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.
Within a few years, I had lost almost all of my sight.
I could barely make out light or large shapes.
Brian took over everything. He drove me everywhere, read the mail, and handled anything that required good eyesight.
“Don’t worry about the garage, honey,” my husband told me once, guiding me back toward the kitchen. “I’ll sort it out now that you’ve got your footing.”
Brian took over everything.
We’d neglected the garage as it filled up with different machines and supplies meant to assist with my condition.
Brian also kept all the tools, storage boxes, and car supplies there.
“I could at least help you organize it,” I offered.
“Gina, please. There’s nothing in there for you. Let me take care of it. I’ll grab whatever you need.”
We’d neglected the garage.
I remembered how his voice tightened whenever I mentioned the garage.
I chalked it up to protectiveness.
That’s what love looked like, I told myself. That’s what devotion sounded like.
My best friend, Marissa, didn’t quite agree.
I chalked it up to protectiveness.
***
“You’ve been shrinking, Gina,” Marissa said one afternoon, sitting across from me at the kitchen table. “You used to argue with me about everything. Now you wait for Brian to decide.”
“He’s been good to me, Issa.”
“I know he has. But have you looked into that clinical trial I sent you?”
“Brian says it’s a long shot. He doesn’t want me to get my hopes up.”
“You’ve been shrinking.”
My friend was quiet for a moment.
“And what do you want?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Somewhere along the way, I had stopped asking myself that question.
***
For years, specialists told me there was nothing they could do.
Then, a month ago, through Marissa, I learned about an experimental laser eye surgery offered through a clinical program. The doctors warned me it wasn’t guaranteed to work, and Brian thought I was getting my hopes up for nothing.
