Blindsight

I wish I never got my sight back.

That thought crossed my mind sitting outside the hospital, in the green Chevrolet Camaro my father left me. The sun rose, bathing the city in its warm glow, but my body still felt cold. The smell of old leather and the hard steering wheel under my hand take me back to just a few months ago when I drove it for the first time. Right after I had my surgery for Retinitis Pigmentosa.

To be clear, I hadn’t lost my sight completely, I was just in the process of losing it. I’ve had the condition ever since I got glasses at the age of eight. Initially I felt like a completely different person. Unrecognizable, like Superman, but just less super.

One in four thousand people have RP in the United States, I was just lucky enough to be the one. Doctors would say that RP leads to loss of vision over time. What they don’t tell you is the loss of self-confidence, the ability to do things on your own, loss of freedom, the loss of genuine human connection without them pitying you, and never being considered an equal to them. It’s like when someone finds out about the condition, all of your accomplishments mean nothing and all you are is the condition.

Don’t get me wrong, I know the effects it would have. The negative impacts and limitations it caused me. I could not see at night, drive, play sports, read books, and not do a million other things. But that’s for me to decide what I can or cannot do.

Over time, I had developed routines and methods to make life easier. I used audiobooks, magnifying apps on electronic devices, learned the menu of a restaurant beforehand, and mastered the art of pretending to look people in the eyes by judging where their eyes would be from the shadows of their faces I could see. I have a degree and a creative job in marketing. I live in a house with my mother. I even have an old car in our garage. I had accomplished everything anyone my age would have accomplished.

But no matter what I did, it was futile. People always had one of the same two responses. Either they wouldn't understand and chalk it up to terrible eyesight. Or they would feel sorry for me, which honestly was much worse than not understanding. These people would pity me and begin suggesting remedies or new doctors. I’d go to them and I’d do it all because it gave my mother hope. But I knew better, there was no cure. There was no hope.

That is until a new treatment was announced in the spring of 2026. If it worked then it could cure blindness. It would use an implant that was said to bypass the optic nerve and stimulate the area in the brain which formed images, therefore enabling us to see. I didn’t believe in it at the start, maybe I didn’t want to. But progress happened fast and within a year positive results began showing up in people.

“Just think about it, Sam,” my mother had said in her sweet fragile voice. “The surgery’s free and it has a good success rate. You’ll be able to see properly again.”

I did think about it. I had accepted this as my life. I had accepted my condition, to live like this. But if I was being honest with myself, the desire remained. To see properly, to be free, to drive, read a book, and be treated like a normal person. The thought terrified me, but I could not unsee the yearning and clawing within me.

God, I wanted to see.

So, I said yes to be one of the guinea pigs the treatment would be tested on. The surgery happened and at the start of 2028, I got my sight back.

***

My condition didn’t fix all at once. At first everything was a blur, in some ways it was even worse now. A new sword kept dangling over my head, first it was when my sight would go, now it was will I ever get it back?

Six months in and I did get it back. It wasn’t perfect by any stretch but it was better. My blindspot began to close up and it was like the images slowly began to improve. If I looked closely, I was able to see things. Like I was able to see that my mother looked a bit tired and thin, which wouldn’t have been possible previously.

I was also able to see my own face clearly, a much terrifying sight. I looked worse in real life than in my head. I didn’t have a sharp jawline or high cheekbones. Instead, I had a round face with hazel eyes.

I picked up a paperback for the first time in years and was able to read the entire thing. I really liked the story, it was a story about a girl who loses her sight for a hundred days, which I didn’t complete in audiobook because it forced me to look at a future I dreaded.

My checkups with Dr. Hayes continued. He had been my doctor for the past decade or so and was now seeing that there were no complications to the treatment. During one of these checkups, I asked him, “When do you think I can drive?”

“I think you can start today,” Dr. Hayes had said with a smile. I practically ran out, dragging my poor mother behind me to our home where I directly went to the garage.

Inside was the Chevrolet Camaro with its long sculpted front and colored a green so dark, it looked black to me. It was thanks to my mother who had kept the car clean and polished. If it were up to me, I’d have left it there, gathering dust because it would’ve just reminded me of my failure to use the gift my father left me before an unforeseen heart attack took him.

