Once again, the beautiful beaches of my dreams were replaced with darkness when I woke up in a lonely hospital bed. This time, I was in Augusta, Georgia, after successfully completing my five-week stay at the VA facility in Tampa.
My physical wounds had fully and finally healed during my Florida stint. The large lacerations across my face were now tight pink scars, the bone in my hand had mended, and I had temporary, prosthetic eyes, which were stretching my damaged eyelids in preparation for more permanent prosthetics that I would receive later on.
The doctors had also determined that I should be transferred to a VA facility where I could receive full-time instruction from a staff that specialized in helping veterans with visual impairments adjust to the challenges of life without vision. Think “Hogwarts,” but for blind people instead of wizards. There were a number of such facilities across the country, but the closest to home was Augusta.
I rolled out of bed and felt my way across the room until I found the doorknob to my bathroom. The sink was located in the back right corner, which I was able to find with little trouble. From a small toiletry case that I kept on a ledge above the mirror, I removed my toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. I unscrewed the toothpaste cap and did my best to line the nozzle up with the end of my toothbrush.
Several failed attempts at this process yielded a large mess of toothpaste in the bottom of the sink, and left me starting off the day in frustration. I used to be capable of removing a blasting cap from a complex explosive device, whether it was buried beneath the sands of Afghanistan or hidden in the ocean’s depths. Now, I was struggling with the cap of a toothpaste tube.
Fuming, I used my fingers to scrape up some spilled toothpaste and angrily smeared it on the end of the toothbrush. I then jammed the toothbrush in my mouth and took out some pent-up frustration on my gums.
Just outside the bathroom door stood a tall locker where I kept my belongings. I only had a few personal items with me in Augusta, as most of my things were either in storage at my base in Virginia Beach, or still in Afghanistan. Fortunately, my family members had taken me to a mall when I was hospitalized in Florida to pick up a few articles of clothing. Those new garments were neatly arranged in front of me inside my closet, which now resembled my perfectly put together “plebe summer” closet at the Naval Academy.
To accomplish this feat, which was no easy task in the early stages of blindness, I was helped by a small handheld device that resembled a TV remote. The device told me the color of each of my shirts, which helped me carefully arrange them, as well as my socks and even my underwear, in a systematic “dark to light, left to right” order. This way, I would always know what color shirt I was grabbing.
I selected a black t-shirt from the left, and slid on my only pair of jeans. I zipped up my only fleece jacket, and tucked a pair of gloves into my back pocket. I slipped on a pair of sneakers, grabbed my cane, and tapped my way to the door. Outside, I turned right, and followed the right side of the hallway past four doors, then turned ninety degrees to cross the hallway.
As my cane smacked the nurse’s station, I issued a cordial “good morning!” to the two nurses sitting behind the chest-high counter. After a moment or two of small talk, I followed the curved counter until it ended, then tapped forward until I found the right side of the hallway that led out of our ward. I followed this wall past the nurse administrator’s office, which always smelled like a Yankee Candle.
Next, I felt the metal lip below a set of fire doors as I left the ward before feeling the hallway broaden ever so slightly. I continued following the right side of the hallway a few more paces until a T intersection with a much larger hallway. I turned right and continued following the right side until passing a set of drinking fountains.
Just past the fountains, I took another ninety-degree turn, crossing the larger hallway to a bank of elevators. I felt along the wall in between the two elevators on the left-hand side of the alcove until I found the “up” and “down” buttons. I pressed the down button a few times to ensure that I activated it, and then listened intently as I waited.
I heard a “ding!” from behind me and slightly to the right, then the swish of the sliding elevator doors. With my cane angled in front of me, I whirled around and darted toward the sounds.
When I first arrived in Augusta, it had taken me a while to figure out how to follow the sound of the opening elevator, and in the process, I had missed quite a few rides. Just before missing this one, though, I slid my cane and outstretched hand in between the closing elevator doors, causing them to reopen.
Once inside, I felt along the left-hand side of the front wall to locate the bank of floor buttons. I was learning Braille, but in the meantime, I found it much easier to feel for the shape of the letters, numbers, and symbols next to each button. I felt around for a while until I touched a five-pointed star shape raised out of the panel next to the number one. I pressed the associated button, and felt the elevator floor dip. When the doors subsequently slid open at my desired floor, I stepped out and took an immediate left turn. I followed the left hand wall just a pace or two, then squared off and crossed the hallway.
