As I sit looking out the familiar oblong airplane window, I am able to make out the sky, its clouds and Iowa below. I have sat in this same scenario over a hundred times, enjoying this view. It is a duplicate of previous sightings, however, I am not a match to my prior self. That is a very strange place to be.
My life has been altered by my anatomy, the impact of that remodel: I have changed beyond my loss of vision. Business travelers surround me, used to this commute across the country, their laptops out, holding file folders under their chins in this limited office space. I was one of them for many years. In this setting, in this belted seat, with the recycled air dehydrating me both inside and out, with the whir of the engines, in this sameness, I feel so very different. And I don’t like it.
I never had a moment where I chose, then declared, that I would accept my blindness, that I would rise above it. Instead, I found my way day-by-day, building a new life for myself, one that included lots of time at home, where I once was often not. Then, a few years later, a conscious decision to return to travel. That required thought, discussions in therapy, all the tools in my box to mentally prepare for an experience that in the past was as natural to me as tying my shoes. Now it would feel like strapping on a pair of those stilts you see on “America’s Got Talent,” or at the circus or in a parade.
Since that resolution to dust off the suitcase, many successful post loss of sight road trips are now behind me as are several flights. It is here, in the air, that I find myself a stranger in my own home. The feeling begins at the airport. I still use a wheelie backpack as my carry-on, but in my other hand is now a white cane. I no longer walk at a crisp pace through the terminal, zigzagging in annoyance at the people who stand dumbfounded in the middle of the area between the gates. These days I alert them of my presence via a 52” stick, most move for me but you would be surprised by how many do not. Today I stride more slowly, always trying not to fall or hurt myself. At our cruising altitude, I long for last-minute details to nail down for a 500-person conference I am managing, for emailing my team scattered throughout the rows of this plane, for a suited driver holding a sign that reads “Sister Rain” when I arrive at baggage claim. I live in great gratitude for this life I am living, but all these years later, I can still pine for what was, despite the multitude of blessings that are.
I look away from my iPhone where I write this, turning to my right again. The vibrant blue, the only color I now see, the fluffy white ripples with static throughout, the result of my damaged optic nerves. I know this sky, these clouds; they know me, we have met many times before. As I stretch my hands to give them a break, I realize that I have traded my budgets and BEO’s (Banquet Event Orders – IYKYK) for my two thumbs and my iPhone, my laptop I am no longer able to see for a large iPad, my clients for my readers. My product is no longer a medical device, a pharmaceutical drug or a crayon. The work is now my blind observations.
I shed a few tears in 7F for my old life, gone but obviously not forgotten. But as we hurdle through the heavens at 500 mph, feeling like we’re barely moving, the rest of my life is onboard.
#sisterrain #alittlesightalotofheart #legallyblindwriter #blindnessisaspectrum #opticneuropathy #visuallyimpaired #blind #inplaneview