My mother sat in the passenger seat beside me, her hair was shorter and had more gray in it. I again felt guilty of the strain my surgery put on her. She however smiled and jingled the key in front of me.

The key turned with ease and the engine rumbled to life, idling as the car stood ready to move. The car roared in place as I pressed the gas to make sure I knew the correct pedals. A laugh escaped my lips at the sound and rumbled under my fingers holding the steering wheel.

I had driven my friend Damon’s car before with him in the passenger seat. I knew it was a stupid move, but whoever said I was a smart teenager? I didn’t ask to drive it again, if that makes anyone feel better. But the Camaro was a completely different breed. I could see the road ahead as we moved smoothly, yet slowly, on it. We only drove till the end of the street and back as my mother got a call which she needed to take at home.

Once back, she said, “Your father would be proud. He believed you would drive it. It took time but it happened." She then left as her phone rang again. I caught her worried look, but then she was gone.

I didn't follow her. My mother was like that, she told me things in her own time. I mean, it couldn’t be as bad as the last time. But I didn’t want to think about that, so I thought of what she just said. I couldn’t help but think how it would’ve felt like driving the car with my father.

I clenched my eyes tightly until I was sure I wouldn't cry. When I opened them, they landed on something. It was old and worn, stuck right above where the windshield ended so that it would only be visible by the driver. It was a small old picture of my mother, smiling and young.

***

Everything was going well until a week ago. I had another regular checkup and Dr. Hayes called it a milestone as I was able to read more than halfway through the chart. When I told my mother, she stood up shakily with a smile and took a step towards me.

“That’s great -” but she stumbled and fell before completing her sentence. I was barely able to catch her limp body.

Doctors and nurses took her away, leaving me unable to understand what happened. Later, the doctor, Mr. Williams, took me aside. “Mr. James, your mother has cancer.”

This wasn’t really a shock to me. It was the worst news she had ever told me, but there was hope. The cancer was caught early and the doctors were hopeful. We had saved up for the treatments. She had said she was going to them and that they were going well.

“I know, but she was getting treatment done,” I replied.

“Not lately, she wasn’t. June hadn’t been coming for treatments for a couple of weeks now,” Mr. Williams said.

I ran out and sat in the car for hours. I couldn’t stay in the hospital, couldn’t see the tubes attached to my mother as she laid there unmoving. Her wrinkled and fragile face, I saw every detail I would have missed before.

My mother remained under observation for the duration of the week, after which I was able to take her home. Back at home, she insisted on walking on her own. I couldn’t look at her because of the guilt eating at me and went to go to the kitchen to make some food when she stopped me.

“What did the doctor tell you?” she asked.

“That you haven’t been going for your treatments.” The words were pulled out of my mouth, then the question exploded, “Why?”

My mother looked at me sadly and said, “I didn’t want you to know, I thought I could get the money -”

“We had the money. We saved up for months,” I said, my fist clenched.

“I had to give more than half away, I was doing well. I thought I had time to earn it back without you knowing,” she said.

A sinking feeling crept inside me. “What do you mean you had to give it away?”

“Your treatment Sam, it wasn’t free,” she replied in a quiet voice.

Her words seemed to travel through water. I couldn’t move for a moment. Everything I felt was true.

It was my fault she fainted.

It was my fault she would die.

It was all my fault.

I was able to move when the words finally hit. My breath was coming in short rasps. My chest was ripping apart and tunnel vision returned. I didn’t hear her walk toward me but felt her hand on my shoulder. Heard her tell me that it was going to be okay.

She was comforting me when she was going to die.

She will die.

My mum will die.

And it will all be because of me.

The pain was too much. How can a wound hurt so much without bleeding? I had to let it out. Without thinking, my body acted on its own, punching the wall hard. It hurt, but it didn’t ease the pain.

I punched again, and again, and again. Until blood appeared on the wall and still I pulled back for another one but was stopped.

“Sam, stop!” My mother had grabbed my hand. We both struggled and I tripped back, against the wall. My body sagged as I saw her tear-stricken face and we both slid down.

“Don’t. Please don’t …” she cried, holding my hand which lay limply by my side, her head against my chest.

“I don’t want to see you die.” My voice cracked, I gulped and continued, eyes burning, “Why did you do it? I was alright.”