I would eventually turn left, so it would have been easier to follow the left wall, but at the same time, I didn’t want to be walking the wrong way down the hallway. It was amazing—and a bit disappointing—how little attention was often paid by those with functioning eyes. On previous treks down this hallway, I had been bumped into a number of times, and on one occasion, accidentally knocked someone over.
Across the hallway, I turned left, and subsequently followed the right-hand side of the wide hallway. It was early, so not many hospital employees had arrived to work. I took advantage of the silence by stepping just to the left of the wall, and then following it by listening for the echo of my cane taps instead of actually tapping the wall. This sort of echolocation is used by the blind to perceive their surroundings and navigate, but I was terrible at it, and needed as much practice as possible.
From the opposite direction, I then heard someone—most likely a janitor or facilities manager, judging by the thick ring of jingling keys—coming down the hallway. As the person approached, I darted back over to the wall to ensure that I was in the right spot.
Soon, I passed another metal rim at a new set of fire doors, and began listening for the space to open up on the left side.
After about ten or so paces, I heard an air conditioning vent blowing from a deeper, open spot on the left side of the hallway, indicating the presence of a smaller passageway moving off to the left. I squared off and again crossed the hallway, finding the right-hand side of the offshoot passageway, following it until I passed another set of fire doors, and then slid across the narrow passageway to the left-hand side. Once on the left, I began dragging my cane along the bottom of the wall and looking for the next doorway. Within a pace or two, my cane struck a metal door frame with a gratifying sound: “tin!”
“You did it!” cheered a mobility instructor named Lauren (celebrity look-alike: a short-haired Anne Hathaway) from inside her small office, where she was typing at her computer while seated in the far corner of the room, as far as I could tell.
While seemingly insignificant to others at first glance, this lengthy hospital trek had marked my first mobility test. Lauren and I had gone over that route during the previous few days; just a few short weeks earlier, I had been afraid to traverse my own hospital room to the bathroom, let alone tap across an open hallway. Now, I was able to find my way across an entire hospital and pick out an exact office.
From the doorway, I beamed with pride. Lauren stood up to give me a hug, and then offered that we go to the coffee shop down the hall to celebrate.
“I’ll lead the way!” I proclaimed.
LATER THAT DAY, I sat facing a computer screen that I couldn’t see, but could hear. Amazingly, a voice was relaying each key that I typed.
Seated next to me was Ron (celebrity look-alike: Woody Harrelson, with a mustache), my computer instructor, who was also blind.
“Isn’t it neat to talk to a computer?” I typed into a blank document as Ron and I both listened.
Ron then instructed me to save the document to the desktop. He walked me through the audible menu screens, while giving me a few keyboard shortcuts to make the arduous process a bit quicker. Ron then instructed me to close the word processing program and find the document that I had just saved on the desktop. We both smiled as I found it.
“Isn’t it neat to talk to a computer?” the computer said just as I opened the document, which caused both Ron and me to laugh.
In that humorous moment, I think that it also became clear to Ron that operating the computer wasn’t going to be the biggest challenge I faced while adjusting to being blind.
I heard a jingle of dog tags as Ron reached down to scratch the ears of his guide dog, a blonde lab named Mara.
“So Brad, what has been the hardest adjustment for you?” Ron asked while petting his trusted guide dog.
After thinking about his question for a moment, it didn’t take me very long to recall the toothpaste incident. As I relayed my embarrassing struggle, Ron just laughed, having clearly faced the same dilemma in his own early days of blindness.
“Well that one’s easy,” Ron said. “You just squirt the toothpaste directly into your mouth … no fuss, no mess!”
I joined in his laughter. He was right … it’s so simple!
In that moment, I realized the way I would succeed as a blind man was to embrace each new challenge with an open mind, and most importantly, patience. I would have to think outside the box to solve problems and adapt to each new situation, much like when I was learning to disable enemy IEDs.
