“Character consists of what you do on the third and fourth tries.”
– James A. Michener
One Last Try?
She has one chance left, as I see it.
On Monday, the surgeon will operate on her left eye. He’ll remove the cataract and clear up any other damage he can find.
This will be surgery #3 for my friend V.
- Surgery #1 in February proved that her eye problems were more complicated than the surgeon had planned for.
- Surgery #2 the next week with a specialist was successful in replacing her right lens, but unsuccessful in restoring her vision.
- Surgery #3 this Monday is what we’re counting on, that V will at least be able to see where she is, know if it’s morning or night, find her own way to the bathroom again.
V’s mental disability is challenging enough for her as is it—although I’m not sure she’s aware of such. Through the years she’s learned to adapt enough to get along.
But this new blindness has proved to be a formidable hurdle—although again, does she fully grasp it?
A Quieter Way to Walk
With V on my mind this morning, I put on my sunglasses, a jacket, and a cap. Then step out my front door.
I don’t put on headphones.
It’s quite the change.
When going for a solo walk through my neighborhood, I used to always stream something through my phone to listen to: a playlist of upbeat songs, a podcast episode in my queue, or an audiobook to take me to another place and time.
But the past several months I’ve been trying something different as I walk. Silence. It helps me lean into my one word of the year, Curiosity.
So as I think about my friend V, I begin another walk this morning leaving my front porch, my home base, heading into the known unknown of my street.
Part 1 – Touch
I mentally divide my walk into four sections each time. For the first section, I walk the road concentrating on touch: how my feet feel in my shoes (they hurt), how the air feels on my skin (cool this morning), how my leg muscles dig in deeper (breathe!) as the road ascends a small hill.
Focusing on sensory experiences helps me stay more in the here and now, this very moment that I am alive.
As I move forward, I think about how slowly V moves through life. When she began losing her vision a few months ago, she also started taking shorter steps. When we walk together, she constantly says, “I don’t want to fall.” I reply every time with, “I won’t let you fall,” but honestly, can I meet that promise?
Part 2 – Sight
On the second section of my walk, I concentrate on what I see, specifically watching for anything that moves. I need the reminder that life is impermanent, that things have changed before and that things will change again. I look at how the leaves have budded a little more since yesterday. I notice the birds flying from one tree to another. I see a leaf skating across the road as the the wind blows it along.
V sees none of these things now. Her combination of cataracts, glaucoma, and whatever else have created a perfect storm, aided by her inability to let anyone know as soon as it began. I wonder why she doesn’t ever ask: “What happened? Why can’t I see?” But she doesn’t. She accepts this as normal.
I continue to hope it’s not.
Part 3 – Sound
I reach the end of the road and turn around, heading back home on the third part of my walk. For this section, I pay attention to sounds. The traffic on the busy road now behind me. The noisy geese honking on the lake. The pounding of my feet on the asphalt.
Thankfully V still has great hearing. She’s 55, an age where many people begin to notice a decline. But not her. They say your other senses sometimes pick up the slack when one gets worse. Wives’ tale or not, I hope V’s hearing stays especially strong now.
Part 4 – Thoughts
For the final stretch home, I release any constraints on where to place my attention. I allow my thoughts to wander. But despite their release to think about whatever they want, I often find myself continuing to notice how my body feels, what I see moving across my path, and how gloriously noisy nature is.
Yet not so today. Today my mind stays on V. I wonder what is next for her if this surgery on Monday works.
And what could be next for her if it doesn’t.
Home Again
I reach my front porch. Home again. This is the place I rest. This is the place others can visit me. This is the place I recover to go out again. I love my home, my anchor.
V has been in her new home, a care facility, for over a month now. She will likely be there for at least another month, if not years (?) ahead. She often asks me, “Will you take me back home today?” I cringe every time. Whether she regains vision on Monday or not, I hope she’ll come to see this new place as a safer, healthier home than the one she came from.
But I don’t know what will happen.
I try to relax in the uncertainty of it all. I want answers for her, for me. But actually none of us know for sure where we’ll be a week from now. Which parts of our bodies might stop working properly. Who will take us by the hand and lead us to a doctor with a goal to help.
We just want all roads to lead us home.
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