“I wanted you to live fully. I wanted you to see, and you did … you saw, you drove, you were happy …” She broke down into sobs again and I finally let the pain in my chest release as well. I don’t know how long we stayed there. It was a while later that I put her to bed and slept on the couch in the corner. I knew she would do it again, but I won’t give up.

The next day, I was in the garage with Damon who was circling the Camaro. He started it and checked the engine before saying, “It’s in decent condition, and I can get you a good price if you really want to sell it."

“I do, as soon as possible,” I replied.

“Is everything okay? If you need money then I can lend it to you,” Damon said, concerned.

There it was. Pity again. People doing things because they feel sorry for me. My mom, and now him.

“Look, I’m not asking you for your pity. I’m tired of people doing that for me, treating me less than. I don’t want that. I won’t have anyone else do things for me because they feel sorry for me,” I exploded.

Damon stayed quiet for a long moment, then said, “You think that’s what it is? That I pitied you? Dude, if anything I’m selfish. Seeing you live your life with your condition, it inspired me. I don’t pity you, I respect you.”

“Yeah well, I didn’t ask for you to. Just like I didn’t ask my mom to give her life up for me!” I didn’t know when I had started shouting but now I had and Damon was looking at me with that same pitiful expression he had in the past.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said, turning away.

“Sam, I’m sorry about your mother,” he said, gently putting a hand on my shoulder. “Is there nothing we can do?”

“A debulking surgery is possible. It’s not permanent but it will get her more time and if it goes well then maybe …” I couldn’t finish, the thought of her even surviving this hurt because it may not be true.

“I have the money, take it,” Damon said. When I didn’t reply, he added, “Look, I know you have that pride thing but we’re friends. You can pay me later.”

I looked at him and I didn’t see pity in his eyes. Was there ever, I didn’t know. Looking away, I muttered, “Thanks.”

“No thanks between friends,” Damon said, offering me a fist bump which I returned with a wry smile. I think he was always like this, I just failed to look at it.

***

There we were again. In the parking lot of the hospital, me and my mother. The difference was, this time she was going into surgery. I had to say something to her, but what?

“Last time, it was you, it feels so long ago," my mum said. “You’ve grown so much. Sam, I want you to know I don’t regret anything, I’ll do it again if I had to. I don’t want you to feel guilty about anything.”

“Too late for that,” I said with a wry smile. “I didn’t believe the surgery would work for me. But you did, and so I believe that yours will work too.”

My eyes drifted to her picture of her my father kept and I asked, “Did you see this?”

“Yes, I’d forgotten about it. Your father said keeping the picture there kept him from speeding when he thought about what he would be leaving behind if things went wrong.”

I looked at the picture for a moment and then carefully removed it, to the surprise of my mother. “I’ll probably also need someone to keep me in check, but this old picture won’t do. We’ll get a new one when you get out of surgery. Promise me, mum.”

She gave a slight laugh and then said, “I promise.”

***

It had been three days since the surgery. Mum was in the hospital as they were keeping her under observation. I stood outside her room, having just returned from my checkup with Dr. Hayes which my mother forced me to go to.

The doctor had told me that she was stable for now and I could visit her. Looking through the glass, I saw my mother propped up slightly on the bed. Tubes were attached to her but there was no oxygen mask. She was waiting and he knew why.

I took a deep breath, and stepped inside. My mother looked at me instantly and asked, “How’d it go with Dr. Hayes?”

I stayed quiet for a minute. The thing is, I was still processing and didn’t know what to say. Finally, I walked forward and sat on the chair beside her bed.

“Sam?” she asked.

“I - uh - he said I don’t need any more checkups,” I said, not looking at her.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

"I read it all," I said looking up at her and continued as my voice shook, “Hayes says I’m alright.”

My mother opened her mouth, closed it, and then laughed and cried at the same time. Maybe it was seeing my mom laugh and express herself in a long time. Maybe it was saying it out loud. Everything hit me at once. The fear I had built up that my sight would fail, that my mom’s surgery would fail. But both succeeded. My eyes burned and tears came as I held her hand. Both of us created a mess of noise until we could no longer.

Everything wasn’t alright. I knew there was still a long way to go. There was nothing certain about my mum’s health or treatment. But she was alive today. She was laughing and crying with me. And I can see it all.

I wish I can always see her like that.