The transition from seeing to non-seeing was huge as it was; I just couldn’t deal with the well-meaning people anymore. The things people would say to make mefeel betterirked me.
“Oh, well, at least you have had vision, so you can still picture things. Imagine those poor people who were born blind.”
“Thank goodness you’re still alive, it could’ve been so much worse.”
On and on it would go.
“Well, Susan, let’s take your vision, then we’ll see how grateful you are when people talk to you like you’re a child,” I mutter to myself. Hmm, seems the road rage has developed into something more.
So off I go. One foot in front of the other.
Violet, Michael Myers is not waiting around the corner for you. Neither is that annoying dude from Scream.
This is why I need a service dog. So I can rest assured that if there was a serial killer waiting in the dark—or light, as it were—the dog would alert me.
I count.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Stop.
My fingers find the frame of the kitchen entrance.
I beam at the very small achievement even as a flush creeps up my cheeks. I’m a little embarrassed that such a small thing would bring me so much joy, but hey…
One, I didn’t get murdered in my home by a crazed sociopath who escaped from a mental asylum in the middle of the night, and two, I got the steps down pat from my bedroom to the kitchen. That might not seem like a huge achievement, but if you plan on going blind anytime soon, I hope you’ve got an excellent memory.
It’s twenty-seven steps from the bedroom to the kitchen doorway. Three steps from my bed to the balcony outside my bedroom. Five steps from the side of my bed to the en suite bathroom. Twenty-three steps from the kitchen, around the island, to the front door. Eighteen steps from the living room to the front door.
On and on it goes. How many steps from the couch to the TV? From the couch to the coffee table, from the guest room to the bathroom, from the back door to the front door, from the front door to the porch.
I trail my fingers along the kitchen counter until I feel the cool stainless steel, the smooth plastic handle of the electric kettle.
I raise my hand directly above me to reach the cupboard door and search for the handle. Opening it, I gently sweep my fingers along the inside of the cupboard and take out the mug, being careful not to knock it onto the floor. I did that in my old place, but thankfully Meemaw was there to help clean up. I feel the familiar flush of discomfort at the thought of anyone helping me. It’s ironic, since I never had a lick of trouble asking anyone for help when I still had my sight.
I open the top drawer and take out my liquid level indicator, hanging it carefully on the side of my mug.
Meemaw is the greatest. After my accident, she had a party for me—sort of like a baby shower where people brought me a whole bunch of tools for the vision-impaired. At first I was mortified, and my pride—the only emotion I could feel at thetime—took a severe knock. But despite how overwhelming it was, eventually, it helped me feel like things would be okay. It also made me realize I had to get my shit together and stop being so dependent on people.
And I couldn’t deny the stuff I got was useful, like the liquid level indicator to tell me when my cup was nearly full; a braille label machine so I could label similar jars with different contents (which I’ve since misplaced); measuring spoons and jugs; and almost anything you could think of that you could use to make your life easier if you were blind. I honestly don’t know how I would’ve gotten on without them.
While the kettle boils, I reach for my phone to read—ahem, listen to—the news. Again, better to know if a psycho is on the loose than be surprised when he’s unaliving me.
I trail my hand along the counter again until I feel the charging cord between my fingertips. As I lift the cord, it releases from the jack and starts to fall. Instinct kicks in, and I lunge to catch my phone. I fumble, playing hot-potato with my phone until it slips from my fingers and sails out of my grasp. I hear a crash as the phone connects with my glass, heat-resistant mug, and they both go tumbling to the floor.
“Son of a circus clown!”
