Some days it actually feels like it happened years, and years, and years ago. Other days it feels like it only happened yesterday. But it was two years ago today that it happened.
I'm talking about the op to have my other eye out.
Sometimes I feel like I'm over my sight loss, and that I'm ready to face the world. But then the monsters come back, or something happens to make it obvious that things have to be different for me. That I can't do some of the things I used to do when I still had my sight.
It's just little things. Like choosing colours for my figures to be painted, then being frustrated because I can't see - or even visualize - the colours, let alone paint the figures. Or having a situation I know would make a perfect photo, but missing the oppertunity, and not having anyone around who can help make sure I got the shot. Just little things, but they all add up. Most days those things don't bother me. And those are the days I know I'm dealing with things well. But then there are the days when everything bothers me. From waking up in the morning and not knowing it's morning until I check the clock to knocking my elbow on a doorframe because I was just an inch or so too far to one side when going through the door. From ending up taking 20 minutes just to find the sock I dropped, to cutting my finger when trying to cut a carrot. Again, just little things, but some days even one of those is one thing too many. And those are the days when I know I'm not adjusted, and when I just want to curl up in a corner and cry.
I'm not looking for sympathy, nor hugs, nor appologies that aren't necessary anyway, because it's nobody's fault. I'm writing this post because I want to... Or, maybe I need to?
The night before I had my op, I watched the sunset, then I got up early the following morning to watch the sunrise. I always loved to watch them both, and wanted to make sure I watched them one last time. I couldn't see the colours by then, and the increasing light of the sunrise brought the pain in my eye up to the point where I could hardly bear it. But I was determined to watch. I needed to do it, or I knew I'd regret it afterwards. I'm glad I did it now. I knew I would be.
The hardest day for me was two days later. The day it really sunk in that I would never see the sunrise again. The day after I came out of hospital (yeah, they threw me out the next day... I was determined to come home anyway due to lack of proper care, but that's beside the point).
Mam had stayed over in case I needed her, and Kero woke me up needing a pee. I'm used to Kero waking me in the middle of the night wanting out. He doesn't do it all the time, but it's a semi-regular thing. Anyway, with the pain the light always caused I never bothered turning it on at night unless I was awake enough to have fully functioning monsterish thoughts (as I said, I've always been afraid of the dark). So, half asleep, I stumbled out of the bedroom, and headed for the back door. Mam was stood just outside it having a smoke (I don't allow smoking in my home). I stopped short. This wasn't right. It was dark, and Mam was up. Mam would never, and I mean NEVER be in the dark. So, I asked her the time. It was around 7:30 am. That really wasn't right. I knew rough sunset and sunrise times... It should have been totally light by then... After all, just two days earlier I'd had to be up hours before that time to see the sunrise.
That was a difficult moment for me. And every morning for several months afterwards I went through a similar realisation. It gradually got easier, but at one point I was scared of going to sleep, because I knew when I woke up I'd have to remember again. And that fear fed the nightmares. Nightmares of hospitals, nightmares of laughing people who wouldn't share the visual joke. Nightmares of children who hated their Mami because she couldn't see the picture they made her at school. So many nightmares, but all the same theme.
It's strange in a way that it was that day that affected me most. You'd think it was the day I realised my sight really was going. The day the pain started in the evening. Pain so bad I curled up on the floor and just cried and cried. Then had to stay in the dark all the rest of the evening, because I couldn't cope with even a little light. Followed by the morning I woke up to a world of blurry colours. You'd think that would have been the worst day. But it wasn't. Perhaps because then I still had my eye? Perhaps because then there was still hope of fixing it? They'd saved my sight from going completely once before, perhaps I thought they would again? Yes, I think that's it. After all, after that time I was convinced the day would never come. I was convinced the prediction of total blindness I'd been hearing from early childhood was never going to come to pass. And all because I'd beaten the predictions, and managed to get a few more years.
It's just a shame I didn't have the sense to spend those extra years memorizing the little things around me, and some of the big things too. Then maybe I'd remember them better.
Like I said, I'm not writing this for sympathy, hugs, or anything like that. I'm writing it for me. But if you stuck around and read it all. Thank you. And thank you too to all those good friends who have stood beside me and helped me in the past few years. AliceKay, Deanna...and everyone else who has been there when I needed a friend. But I especially want to thank Iggy, who patiently accepts e-mails full of attempted photos, then sorts through them to find that one good shot that "might" be among them, then clearly labels them for me. Who gives me descriptions of his own photos so I don't feel left out. And for all the other things he has done for me. Your a great friend, Iggy!