“Is it normal to see… I don’t know. Specific things? Like, repeatedly?”
Ani’s eyebrows knit together. “What kind of things?”
“I keep thinking I see this black car. A sedan, with tinted windows. It’s probably nothing. Just stress from work.” I force a laugh. “My job’s been a dreammare in its own right lately, so I’m sure I’m just being paranoid.”
She squints at me for a long moment, like she’s waiting for me to confess about something I’m trying to conceal. Eventually, she relents and leans back. “Hallucinations aren’t typically associated with LCA,” Ani says slowly. “If you’re genuinely seeing?—”
“It’s fine,” I interrupt. “Really. Just my overactive imagination working overtime. Can we move on?”
Ani still looks unconvinced, but after a beat, she nods. “Alright. But if you continue experiencing persistent visual disturbances—especially ones that feel consistent or patterned—I want you to call Dr. Haggerty immediately. Promise me?”
“Pinky swear.” But I’m crossing my fingers mentally because I have zero intention of calling anyone about a car that almost certainly doesn’t exist.
“Wonderful.” Ani stands and gestures toward the door. “If you’re ready, we can move into the practical portion. I’ll introduce you to some of the adaptive equipment and give you an overview of the process here.”
“Sure. Yeah. Let’s do it.”
I follow her out of the office and down another hallway. We pass through a set of double doors into what looks like a training area. It’s all very official and real and terrifying.
Ani turns to me with that same warm smile, as if she can hear the anxiety hitting a fever pitch in my head. “Don’t worry. We’ll take it slow.”
I step out of the Chicago Lighthouse for the Blind two hours later with a white cane folded in my purse and a head bursting with information I’m struggling to retain.
The sidewalk stretches before me. Asphalt has never ranked high on my list of fears, but it looks a lot more threatening than itdid this morning. People rush past—commuters, joggers, people jogging on their commutes—and I’m supposed to just navigate through all of that? Armed with a stick?
I pull the cane from my bag. It unfolds with a series of clicks that feel embarrassingly loud. A woman passing by glances at me, then quickly looks away.
Arc left, arc right,I remind myself, channeling Ani’s patient instructions.The cane should sweep about two steps ahead of you, shoulder-width.
I try it. The cane promptly hits a crack in the sidewalk and jolts in my hand. I overcorrect, sweeping too wide, and nearly drop it. A businessman in a suit gives me a wide berth and a hastily muttered apology.
I take a breath and try again. This time, the rhythm feels slightly less catastrophic. Arc left, step. Arc right, step.
It’s not confident. It sure as hell is notMisty Copeland in the Nutcrackergraceful.
But it’s something.
I walk another block. Then another. The rhythm starts to feel almost natural—arc left, step, arc right, step. My shoulders relax incrementally. The cane taps against the concrete with a steady beat that’s almost meditative.
I’m actually-kinda-sorta killin’ it?
I’m so busy congratulating myself on my newfound competence that I don’t notice the sidewalk’s sudden dip where tree roots have buckled the concrete. My cane sweeps over it without catching.
My foot doesn’t.
One second, I’m walking. The next, my ankle rolls sideways and I’m pitching forward with an agonized yelp.
I hit the ground hard. My palms scrape against rough pavement, taking the brunt of the impact and ripping through my skin in a hot flash. My knee follows with a crack that makes me see stars. The cane clatters away, rolling into the gutter.
For a moment, I just lie there in a heap on the cold sidewalk, breathing hard, my palms stinging and my knee throbbing in time with my pulse.
A jogger stops. “Are you okay? Do you need help?”
I want to say yes. I want to say,Call someone, anyone, because I can’t do this.
Instead, I push myself up to sitting and force a smile. “I’m fine. Just still learning.”
The jogger looks uncertain, but she nods and resumes her trot away.
