be in touch. They canceled breakfast television in Montreal a couple months after my addition. Honestly, the screen test is just one of a dozen near misses throughout my career, but it's probably the one I think about the most. Not because of the job. Because of the blur. And the television. About the screen test.

Sometimes people get mad at the breakfast television folks when I tell that story. But I don't think the BT team did anything wrong. I didn't know how to ask for what I needed at that moment, and they didn't know how to give it to me. I didn't ask for more accommodations, because until that point, I didn't know how to ask for what I needed at that moment and they didn't know how to give it to me. I didn't ask for more accommodations because until that point, I didn't know I needed them. Plus they did make an effort. Big font, you know? But that moment was the first time I had to admit to myself, maybe I needed more help than big font had to offer. The screen test was this realization that things had now progressed to the point where i couldn't just brush them off some stuff i might not be able to do other stuff i was going to need to

do differently i might need more help and if i wanted to get that help i was going to need to get better at explaining exactly what my vision is People tend to think of sight loss as an all-or-nothing prospect. Blindness as complete darkness. Vision as everything else. But for half a million visually impaired Canadians, it exists on a spectrum. I'm on the less severe end of that spectrum, for sure.

I still run into problems. Because my condition is progressive, I can't always predict what those problems will be or how I might deal with them. I'd say it's a know-it-when-you-see-it scenario, except it's literally not that. Still, whenever I talk about this, I'm expected to qualify its impact in some easily digestible fashion. The challenge is, trying to explain vision loss is sort of like trying to describe a really great meal. We can discuss flavors and textures, salty, sweet, umami, whatever.

But until you've actually tasted the thing, it's hard to know what it's like. Another example. It's like television ads for perfume. Want to know what Burberry smells like? Here's Adam Driver as a minotaur. So it's difficult to describe vision loss using words, like it's difficult to describe smells using film. And just showing everyone a photo of what things are like

doesn't really capture what the day-to-day experience is. Which got me thinking, what would happen if we didn't really rely on words? Keratoconus causes an irregular astigmatism the cornea bulges outward edges are soft objects blur at a distance things begin to bleed together

I get shapes, colors, shadows without the details Keratoconus causes double vision I get shapes, colors, shadows without the details. Keratoconus causes double vision. Outlines of words behind words. Buildings, cars, people. Everything with a ghost version of itself, slightly askew. My eyes get tired, dry, and sore. Keratoconus can make you sensitive to light.

At nighttime, every light source has a glare. Halos all around, headlights on cars, street lamps, signs, a Monet painting. I know it's there, but bits get lost. For the past year, I've been putting together this show. In each episode, I'm going to try to explain what sight loss feels like through exploring how it sounds. Throughout the series, you'll hear stories from low vision dancers, surfers, and visual artists. People are like, wow, it must be so dangerous. I'm like,

have you tried to cross an intersection lately with your eyes closed? Like, this is what we do every day. But I thought, hang on, how can I make blindness, the perceptions of blindness, the creativity of blindness, accessible to not only blind people, but sighted people as well? This is part of the mental health aspect of losing vision, which nobody talks about. We'll bring you through the theater, onto the operating table, and into the ocean. By listening to a world that doesn't center sight, it's a glimpse at a whole new perspective. My perspective. A new way to see things without seeing it all.

I hope you'll join me. On the next episode of Short Sighted, we're going to talk about how people don't think I'm losing my sight. They think I'm an asshole. Short Sighted was created and hosted by me, Graham Isidore. Editing and sound design by Christopher Ross Hewitt. Music and additional sound design by Ron Kelly. For CBC Podcast, the producer is Leah Simone Bowen.

The sound designer is Julia Whitman. The coordinating producer is Roshni Nair. Kate Evans is the senior producer. Tanya Springer is senior manager. And the executive producers are Cecil Fernandez and Chris Oak. The director of CBC Podcast is Arif Noorani. That's the first episode of Short Sighted. If you like what you heard, episode two is waiting for you right now. You can find it and follow it on the CBC's personally feed so you don't miss an episode. Just search for Personally wherever you get your podcasts. For more CBC podcasts, go to cbc.ca slash podcasts.