“I’m sorry,” he said. He hadn’t been Luanne’s ophthalmologist for very long, and already he had bad news. The results, apparently, were clear: within a year or two, her eyesight would deteriorate, leaving her categorised as a person with low vision. “Not total blindness,” the doctor insisted. “Not necessarily. But drastically impaired eyesight nonetheless.”
Luanne walked home in the wake of these news, her organs scooped out of her. The future as it stretched out ahead was bleak, already blurring at the edges. By the time she turned forty, recognising her friends’ faces in the street would be impossible.
What would she do? She hadn’t spoken to her parents since they’d moved out to Spain, and while her work provided the dignity of being able to pay her bills on time, it wasn’t what might be called stable. A life lived month to month, based, if anything, on the assumption that youth and its capacities lasted eternally. This, however, was a prediction of change, and Luanne hadn’t bargained for it. She’d assumed she was getting a cold, or had perhaps been staring at screens for too long, and that her physician would prescribe moisturising eye drops, or maybe a period of rest. She hadn’t bargained for blindness.
She sat in front of her laptop, which she now knew wasn’t to blame for the blurriness beginning to creep in at the edges of her field of vision, and resumed the previous day’s work, picking colours and graphic elements, revising choices made, building a coherent visual whole that would be pleasing to the eye. A client’s promotional campaign was due in less than a week, and immersing herself in designing it felt, briefly, like a relief from everything else she had learned that day. Her clients tended to be companies, some bigger than others, some recurring, but none of it was ever a sure thing. The lack of stability that had not seemed like an issue, or at times almost invigorating, now opened before her like a dark, treacherous mouth.
Not total blindness, he’d said. Blurriness, fogginess, severe reductions in her field of vision. Shadows rather than shapes, difficulty perceiving colours. Who would hire a graphic designer with impaired vision? It was inconceivable. Earlier, crossing a street, she had been so absorbed in her thoughts that a car had to slam its brakes to avoid impact. Gestures had been made, words shouted behind the absorbent windshield. She had fled. A year left, she thought, and already she couldn’t see a thing.
That evening, she sat brooding over a plate of scrambled eggs. Their luscious golden yellow was painful to look at, as if they were making themselves gorgeous to remind her of what would soon be missing. Everything she saw now might not be the same in a year. Luanne had always known she wanted to be a designer. How soothing the interplay of shapes and colours had been, her brain finding solace in things matching up just right, harmonising. Badly designed objects or spaces were incomprehensible to her, like listening to music put together by somebody tone deaf. Taking walks had been an exercise in looking, drinking in the layout of her surroundings, the conscious choices made by people in their design of the world, the seemingly random ones added by nature in its fight for light and access to water and pollinators. They had been all the company she needed. Shapes and colours provided more consistent friendship than most people could.
The next morning, with a renewed determination fuelled not least by a strong coffee, Luanne sat down at her desk, determined to finish the current project. She had worked with this client before, so if she handed in this project before the deadline, the client might be convinced to involve her in another project. She had to be clever, and make herself known. She would write to former clients, reminding them of their work together. She would find new clients, take on every job and project she could find, work around the clock to amass as much money as she could, screwed to her chair and glued to the screen. The last of her eyesight would contribute to some semblance of future security so that… so that what? Her eyesight would still go. There was nothing she could do to stop it. No matter how much or how hard she tried, she would go blind.
Luanne felt herself gripping the coffee mug so tightly the bones in her hands were hurting. Letting go slowly, she felt the stiffness in her joints. She’d slept that night, but it had been a dark, uneasy sleep, no dreams she could remember, only a tension in her limbs as she woke. For weeks, the government had been making announcements concerning the impending privatisation of public services, a withdrawal of public funds from healthcare.
Her phone buzzed against the wood of the table, freezing Luanne’s blood for a second. If this was her client calling, should she answer? Would the client detect in her voice that something was wrong? Clients had a seemingly supernatural ability to sniff out a freelancer’s unreliableness.
But the number on the screen was her physician’s. Perhaps the diagnosis was wrong after all and he was calling to explain he had mixed up her results with someone else’s. That kind of thing happened sometimes.
She picked up.
“Sorry to bother you,” the physician said, asking how she was doing.
“Fine,” Luanne said, unsure what one was supposed to say when asked such a thing in these conditions.
“This is not a habit of mine, believe me,” he said, “but considering the circumstances I felt I should suggest it. It might help. Don’t feel under any obligation to say yes.”
Luanne said she didn’t understand.
“My mother lost her eyesight in 2012, ” the physician said.
“I’m sorry,” said Luanne.
“What I mean is,” he continued, “she has developed ways of dealing with it, and she has been coaching other people through this process for a few years. People tell me it has helped them. I think it might be good for you to talk to her, if you feel it might help.”
He gave her his mother’s address and phone number, which she scribbled dutifully onto a corner of her desk, realising the woman didn’t live far.
“Ridiculous,” Luanne thought after hanging up. What would talking to a blind old woman help? It wouldn’t change the fact she was going blind. Unless the woman was a witch, or the top surgeon in the country, what could possibly be the point?
