“You got any vision left?”
“I can see some light and shadows, but not much. The doctors warned me that I might not regain more than that.”
“But you could?”
“There’s a surgery. However, my doctor said there’s no guarantee,” I shrug.
“At least there’s something they can try, unlike my case. I don’t understand all the medical jargon, but the damage to certain parts of my brain was too extensive. In caveman terms, I’m fucked.”
I want to say something to make it better, but words feel clumsy when faced with someone else’s loss. “That’s…I’m sorry. That’s a lot to carry.”
“You’ll get used to it. The blindness, I mean. It’s not the tragedy some people think it is.”
“I hope to reach the acceptance phase sooner than later.”
The admission tastes bitter leaving my lips, but I know he’s right. The longer I fight against it, the more it eats me alive.
“Yeah, well, you didn’t lose yourself. You lost something you used to rely on,” he reminds me. “I used to play piano. Still do, actually. Just don’t read music anymore.”
“Damn, that’s so cool. So it’s, what, muscle memory?” I lean forward, admiration slipping into my tone.
“Ear training. Memory. Stubbornness.”
I smile faintly. “Stubbornness I can do.”
“Then you’ll be fine.”
We talk for almost an hour about rehab routines, vending machine tragedies and his theory that blind people drink better coffee because they rely more on smell. He tells me about a girl he used to fancy in high school, who has visited him weekly since his accident. Unlike his last ex who ended things while he was fighting for his life.
“Her exact words were, ‘I’m not ready to be a caretaker.’ As if I asked her to wipe my ass.”
“People say the worst things when they’re scared,” I reply, thinking about Ivy. She never once made me feel like a burden. She walked away only because of her dream of being an Ice Cross racer, never because I wasn’t worth the effort. And it makes me miss her even more.
Aarons hums across from me. “They say even worse thingswhen they’re selfish. But hey, her loss. I’m a solid seven. Eight with good lighting, nine and half if you enjoy sarcasm.”
“You’re not what I expected,” I tell him honestly.
“Blind kid with a tragic situation?”
“Yeah. That. You’rejusta guy instead.”
“Exactly. That’s the trick, man. Many who aren’t part of the blind community think we’re inspirational or pitiful. Nope. We’re just people. Our humanity didn’t change overnight because of our disabilities.”
Something inside me eases. For weeks, I’ve been drowning in labels—a patient, newly blind, an injured hockey player. Hearing him strip it down to the simplest truth makes me breathe easier.
“You know, it’s kind of nice, talking to someone who gets it. Even just a little. Maybe that’s one good thing about being here,” I admit.
“It’ll get even easier once more time passes. We have biweekly group therapy sessions and you get to hear the success stories. Those will give you more hope.”
When we finally stand, he bumps my elbow lightly. “Come find me later or don’t. I’ll be around. Follow the trail of sarcastic commentary and peanut butter cup wrappers.”
Later that night, lying in bed, I go over what Aaron said:You didn’t lose yourself. You lost something you used to rely on.
I needed to hear those words carrying the important reminder I forget almost every day: I didn’t lose myself. I’m still here. Still Teddy. Only a new version.
They assign me a new therapist the next day. Her name’s Mel, and she reminds me of Ivy with her no-bullshit attitude. She doesn’t tiptoe around me like I’m a fragile, broken athlete.
Her office smells faintly of eucalyptus, the massive couch creaking when I plop down on the textured fabric. A clock ticks steadily on the wall behind me. I catalogue it as something I’ll fixate on if silence stretches for too long.
