This past week I struggled through the 8-hour online 55 Alive class. It opened my eyes in a quite unexpected way.
Driving 55 Alive
The drivers’ course is necessary for many reasons, not the least for the car insurance savings. I struggled, however, due to computer problems, internet connections, time shortages, holiday activities, back-to-work adjustments and, well, just the sense that I’ve heard all this driver safety stuff before.
The battle of the attitude got worse as I recalled that my fender-benders happened before I was 25. Safety experts think I need to take additional classes now? So, as the hours of videos and quizzes plodded on, the online driving program became a personal contest to hit the “Next” button as quickly as possible to keep the course rolling.
- As we age our bodies change blah, blah, blah—“Next.”
- Car safety features continue to change blah, blah, blah—“Next.”
- Over the past 100 years, roads and traffic signs have changed blah, blah, blah—“Next.”
- Some accidents occur when drivers experience “Inattentional Blindness”, that is, they “looked but didn’t see”—
PAUSE.
Inattentional Blindness, to paraphrase several experts, describes a moment when a person doesn’t see new and unexpected things that suddenly appear in plain sight. Psychologists speculate that it happens due to “excessive stimuli in the visual field” (too many things to track simultaneously), causing a person to miss important, but unforeseen, items in their vicinity.
Attention overload causing “blindness”. It can happen to anyone and has nothing to do with any visual or mental declines. As writer and speaker Mike Lyles put it, “It’s not what you look at, it’s what you see.”
The point that the 55 Alive class makes is that the ever-changing conditions of traffic, road intersections, weather conditions, etc. can distract anyone from seeing something right in plain view, like a car unexpectedly changing lanes or a child running into the street.
It’s not that the driver isn’t paying attention. He’s just paying attention to the wrong thing at the wrong moment.
Giving Attention to the Inattentional
Many experiments have been done about inattentional blindness since the phrase first surfaced in 1992. One of the best known is the video clip where viewers are challenged to count the number of basketball passes made by the white-clad players. Let’s see how well you do:
Well? How did you do?
Inattentional blindness applies to driving, certainly, but it also applies to general safety. For example, as a nurse I’ve participated in numerous safety trainings often focused on behaviorally unstable and/or violent patients in the emergency room. To minimize inattentional blindness, we’re taught to observe for clues—the physical postures, the potential weapons, the likely triggers. By being mindful of these shifting factors, we’re better equipped to anticipate and avoid volatile situations that risk everyone’s safety.
But even beyond that, how often in our daily lives do we fall victim to this blindness? The answer: more often than we’d like to admit.
- Raise your hand if you’ve ever been on your phone and not realized that someone walked into the room.
- Bonus points if you’ve searched a cluttered table for your glasses only to find them inches from your fingers.
Sometimes it’s entertaining to realize what we’ve missed, like staring at optical illusions until the alternative picture becomes clear. Movies put “Easter eggs” in scenes, knowing that most audiences will miss them. Pixar and Disney are famous for these, peppering movies with glimpses of other characters from other hit movies.
Sometimes, however, our inattentional blindness shames us.
Needing Intentional Attention
As a nurse I’m embarrassed by how often I’ve seen and heard the concerns of ER patients or their families and yet totally missed the problem. Not actual medical diagnoses, but “life” diagnoses.
One shift years ago, a mother brought all five of her young children into the ER in the middle of the night. Her concern? The baby had a fever and wouldn’t stop crying. To say the whole ER visit was challenging is an understatement. Within minutes the small exam room exploded with wild chaos. Kids were on the bed, off the bed, and under the bed. They spun on the wheeled exam chair, squeezed into the cupboard beside the wastebasket, yanked out exam gloves from the boxes on the wall and tugged on the equipment cords.
The worst offender was about five years old. When he wasn’t scuffling with his oldest brother, he stood under the paper towel dispenser, and, having discovered what triggered it, he waved his little hand back and forth in front of the motion sensor until half of the paper roll was piled on the floor. Zip-zip-zip.
“Oh, sweetie, you shouldn’t do that,” I told him, while attempting to take the screaming infant’s temperature and count his racing heart rate.
The boy continued to wave. Zip-zip-zip. His oldest brother intercepted and shoved him aside, but the younger boy scurried around him.
“That’s enough, honey,” I said more firmly, trying to listen to lung sounds between the squirming infant’s miserable wailing.
Without even glancing my way, the boy continued to wave his hand. Zip-zip-zip. The paper piled higher on the floor. His brother picked him up with a bear hug and hauled him across the room. The boy raced back to the paper towel dispenser. Zip-zip-zip.
“You need to sit down. Now.” I said this more for his mother’s benefit than his. I may as well have talked to the paper dispenser. The mother focused on the inconsolable babe in her arms. The boy ignored me. His brother swatted at the boy’s arm, but the littler guy was quicker. Zip-zip-zip.
My nursing diagnosis of this family—well, I can’t print that here.
After repeatedly telling the preschooler to stop—using my softest, most professional “I’m-not-screaming-yet-but-my-throat-is-getting-really-tight” voice—I finally took him by the shoulders, backed him away and blocked his path. The mother, holding the crying infant, sighed and apologized. With her next three words everything made sense.
“He has autism.”
I had “looked but didn’t see.” Now I saw.
What I saw was a weary mother bringing us her feverish, crying infant in hopes that we could make him feel better so they could all get some needed sleep. I saw children too small to be left home alone while Mom was gone, and no babysitter immediately available. I saw a brave, strong mother raising her kids while Dad worked away from home Monday through Friday. I saw a protective older brother who was the man of the house while Dad was away, quick to run after his little brother whenever he escaped outside the exam room door and scurried down the hall. I saw the special needs child who changed their lives forever, including extra locks on the doors so he wouldn’t wake up in the middle of the night and run away in the darkness.
And if I had taken time to look in a mirror, I would have faced a crabby nurse focusing too much attention on the nursing process and missing the need for intentional compassion.
In that moment, I realized my inattentional blindness, and the ER visit changed. But how many times have I remained blind? How many times, as I trudged through Walmart or sat in church, have I been blind to the look of grief or weariness or fear in someone’s eyes? How many times have I given my attention to counting my many blessings and been utterly blind to someone struggling with a heavy load in their heart?
Giving Attention This Holiday
It’s the Holiday season. My own to-do list for the coming weeks is to NOT be inattentionally blind. This includes:
1. To look past someone’s scowl and see their worry or sorrow inside.
2. To look beyond the noisy kid-filled shopping carts and be aware of the burdens many families face daily, including finances, health and relationships.
3. To really listen to others and not multi-task their conversation with my planning.
4. Lastly, to look through the Holiday “excessive stimuli” and give my attention to the Baby in the manger.