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.
“What do you want?”
***
That night at dinner, I brought it up anyway.
“Dr. Halim’s office called back about the laser program.”
Brian set his fork down. “Sweetheart, we talked about this.”
“I know. I just thought…”
“You’ll break your own heart,” he said, and there was that tightness again, the one I could never quite place. “I don’t want to watch you fall apart when it doesn’t work.”
I sighed.
“We talked about this.”
“I’ve thought about it a lot,” I said. “Marissa’s willing to help me through the recovery either way.”
“Marissa,” my husband repeated flatly. “Of course.”
He didn’t say no again.
He just changed the subject to the leftovers, and I let him, because arguing with Brian had never been something I was good at.
He didn’t say no again.
***
A few days later, my husband left for another one of his week-long business trips.
He kissed my forehead and told me he’d call every night.
The house grew quiet around me.
***
With Marissa’s help, I decided to take the chance on the laser surgery, anyway.
The following afternoon, my best friend came in with a letter from the clinic.
I had been accepted into the trial!
My husband left.
***
That night, I thought about the woman I’d been before the diagnosis, the one who’d argued with a contractor until he redid the whole back porch. The one who’d picked her own paint colors and driven herself to Asheville just to see the leaves.
Somewhere along the way, I’d handed all of that to Brian, one small piece at a time, until it became a habit, and the habit became who I was. For the first time in a long time, I was choosing on my own.
I’d handed all of that to Brian.
***
The following morning, Marissa was on my doorstep with coffee and a bag she’d packed for the clinic.
“Are you still sure about this, Gina?”
“I’ve never been more certain of anything.”
***
Dr. Halim was gentle, methodical, and honest about the risks. The procedure itself was quicker than I’d imagined. What came after was the strange part.
“Are you still sure about this?”
***
For the first two days, everything was a smudged watercolor.
Then, on the third morning, I opened my eyes and saw the ceiling fan. I actually saw it! The blades, the little pull chain, the dust on the edges!
I cried for an hour!
***
Marissa drove me home a few days later, once Dr. Halim was satisfied I could be trusted on my own.
I stood in my own hallway and stared at things I’d forgotten existed.
I opened my eyes.
“The curtains are blue,” I whispered. “I thought they were green. Brian always said it was green.”
“They’ve been blue the whole time,” Marissa said carefully.
I walked from room to room like a stranger touring her own life.
The photos on the mantel. The chip in the coffee table.
My own face in the bathroom mirror, older than I remembered but still mine.
“I thought they were green.”
“I don’t want to tell him yet,” I said. “I want him to walk in and see me seeing him.”
My friend smiled, but it was a careful smile.
