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.
What happened next changed everything… FULL STORY on the next page.
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