Later in the day, Luanne burst into tears. She had just received an email she would have dreamed of receiving only a few days ago. A new client had heard of her through word of mouth and wanted to hire her services for a long-term project due at the start of the following year. Well-paid, a long-term contract, potential follow-up projects. It all felt so unfair. Sure, she might still be able to discern things on a screen and use her instincts to work. But what good was a graphic designer who was unable to find inspiration in the real world, who was, for all intents and purposes, locked up inside herself?
She looked at the corner of her desk, where she’d written down the physician’s mother’s address. She realised she didn’t know anyone who was blind, not even anyone with really bad vision. A cousin somewhere wore thick glasses because she hated the itch of contact lenses, but as with anyone else in Luanne’s family, they had lost touch long ago. Her few friends were visual artists, visually gifted, somehow spared from the kinds of illnesses they said befell those who stared at flickering screens all day. Luanne picked up the phone, wondering what someone with low eyesight might tell her about what the future held in store. She had tried reading online forums about loss of eyesight, but instantly an iron net had tightened around her lungs and she’d slammed the laptop shut.
The next morning, she sat on a bus and watched the grey, dripping landscape move past. A friendly voice had answered when she’d called the number given by her ophthalmologist, and they’d agreed on meeting at his mother’s flat. Guided by that voice as if her hands were following a rope in the fog, Luanne got off the bus and walked the small path to the mother’s building. A small apartment on the second floor. Luanne rang the doorbell next to which the mother’s name appeared, and the same voice answered, robust and in good spirits.
As she reached the second floor, a small woman with a head full of white curls stood in a dark doorway, her eyes pale, on her face a smile. From somewhere behind her came the soft tinkling of a piano and the welcoming scent of fruits and flowers.
“It’s very good to meet you, Luanne,” the woman said. Her name was Susan, and she was perhaps in her seventies, though Luanne wasn’t sure. She’d never been inside a home that felt so comfortable. The lights were dimmed, scattering golden light into the corners. Luanne placed her shoes near the door and walked barefoot across a plush rug towards the sofa Susan indicated. The air smelled like orange rinds and lavender; the music was soft, feeling like a caress rather than something imposing itself, seeking to intrude into your ear. The sofa was upholstered in velvet.
Susan offered coffee, which Luanne refused. “Good girl,” Susan said, and offered a herbal tea instead. “Something soothing,” she promised, and disappeared into her kitchen.
Luanne looked around in the dim, comforting light. A few plants rustled on the shelves, the piano poured out of the hifi. The middle of the room was empty. But on the shelves were trinkets, and immediately Luanne realised something about them that she felt ashamed for thinking: all of the trinkets were ugly. They had jagged edges, garish colours. Some of them were rocks, some of them weird little figurines with grimacing faces. The welcoming mood she had felt upon entering this space was broken by their ugliness, and Luanne couldn’t bear it, so she looked away, sinking into the sofa, closing her eyes, trying to focus on the scents in the air, the gentle music, and the sounds of boiling water coming from the kitchen.
When Susan returned, it was with a large mug from which rose a herbal scent, something like lemon balm. She sat down across from Luanne and said, “What’s hardest in the beginning is that you will feel separate from humanity. That’s the biggest challenge. Do you exercise?”
Luanne shook her head. “Not more than necessary,” she said.
“You don’t feel comfortable with your body, ” Susan said, and it didn’t feel like a question. Luanne took a sip of tea, but it was too hot, searing the tender inside of her mouth, and she quickly spit it back into the mug, hoping Susan was actually blind.
But Susan continued to talk. “That will change. So much will change, of course. You lose a part of yourself that is tied to sight, the ease with which sight used to come to you. But other things emerge over time. They’re not the same, it’s not as good, but it’s not all bad either. So much of life is based on sight, and at first you feel like an outsider because you can’t participate in it any longer. Are you a lonely person?”
Luanne shrugged, then realised Susan couldn’t see that, so she said, “I guess I am. Maybe not lonely, but I don’t go out much.”
“You don’t socialise much?”
“I don’t. I work from home, I like my space. It can be difficult to shift gears, you know.”
“I was like you in that respect,” Susan said, and immediately Luanne tensed up. She disliked assumptions being made, wished people didn’t always tell her they were just like her when she knew full well they weren’t. But she didn’t say anything.
“I liked being alone, but when I lost my eyesight I realised what being alone actually was. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t comforting. One thing I will tell you, however: when you can’t see other people’s faces, you can’t see them judging you. Do you know what I did after a year of trying to deal with this on my own? I joined a theatre class.”
“A theatre class?”
“Standing on stage with other people, entrusting your body to a room full of others, doing relaxation exercises, using your voice, learning to feel where you are, where others are in relation to you. It’s terrifying, but it’s also invigorating.”
“I’m not really that kind of person,” Luanne said.
“Nobody is until they try it, ” Susan said.
