Blindness is not a condition I ever imagined having. But one day in 2008, I began seeing a lot of dark spots, or floaters. Several days later, my right retina detached. I woke up with what appeared to be a small, clear bubble on the side of my nose. By noon, the bubble covered half of my right eye. Unfortunately, I didn't realize what was happening. Gradually, the bubble turned dark, as if a curtain were being drawn across my eye. I spent the evening in a hospital emergency room.
Over the next ten months, I had five operations. Although the initial repair went well, scar tissue kept causing my retina to detach again. After most of the operations, I had to hold my face downward for several weeks. There were many days when I could do almost nothing. For a long time, I could hardly open my eye or bear sunlight.
It has now been more than two years since my last operation, and my right retina is held in place by silicone oil. My eye is stable but remains almost blind. With both eyes open, my view of the world resembles a piece of paper that has been partly crumpled and torn. On the left side of my nose, things look normal; on the right side, everything is blurry and distorted; in the middle, things tend to appear double. The overall view is cramped. Debris from the laser surgery swirls around like dirty fingerprints.
With time, however, I have learned to sort out the distortions, untangle the strands of crossed vision, and ignore the swirling debris. Gradually, I have resumed doing all the things I used to do: working full-time as an editor, performing as a jazz musician, and even pursuing photography. In fact, photography is one of the few activities in which I'm on a level playing field with visually normal people. Because photographers use only one eye to look through the viewfinder, all I have to do is shift my camera to the left.
Now I feel back on solid ground. When I look into the sky, I no longer panic at the sight of flying birds, blowing leaves, or other small, dark floating things. When I edit manuscripts, I have faith that the commas and periods will hold still. I've learned to trust my remaining vision and to stop fearing that I might become totally blind at any moment. Life is good again.