Over time, I would adjust to my new lifestyle, but every day would hold new challenges. As always, constant challenge would be a way of life, but like everyone had been teaching me at the various hospitals I had stayed in since my injury, the only way I would succeed was—in the words of the blind Army captain, Ivan—“one step at a time.”
MARIMBAS ERUPTED FROM MY iPhone as the voice of Siri indicated that I had an incoming call from a number with a Colorado Springs area code. I tapped the screen and held the phone to my ear, but before I could say much more than “hello,” an excited voice introduced himself as Rich Cardillo, the Military Outreach Coordinator for the United States Association of Blind Athletes (USABA).
Rich explained that it was his job to seek out veterans and service members who suffered from vision loss, and to provide them with resources that would push them toward getting involved in adaptive sports. He added that my information had come across his desk, and he was both aware of and excited about my sports background.
It may have been the poor cell phone connection, but it seemed to me that Rich was genuinely excited about the opportunities that losing my vision had opened up for me. Rich’s enthusiastic approach was a far cry from what I had become accustomed to, and it was actually quite refreshing not to be pitied.
My mind started to wander as I heard Rich say something about the “Paralympics” and the “United States Association of Blind Athletes.”
The Paralympics? What’s that? Is that like the Special Olympics?
My mind continued to race.
Association of what? Blind athletes? We have those? What sports do they play? Arm wrestling? I don’t suppose you would need your eyes for that …
I stopped Rich and asked him to back up for a second. He explained that it was the mission of the USABA to provide resources and establish programs for all those with visual impairments to get involved in sports. That meant real sports, like running, cycling, swimming, judo, and even a sport called “goalball” that is played exclusively by blind athletes. My antenna went up even further when I heard the word “swimming.” Not only had I competed at the Division I level, but my former swim coach, Fred Lewis, had already helped teach me how to swim while blind.
Rich went on to explain that there was an event called the Paralympics, which is modeled after the Olympic Games and different from the Special Olympics, which is designed for those with cognitive impairments.
Every four years, after the Olympic torch is extinguished, the Paralympic torch is lit. In the same immense Olympic venues, athletes with physical disabilities like missing limbs, paralysis, or blindness compete in sports that are adapted from the Olympics. As Rich explained, I was more than likely eligible to compete in the Paralympics in the S11 classification, which consists of athletes who are all completely blind.
The next Paralympic Games were set for London in 2012. Given my background in swimming, Rich believed that I had a good chance of making Team USA. I suppose I was lucky to have suffered my injury so close to a Paralympic year.
Rich explained that if I had any interest whatsoever in competing, I needed to immediately begin the process of applying for eligibility. I would also need to swim in a competition very soon in order to meet the various qualifying standards.
Even though I was energized by Rich’s enthusiasm, seeds of doubt nevertheless crept into my head. I told Rich that I was interested, but also not quite sure what to make of this brand-new information. I also admitted that I was still very uncertain about my overall future, which made trying out for the Paralympics at this early stage of blindness seem difficult, if not impossible. Still, I thanked Rich and told him that I would consider his proposal and that I would be in touch. I was late for computer class with Ron, so I quickly grabbed my cane and tapped my way out.
Rich called back a few days later and asked if I had considered the Paralympics, to which I admitted that I had not. I told him that I had been busy with the requirements of my rehab, and hadn’t gotten a chance to sit down and give it some thought. Honestly, I had thought about it a little, but between the mobility training, computer classes, and adjusting to the huge demands of my new reality, I didn’t feel like I had the bandwidth to add something else, especially athletic competition.
Swimming in Florida had been a lot of fun. It was also a nice escape from the early confusion and frustration I felt after being blinded at such a young age. Still, I needed to focus on learning the skills that would help me potentially go back to school, get a job, and help me find a new, promising career that I could manage and eventually succeed in despite my vision loss. I didn’t see how swim training and competing could help me with that.
I didn’t want to say this to Rich, though, as he seemed so excited about the idea of me benefiting from competitive sports. He was able to sense my trepidation, however, prompting him to set about selling me on the idea.
To my surprise, Rich explained that he had already worked out all the details on my behalf. He had filled out all the paperwork and just needed me to sign in a few places. Amazingly, Rich also found a local coach who knew a great deal about Paralympic swimming.
