“Do you mind company?” a young male voice chimes from my left, taking me from my thoughts of Ivy.
I gesture in front of me. “Sure, go ahead.”
The stranger sits across from me, his chair scraping lightly against the floor as he settles in. He hums an old rock song under his breath, fingers drumming against the table like he’s keeping rhythm with the tune.
“Did you get eggs or the sad excuse for oatmeal?” he asks.
“Eggs.”
“Good call. The oatmeal is crap here. Zero out of ten. Do not recommend.”
His comment makes me chuckle. “Been here long enough to know the cafeteria’s sins?”
“Close to six weeks. That’s long enough to learn where to get the best food and what not to eat.”
“I’m Teddy,” I introduce myself. “I would offer you a hand, but can’t see much.”
“Yeah, I know who you are, Teddy Seaborn. I’m Aaron Hines,” he replies. “Before you get weird about it: no, I don’t care about hockey, and yes, I’ve heard of you. Only because the nurses here won’t shut up about the good looking hockey player who arrived a few days ago.”
I bark a surprised laugh, my cheeks reddening at the thought of another set of nurses being my fans. “That’s me.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll fall off the radar soon. Wait until the next hot blind guy shows up and knows how to play the ukulele or something.”
“Yeah, well, my talents start and end with hockey and looking pretty.”
“Same, minus the whole puck-chasing bit,” my new friend comments. “So how long has it been since your accident?”
“Around a month.”
“Oh, so you’re in the existential hell phase.”
“That the medical term?”
He chuckles. “Nah, just the standard adjustment period. You know the stages: grief, rage, despair, the wholeI lost my sight unexpectedlystarter pack.”
I’ve felt every one of those stages and keep circling back through them depending on the day. Hearing someone else say it out loud makes me feel seen and exposed at the same time. Part of me bristles, the other part wants to cling to the relief of knowing I’m not the only one.
“Great,” I mutter. “Do I at least get a complimentary T-shirt?”
“Only if you cry in front of your therapist and make it awkward for everyone else in the room.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. This kid is something else. “So what’s your story?” I ask between bites. “How did you end up here?”
“I used to skateboard,” he tells me. “I tried a really stupid trick on a dare one night and landed head first on the stairs. Woke up three weeks later at the hospital without being able to see anything and having to learn everything again.”
“Fucking hell,” I comment, thinking how I truly got lucky with my injuries. “That’s rough, man.”
“At least I got a cool scar and a one-way ticket to Harborview after four months in the hospital,” Aaron jokes. “It could’ve been worse.”
With such a positive attitude, he makes me feel less like I’m stuck in the saddest chapter of my life and more like I’ve accidentally wandered into a weird buddy comedy.
“You seem well-adjusted for someone who lost his sight not that long ago.”
“I mean, I could be dead, so I’m accepting every extra day as a blessing.”
How does one reply to such a gut punch of a statement? A small, bitter part of me envies how easily the sentiment behind it seems to come to him, like he’s already made peace with the blow he took. I don’t feel anywhere near that point. I still wake up furious some mornings, choking on the unfairness of life.
I push scrambled eggs around with my fork. “I haven’t reached the acceptance phase yet. Not completely,” I admit quietly.