There was a silence. Luanne’s eyes wandered to the ugly knick knacks on the shelves, sore points in the otherwise harmonious and comforting space. The temperature, she realised, was perfect—warm without being hot, relaxing mind and muscles without making her sweat. And the air wasn’t dry: the plant leaves looked luscious, and for once her parched skin felt at ease.
“I imagine you’re scared of what will happen,” Susan said, and this time Luanne could tell it was a question.
“I don’t know what to expect,” she replied. “I’m a graphic designer, I may be out of a job. I don’t have parents to help me, or a partner or anything.” There were financial support systems, Susan said, and that she would give her a list. There were opportunities to retrain.
“Have you tried gardening?”
Luanne didn’t respond. “The important thing,” Susan continued, “is finding a community. I can’t stress this enough. You need to let people help you. You think you can go through this alone, but you can’t.”
It was starting to feel like a lecture, so Luanne decided to change the subject. “What are those knick knacks on your shelves?”
Susan turned her head towards the shelves as if she could see, and for a moment Luanne felt guilty, as if she had done something unkind. But Susan got up and slowly extending her hand towards the shelves, felt with her fingers until they found one of the ugly knick knacks, which she held out to Luanne. It was a figurine of a frog with an open mouth, garish red tongue and mismatched eyes. It was badly glazed, unpleasant to look at. “Friends give these to me. They help me focus, train my sense of touch. I can sit and feel my way around these little things for a long time. Try it.”
She put the ugly thing in Luanne’s hand, and for a moment Luanne wanted nothing more than to drop it onto the plush rug to be rid of it. But she closed her eyes and let her finger tips wander over the object. Not looking at it helped. And then, she realised, she began to feel her own finger tips for the first time in ages. Her finger tips were rugged, a little sweaty, and a gentle pulse beat inside them. They travelled across the surface of the ugly trinket, which was less ugly now that she couldn’t see it, and she felt the parts where the glaze was thick and pleasantly glassy, and the parts where it was too thin and the grainy surface of the clay came through in little bumps, like touching sandpaper or a sky full of stars.
“Can you feel your own hands?” Susan asked, and Luanne found herself smiling.
“I can,” she said. The palms of her hands were damp and alive, and each finger had an outline helping her know where it ended.
“It’s awful when your eyesight disappears,” Susan said. “You will grieve, you may never cease to grieve. I miss looking at fields full of flowers so much it hurts some days, especially in spring, when I can hear them rustle and when the air smells like hay. But there are other senses you do have. Do you know what’s in my fridge right now?” Luanne shook her head, eyes still closed, running her thumb across the eye of the ugly trinket in her hand, over and over, feeling the little drop of glaze under her skin.
“I have nothing in there but foods I really like. All things sweet and salty, cheesy and sour. After the accident, I felt trapped inside myself. I’d been dieting for years, exercising to look good. I didn’t even know what my body felt like, or what I really enjoyed eating. I was fifty-three, and I hated how I looked, it made me unhappy. Now, I get up in the morning and I know I’m going to eat things I love. It doesn’t get easier, but there is bread. Bread tastes and smells so good. I feel my face when I put my hands on it, and I feel it from the inside. I get massages twice a week. I wear clothes that feel comfortable against my skin. I go to concerts, I sing in the shower. I use essential oils, I don’t care that people think they’re a hoax. I want to make the rest of my life a sensory feast to help make up for what I lost.” Luanne smiled. Her eyes were still closed.
“There’s a group I want you to meet,” Susan said. “People like you, who have lost something, and who want to support each other through it. Sometimes we garden together. Sometimes we sing. Or we bake. We tell stories, make each other laugh. It helps, in its own way. I wouldn’t want to be without them.”
A few hours later, Luanne left Susan’s flat, holding a box of cookies she’d made. “You should start baking,” Susan had told her. “It’s good to make things with your hands. Touch everything.” They would meet again the following week; Susan would introduce her to her group, perhaps even take her to a theatre class. She didn’t have to go through this alone.
Luanne decided to walk home. The sun had begun to set, lowering itself out of a thick layer of clouds to go melt red and gold into the horizon. Now that she was alone again, the feeling of helpless despair returned, but less piercing than before. There was simply nothing she could do to stop the progress of things, but there were other people in her position, people who were available and willing to talk. The cookies in her hand smelled like butter and eggs. Luanne looked at the sunset and the beauty of it hurt inside her chest. There was no telling how many more of them were left for her to see. Susan had said people didn’t get over the loss of sunsets.
She walked past a hedge, a million little leaves sticking out on criss-crossing branches. Luanne reached out her hand, letting the leaves tickle and scratch the inside of her palm, their dry sound like a crackling fire. She felt her feet on the pavement, the impact of her steps shaking in her ears. Blood rushed through her body, which she had to believe was red although she could’t see it. She had to believe her heart was in there, too, and her lungs, and her bones. No matter how blurry or bleak what lay ahead was, she had to believe that many more things could be felt, tasted and heard, and that, sensing her way through the fog, her hands would encounter those of others.