As my excitement grew, Rich said that he could arrange it with the hospital staff so that I would be allowed to leave for two hours after lunch—three days a week—to attend swimming practices. Rich could also work it out so that I could take leave at the end of February to fly to the Olympic Training Center in Colorado Springs, where I could swim in my first meet as a blind athlete. He could make all these incredible things happen thanks to funding that was available from the USABA.
I was shocked by how much effort Rich had put forth on my behalf. He had truly invested himself in me, and I was deeply touched.
Even if I didn’t come close to making the Paralympic team, Rich had arranged things so that the effort required from me was mostly minimal. At the same time, I found the prospect of sneaking out of the hospital and into the water, where I had felt so comfortable since childhood, to be quite attractive. Plus, what if I actually had a chance to be good at it? Rich had succeeded in convincing me to give this seemingly crazy idea a shot.
“NOW LISTEN HERE, BRADLEY,” said Fred Lambeck, my new swim coach (celebrity look-alike: Patrick Stewart with a southern accent). “This here is a tapper.”
It sounded more like “tappa” because of Fred’s thick accent, but I understood him just fine. After placing one of my folding canes in my hand, he demonstrated how he had just taped a tennis ball at the end. Fred had cut a small hole in the tennis ball and jammed the tip of the cane through the hole before securing it with duct tape.
My family and I had spent some time speculating as to how a blind swimmer might execute a proper turn in competition, and while doing so, we had come up with quite a few crazy ideas. We tossed around everything from directed sprinkler systems to portable sonar arrays until someone had the brilliant idea to simply search YouTube for a video of blind swimmers actually competing in the Paralympic Games.
My brother narrated a short video clip for me. He said that blind swimmers dove off a block and began sprinting across the pool. At the end stood a line of coaches and teammates—one per swimmer—who were all getting ready with long poles. As each swimmer approached the wall, the “tappers,” one by one, reached out and smacked the oncoming blind swimmer on the back or even the head with the long pole.
“That’s it?” I asked.
A few days later, Fred gave me an even more detailed demonstration. He told me to swim into the wall, slowly at first, and he’d tap me when I should turn. I did so, and after a few strokes, I felt the tennis ball hit my shoulder blade. I tucked my chin to my chest, pressed my shoulders down, and kicked my legs over my head, just like I had learned so many years ago in Florida. My body rotated one hundred eighty degrees, and my feet landed perfectly on the wall.
Underwater, I smiled as I pushed off into a streamline and started swimming the other direction. It was really that simple. Just like the darn toothpaste.
EVERY OTHER DAY FOR about six weeks, Coach Fred Lambeck would pick me up at the hospital for practice. One day in late February 2012, though, Fred drove us to Augusta’s tiny airport instead of the local YMCA.
Together, Fred and I flew to Chicago, and then to Colorado Springs. The next day, Fred escorted me out on to the deck of the US Olympic Training Center’s pool. Never in my wildest dreams—or post-injury hallucinations—did I think I would end up here.
The pool deck was a chaotic mix of sounds, ranging from coaches chatting excitedly about the upcoming Paralympics to officials testing the loudspeaker and starting buzzer. The volume of the noise was slightly unsettling, even though at the same time, I was comforted by the familiar sounds and smells of a swim meet. Even if I was a little uncomfortable at first, I knew that this was where I belonged.
After an official cleared the pool, an announcer welcomed us to the annual Jimi Flowers swim meet. The announcer called the arena to attention for the playing of the national anthem, and soon after, the day’s first race was underway.
Fred guided me over to the starting block area and told me that I would be swimming in the first heat of the next event, which was nine races away. Fred then left me there so that he could be ready to tap me with the tennis ball at the other end of the pool.
After eight heats, I started inching forward. A swim meet volunteer noticed me feeling for the block, and kindly escorted me to my lane. After thanking her, I began stretching and warming up, just like I had before my races as a Naval Academy midshipman. I put on my goggles, then a cap emblazoned with the Navy “N star” on one side and the American flag on the other. Finally, the referee called my heat to the block.
“Take your marks!” he commanded, and a second later, the buzzer started the clock.
