Blind Perspective, Volume 4

It’s early morning. I can feel a familiar paw resting on my cheek. I slowly open my sleepy eyes to the most beautiful set of yellow-green eyes. Zacky, my male cat, is perched on my chest. My God, I can see again!

After ten days of being temporarily blinded by medication, I awake, as predicted, with my eyesight. I blink and rub my eyes. Zacky jumps off the bed and I sit up, not sure if I’m dreaming. The morning light bathes the room as the prisms on the windows dance with all the colors of the rainbow. The purple bougainvillea explodes with color, and the scent of jasmine fills my nostrils. Momma Girl jumps on the bed and meows good morning. I take her in my arms. “Didn’t I tell you that soon I’d see again?” She looks at me with eyes as yellow as mustard. I sit at the side of the bed, my depth perception a little compromised. I feel like I’m a wee drunk and hold on to the doorstop. I focus on the bathroom ahead. I see myself in the mirror for the first time in ten days. Oh boy, do I need a shave, I think to myself. I shower, feed the cats and make myself some cereal. I’m shocked at how full the refrigerator has gotten from food my friends and family have brought while I was blinded. I open the kitchen door and marvel at the carpet of cobalt blue and yellow morning glories flowing from the ancient California Pepper tree onto the ficus hedge. My eyes take in all the green grass against the terra cotta pavers. The phone rings.

“Good morning!” I say.

“Michael, you’re so excited!” It was my sister.

“Ingrid, I can see again!”

“Oh, thank God. I knew it would all work out,” she said, relieved. “Do you want me to accompany you to your doctor visit tomorrow?”

“No, thanks. It should be pretty routine.”

“Okay. I’m sure you have lots of people to call. Love you!”

I hang up and call my friends and family. Before I know it, it’s sundown, friends have come and gone, and my depth perception is normal again.

The following morning I’m up early, driving to visit the ophthalmologist. It feels so good to drive again! I arrive and recall being in the doctor’s office, blind just 12 days before, and how it all feels like a bad dream.

“Mr. Tapia?” the nurse calls.

“Yes?”

“The doctor will see you now.”

“Thank you, Ma’am.”

I see the doctor for the first time. He looks nothing like I’d imagined.

“Mr. Tapia, have a seat,” he says. He puts a couple of drops in my eyes and has a look with a very powerful magnifier. “Umm,” he mumbles.

“Your uvitis has cleared. The HIV virus has weakened your immune system quite severely. Unfortunately, you also have budding CMV retinitis.

“You’ll be permanently blind in two years.”

(To be continued in the next issue)