Losing my eyesight changed the way I lived, but it also changed the way I trusted. Looking back now, I realize the darkest part of my life had nothing to do with what I could or couldn’t see.
The afternoon sun pressed warmly against the window, and I sat with my hands wrapped around a mug of tea I couldn’t quite see. Eleven years of marriage had shaped my routine down to the smallest habit.
I knew my house by sound alone. The hum of the fridge, the tick of the hallway clock, the low rumble of Brian’s car pulling into the driveway each evening.
I was 35, and I hadn’t seen my own face clearly in nearly a decade.
I couldn’t quite see.
***
When we first got married, my eyesight was perfectly normal; a rare eye disease crept in a year after our wedding. The disease slowly stole my vision.
First, the distant signs blurred, then the faces, then everything softened into pale shapes and shadows.
By year four, I carried a white cane.
By year six, I stopped pretending I could manage on my own because even walking around unfamiliar places became difficult.
The disease slowly stole my vision.