I leapt off the blocks and swam as fast as I could across the pool. At the other side, Fred slapped me in the back with the tapper, and I reached out my hand for the timing pad.
I swam to the side of the pool and exited at a ladder, where Fred was waiting for me. He didn’t make any effort to hide his excitement when he told me that my time was 26.9 seconds, which had been the world’s fifth-fastest recorded time for a blind swimmer.
Most importantly, it was also fast enough to earn me a spot on the US Paralympic National team. If I could go that fast again in June during the Paralympic Trials, I would be named to Team USA’s roster in London.
BACK IN AUGUSTA A few days later, marimbas once again chimed from my phone. This time, Siri informed me that it was a number with a District of Columbia area code.
The voice on the other end of the line belonged to Guy Filippelli, a West Point graduate who had left the Army a few years prior to begin a lucrative career as an entrepreneur. After introducing himself, Guy said that he’d just started a non-profit called the COMMIT Foundation, with an aim of helping veterans like me transition into meaningful and fulfilling post-military careers in the private sector.
Guy offered me an internship with his newest company, Red Owl Analytics, where I could learn all the skills I would need to begin a new career in the corporate world. I was very excited about this amazing opportunity. After quickly accepting the internship, I thanked Guy profusely.
Immediately after I hung up the phone, however, I found myself conflicted. What about the Paralympics? Could I possibly manage the onset of a new career, while at the same time dedicating the necessary time and effort to training with the hopes of going to London?
That question burned inside my brain and ate away at me for the following few days. I spoke at length about the issue with my family, and in the end, I decided that doing the internship, on top of Paralympic training, would be far too overwhelming.
Blindness was still so new, and while I wanted to get going as quickly as possible, I didn’t want to get myself into a situation where I had bitten off more than I could chew. I had to pick one or the other, and I would then allot my full focus and effort to that one endeavor.
After going back and forth on my decision again and again, in the end, I decided that because the Paralympics were coming up in September, I would throw my full focus towards swimming. I would then attempt to re-address the internship in the fall.
I dialed Guy’s phone number and took a deep breath. I was not looking forward to reneging on my acceptance of the internship. Guy had been so kind to go out of his way to help me, and I didn’t like that I now had to say “no thanks.”
When Guy answered, I rambled through an explanation of my previous day’s thoughts, concluding that I had no choice but to turn down his generous offer. Guy laughed, and asked that I not give up on him so fast. He said that he was going to work on a few things, then call me back.
As promised, I got a call back, and Guy explained that his friend Anne Meree had done some digging, and they had developed a plan where I could work as an intern at Red Owl while training at the same time. My prosthetic eyes widened as Guy outlined a plan where I would live in a downtown Baltimore apartment provided by the COMMIT Foundation.
I would work with Guy a short distance away, and then someone from Red Owl or COMMIT would drive me to Loyola University once a day for practice. There, I would train with Brian Loeffler; the head coach of Loyola’s swimming and diving program. Brian had also coached the only recent blind athlete to compete in the Paralympics for Team USA, who had been a student at Loyola. Brian had been his coach and mentor for the previous four years.
Through this process, Brian had proven to be an invaluable resource to the US Paralympic program, especially after offering his coaching, mentorship, and assistance to several more Paralympic athletes. Recognizing his efforts and expertise, the US Paralympic program had named Brian to the roster of coaches that would be going to London.
My jaw dropped as Guy’s plan materialized in my head. I was in awe of his generosity, as well as in awe of the fact that an elite coach like Brian just happened to be in Baltimore, where this internship opportunity was. I was dumbfounded by the serendipity of this circumstance.
Guy seemed to beam with pride as he explained the logistics behind this plan, and once again, I had no choice but to accept his amazing offer, while of course thanking him profusely.
After hanging up, though, I was stricken with fear that maybe I was overextending myself. Was I taking on too much?
I found my imagination taking me back to Weeki Wachee Springs, where my dad had asked if I was afraid of the imaginary monsters below. Even though I had been afraid, I proclaimed that I wasn’t, and was subsequently rewarded when I conquered my fears and stole a shell from the bottom.
I didn’t want to be petrified by my fears. Laid out in front of me was a golden opportunity, and I would be a fool not to take advantage of it.