Connecting the dots

As I begin to come back to my senses, I hear an interval beep to the right of me. One, two, three, four, beep. One, two, three, four, beep. One, two, three, four, beep. Every five seconds then. I groan out loud as I wonder how long this irritating beep is going to go on for, how long has it been beeping already? Is this real life or am I in a dream? Speaking of reality where the hell am I?

 I can feel a mattress beneath me, I shift my legs and sense stiff sheets on my bare legs and a thin waffle blanket scrunched between my fingers. I hear a muffled conversation somewhere in the distance, the screeching sound of a sneaker halting on the floor, someone somewhere nearby coughing lightly.

My head feels foggy - like my thoughts are in slow motion and idea of formulating a sentence or speaking it out loud might be tiring enough to put me to sleep for a year. Speaking of year what year is it? What day is it? Who am I? No, no calm down my name is Lina Heavins, I’m 17 years old, its 2023, I am in St. Dominick’s Children’s hospital and the surgery most be over. Unsuccessfully it seems.

The smell of antiseptic floods my nose and burns my throat - God it’s the 21st century why have they not figured out how to sterilize things with something that doesn’t smell awful. All the doctors’ offices and hospitals over the years you would think I would be used to the smell by now, but familiar nausea fills my stomach causing it to churn and I feel a sweat break out on my forehead. Nope that’s not the antiseptic doing that - I’m going to hurl.

I sit up to empty the contents of my stomach when I hear a voice I recognize say, “oh shit” and then I feel a familiar plastic bag with a wide, rigid round opening at the top get pushed between my fingers. Grateful for emesis bags at this moment because while throwing up all over myself is something I have done many times over the years; it remains one of my least favorite hospital activities.

“Damn Lina, you okay?” The voice of my brother Brady somehow sounds both concerned and disgusted at the same time. I can’t help but grin at the thought of him being grossed out.

Peachy, livin’ the dream.

“Fine just anesthesia sickness, thanks for the barf bag” I say wiping my mouth with the excuse for sandpaper we are calling a tissue he handed over once I finished. Really? I know for a fact that a fraction of my medical bills could fund supplying the place with some softer Kleenex.

“I take it the surgery was unsuccessful given that well, I can’t see anything?” I ask Brady trying to hide the defeated tone of my voice.

“Not exactly” I hear my dad chuckle from further away in the room. “Have you touched your face?”

A well of urgency builds up my core and my hands fly up to my face where I feel the dressings. Soft cotton gauze, unlike the damn tissues, and that sticky not sticky tape hospitals use after they draw your blood and bandage you up. Is it possible? Did it work? Is the reason I can’t see right now not because I’m blind since but—

A prickling sense of anxiety rushes up my spine and settles in my chest. When I open my mouth to ask more questions, I can sense someone has entered the room with us. “Well, well, well Miss Heavins - thank you for not heaving all over yourself and the linens as that would have delayed our fun”.

Dr. Bomnidae, apparent jokester, was top of his class at Harvard Medical School and he has been my primary ophthalmologist for the past 6 years. Shortly after I was born, I caught a rare infection that damaged my corneas resulting in total blindness. Dr. B read about my case during his residency and convinced himself and his peers that he could reverse the damage caused by the infection and so him and the team at St. Dominick’s reached out to my parents. During his time at Harvard and after he has studied cutting-edge corneal repairment as well as transplants. After meeting Dr. B for the first time, he instilled hope that the damage might be able to be reversed with a combination of his skillset, time, and patience. Key word might.

Before this surgery Dr. B mentioned that he is confident that he has restored and regenerated enough of my tissue over the years for this one to be the one that gives me some of my sight back. Dr. B made it very clear I won’t ever have perfect vision but hey, half an ice cream sundae is better than no ice cream sundae at all am I right?

Seeing the world physically, because let’s be clear you can see the world more than just physically, is something I’ve always dreamed of. When we were kids, I used to beg Brady and my parents to describe things around the house to me. Even though I had no visual context for the words they shared with me I fantasized that one day I would be able to connect all the dots.

Before visiting Dr. B, I had been told there was a zero percent chance of me living with any form of sight and so I made peace with my way of experiencing life. I may not be able to see a beautiful sunset at the beach but I can still feel the sand beneath my fingers, I can hear the ocean waves crashing and the children playing, I can feel the suns warmth absorb into my skin until it feels colder and colder and how is that any less beautiful than seeing a big ball of gas move down the sky as it changes colors? It’s not, it’s just different. BUT I wouldn’t mind being able to experience both and if that’s even a remote possibility then I’m certainly not going to say no.

I feel Dr. B approach my bedside and I can smell his aftershave, citrus and cedar wood like always.

“Moment of truth Linny! Dr. B said the surgery went exceptionally!” I hear my mom exclaim from somewhere near where my dad’s voice came from. I can practically hear the smile in her voice, but I feel a pit on anxiety ball up in my stomach. I can’t help but feel that if the surgery didn’t work that it would somehow be my fault and that I disappointed everyone. I know it’s a crazy thought and maybe it’s the post-op drugs, but I still can’t escape it.

I feel Dr. B’s fingers peeling back the tape on the sides of my temples and I am wondering if everyone in the room can hear my heart thundering. It’s beating so loud in my ears I almost don’t hear Dr. B say “Lina it’s time to open your eyes”.

With a deep, and admittedly shaky breath, I focus on pulling up my eyelids. They feel wet, sticky and swollen and my heart immediately sinks to my stomach. Darkness. Nothing. It feels like the weight of the world falls over my body like a wet blanket.

Dr. B’s voice snaps me out of my own thoughts “Blink as fast as you can Lina all the topical antibiotics would be creating a film over your retinas, we need it to clear away.”

I do as he says and blink as fast as I can and then, my breath hitches. It’s dark but I see a shadow in front of me, no a silhouette, a person, “BRADY”!

I’ve never seen my brother, but I know it’s him, I can feel his familiar warmth in front of me. The lights are off and it’s fuzzy, but I can see the shapes and colors that encompass him. Colors, my god I can’t wait to learn colors.

“As we had hoped for many years, it appears the surgery was a success.” I turn toward the direction of Dr. B as I continue to blink rapidly as I connect the dots of citrus and cedarwood with the tall, lean man smiling in front of me.

“Lina we are going to be talked about in books for this — you have helped a great deal of the people in the blind and low vision community with all the experimental procedures over the years until we finally got it right.” I think I hear a quiver in his voice as he speaks.

I see the shapes of who I know are my parents and hear their sobs and cries as they hug and embrace Dr. B. thanking him for everything he has done for our family.

I am in shock, I think. That’s the only way to describe it. I barely hear any of the words coming out of Dr. B’s mouth to my parents about next steps and my post-op procedure instructions. I am so focused on the shapes of everything around me, the colors, matching the colors and the shapes with touch and smell – and hopefully taste soon, I touch my stomach and feel it rumble.

I didn’t realize the room had fallen silent as everyone watched me explore my newfound sense with the items around me. I look in the direction of everyone and I feel what might be the biggest smile of my entire life spread across my face. “Can someone please take me to see the sunset?”