Reality.
It can be dream-like. It can be hard. It can be easy. It can be mean. It can take you from ecstasy to hell in an instant.
It can show you the good in people. In things. In events. It can show you the horror and tragedy.
It can make your life better. It can make it worse.
The one thing it can absolutely guarantee is that it will always change. Nothing stays the exact same way forever. Really think about that. There is probably not one single thing that you can say will forever remain the same. The seasons change. Technology. Relationships. Health. Wealth. The list can go on and on.
Perspective. That can always change, too.
If you would have asked me 10 weeks ago, when I first embarked on this journey, what I thought about what was happening, I would have told you it was unfair. That it shouldn't be happening. And that I would give anything for it to go away.
Ask me now? I don't think I would change a thing. As illogical as that may sound, it is true. Charlie said the best phrase I could think of to describe this illogical feeling.
"Blessed by struggle."
Those two terms wouldn't ordinarily be paired together. But again, it's true. I reiterate: I know this was never life-threatening and still isn't, but it did and does threaten my vision. And those who are lucky enough to still have their vision can only imagine what it would be like be so close to having it stripped away.
I used to drive past The Maryland School for the Blind everyday on my way to and from my now former job. I would always see kids, yes KIDS, learning to adapt to a world meant for those who could see. They would be using a guiding pole to determine edges of sidewalks and curbs. I would sit at red lights and watch in awe of the courage that must take. It's one thing to look at something making a loud noise, and know what it is. It's another to simply hear it, and not know what it looks like. The sound of whizzing cars and honking horns but the inability to see them. Unimaginable.
But here I sit, having hardly even driven at all in the past 3 months, being let go from a job, being face down for the now third week in a row, having had two surgeries, watching bill after bill show up in the mail, and having the knowledge that I will be dealing with this issue for the rest of my life. I do not know what the kids who are learning to cope with the lack of vision must be feeling. I know that they have more courage than half of the adults I know though. And with any luck, I will not have to face the choice to either have the courage to keep living life without vision, or to let the fear consume me.
Stay with me, I promise you I am going to tie this all together.
Ten weeks ago I was angry, scared, frustrated and without hope. I thought this was the beginning of the end of my vision. And I was 25. How was it fair?
We have no way of knowing how our futures will unfold. Every day driving past the school for the blind, I never imagined one day I would look at that completely different. I never saw one eye doctor appointment completely changing my life. But it has.
I could sit here and say that I'm discouraged because I made it two weeks face down and now have to do another week. I could do that, yes. But what good is it?
It's not.
Eventually, reality changes. It changes whether you want it to or not. It does it on its own. Without assistance, without concern for those living in it. But it can be affected. YOU can affect it.
My reality is this: I am still face down. My gas bubble is at 65% and things are progressing exactly how the doctor wants. My neck hurts. Every day. I am seeing flashes from the bubble decreasing, the same flashes that would ordinarily be concerning. I am walking the fine line of knowing that I will see strange things and being cautiously aware of negative changes. I have two dear friends going through a terrifying time. I have a new friend who finally got to experience something he waited months for. I have a doctor who cares. I have a group of people at Katzen who I have grown close to that were mere strangers 10 weeks ago. I have family and friends who care. People I haven't spoken to in years and strangers I don't even know are reading this and are affected by it. The expression of interest and concern since I have started this blog is mind-blowing.
When people hear me say, "I still have one more week of being face down," they immediately think it is bad. I guess it is. To them. But to me, it isn't. It's one more week in my blessed struggle. That has pushed my new marriage to limits most wouldn't experience in the first six months of marriage. That has shown me new levels of humanity I didn't know existed. That has shown me that even when reality seems like it just isn't fair, and life is passing you by while you try to patiently wait for good news, it can still be good. That you have a choice to let things change on their own, or change them yourself.
At the conclusion of my original two weeks, I start another countdown. This next week will be crucial as the bubble gets smaller. It will reveal whether my retina stays flat on its own, or detaches again.
No matter the outcome, I have an impact on it. On my reality.
Thank you to family, friends, doctor, nurses, technicians, receptionists, and readers: both strangers and familiar faces.
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| What do you get with a photographer, reflexive mirror, and an iPhone? This. |
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