Blink

Blink

Even though I can’t see the sun shining; I feel the warmth acting as a cloak against the winds I can feel and hear blowing in the early days of Autumn. I walk without stutter, side-stepping when necessary, and knowing when to pause. Years of experience allow a confidence in my white cane that I imagine the sighted cannot understand; I would not survive a day without it. I call her Theia in honor of the Titan Goddess of Sight. Today I decided to leave Chloe, my service dog, at home, opting for Theia instead in hopes of reducing interaction. People always want to pet Chloe and try to converse (but I can hear the hesitation in their voice). With the cane I am almost always guaranteed solitude.

I have not the time nor inclination for pleasantries today. Although I have no real destination in mind, this is probably the most important walk I have ever taken: solitude is needed. My thoughts today must result in a life-changing decision: do I want the gift of sight?

A sighted person could not possibly understand why anyone would have to think about this. Their answer would be yes, of course I want to see! But what a sighted person does not understand is this: I may be blind, but I find I see things better than most, and it is because I am blind. Let me try to explain.

A friend, Adam, and I walk along the beach. He sees the ocean, the sand, the pier, and the people. He sees all this, but most often, he does not enjoy the experience to its fullest. As we walk onto the beach, both in bare feet, Adam takes my hand and tells me it is crowded. While I am grateful for his help, I wish he would slow down so I can see everything through my senses. I can feel with each step that we are getting closer to the breaking waves. I feel the mist rising from the sea and enjoy the feel of it as it rests on my bare skin: Adam complains about the stickiness of it. I smell the salty water, but I can also smell the decay of rotted wood under the pier; that smell so strong I believe my hand would sink into the wood if I touched it, causing me to wonder if the wood is still the main foundation for the pier above. Adam asks “Eew, what’s that smell?”

The sand! A sighted person cannot understand the beauty of beach sand. I hear people talk about how they love the feel of sand between their toes, but what I also hear is children and adults complaining about the sand getting into everything. I want to shout at them to just close their eyes and enjoy the sensation. I feel every granule and yes, a small part of me yearns to see it: I curl and uncurl my toes to enhance my imagination.

Believe it or not, I can even feel the heat rising from the oiled skin of those who pass by. I can sense when someone is close and sometimes even if they are facing me or not. The smell of rotting wood is getting stronger, and I can feel the shadows of the pier. I squeeze Adam’s hand before I let go and walk toward the smell. Reaching out and touching the rotted wood, feeling the slimy sea moss, my senses take me back in history and because I am blind, I get to see the strength of the pier’s foundation, even with its decay. Adam’s response is typical of most sighted people. Disgust! “Why,” he asks me “are you touching that nasty stuff? C’mon, let’s grab a beer.”

Oh Adam, if only you could see! Anyway, I digress! Let’s get back to my big decision. This morning I received a phone call from Dr. Yang: a 17-year-old was struck by a car while riding his bike yesterday afternoon. That is all the information my doctor could give me, except to say that I was a solid candidate for a cornea transplant. He was in a medically induced coma until recipients were found for all his organs. I am the last one contacted and have only 4 hours to make my decision.

Have you ever heard the superstition that if you turn down a blessing, it not only harms yourself, but the person who offered it? I’m not sure what harm could be caused to the young man if I decided against it, someone else, I’m sure would accept in my stead. So, sitting on this park bench, I must decide what harm (or good) will come to me if I am to accept. Sure, I would lose the gift of inner sight, but I would gain the ability to watch the leaves create the songs I’ve been hearing my entire life. I’d finally see each grain of sand at the beach.

 *****

It’s been 1 month since I had my surgery. Did I make the right decision? I believe I did, but mostly because I have trained my other senses to stay as vivid as they were before. I’ve been to the beach twice: the first to take it all in visually. I watched the waves roll in and out and I played in the sand for hours. And, of course, I went to the pier and touched the rotting wood underneath. I asked Adam to join me for the second visit. I wanted to do an experiment. Now that I have seen with my own eyes that which I had only previously seen through sound and feel; I wanted to combine those with my lack of sight. The strongest word to express the result is “Wow”! And I feel so blessed to be sharing the feeling with Adam and my brother.

Everybody knows that transplant donors are meant to remain anonymous. I know who my donor is because he lived in my town, in my neighborhood. In my parent’s house! I did not know about Ryan’s death until after my surgery. It was another two weeks before I learned it was it was my brother’s eyes that gifted me with sight. Ryan was two years younger than me when he died.

Today is Thanksgiving and Autumn is inviting Winter with open arms and a 34-degree chill to this special day. As we sit around the table and give thanks for the past year each person’s response is the same. While we grieve the loss of Ryan, we all recognize the blessing of his gift to me and so many others. I can see, but someone else can live with a new heart, lung, liver, pancreas, kidney, and even intestines.

It is my turn to stand and give thanks (I’m the last), to speak quickly would be only to repeat what has been spoken already by everyone at the table. I choose differently.

I stand, and with my eyes closed, I walk to the mantle and, using the sense of touch, I count the framed pictures from the left. The fourth picture is Ryan. Carrying the framed photo, still with my eyes closed, I walk back to the table and sit down. Without saying a word, I pay homage to the young brother who gifted so many with so much. I open my eyes and look around the table. No one speaks, there are no words. We all blink back the tears of sadness and joy!