"Ow," I mumble quietly so as not to be heard. My youngest son is behind me and I know he's watching my movements closely. I raise my hands up hoping that one of them will find something I can brace myself on. A hard but smooth surface greets both of my hands and let my hands follow it up and down. I must be in the hallway of some sort as the surface beneath my hands stays flat indicating a wall.
"You're okay, mom. Keep going." My son's voice sounds so old, so grown up. This is a responsibility he shouldn't have right now. He should be out meeting girls, flirting, and asking them on dates, not worry about his ailing mother. I hate this exercise but I refuse to make this any more difficult for him. Placing my arms out in front of me, I continue walking. The smells of the pizza I cooked for him last night still lingered in the air and I can still see the grease-covered pepperoni.
I've reached the end of the hallway and lightly touch the screen door in front of me. I'm going to need to fix the tears in this soon before I eventually end up cutting myself on the extended wires. I can sense my son move closer to me. He's so much taller than he was last year and he was taller than me then. His hands give my shoulders a squeeze and the warm breeze moves swiftly through the screen causing my skirt to dance. "It's a nice day outside, isn't it?" I ask him utilizing his young, healthy eyes.
"Go see for yourself," he says quietly. Almost instantly, I remember that he's only fifteen and lacks the tactfulness that normally grow stronger as you grow older. He knows very well that I can't see right now. Irritated, I stand still. I've never ventured further than the house during this exercise; he can't possibly expect me to go outside. I feel the wind again and decide that as soon as this exercise is over, I will go outside and enjoy what's left of the day. Instead, I hear him say, "Go on." It's the same voice his father used when he wanted my son to do something that scared him. "Just feel for the handle. I promise I'm right behind you."
A part of me stalls. This is too much. It's bad enough having to walk around my home with his guidance but now I have to go outside. Still, he's already been through too much. His father left less than a year ago unable to deal with my condition and now his mother is going blind. It's not fair for him. I graze my hand against the screen until I feel the brittle piece of iron underneath my fingers. I push down and the I feel the screen door give way as it opens; the warm air of spring welcoming me. I grasp the handle and the frame of the door as I remember the step to our deck. Once I'm securing, my son squeezes past me and takes my hand off the door handle.
Gripping his young hand I take my hand off the frame and allow him to guide me. Behind me, the door creaks as it swings shut and the sound of it latching in the door frame has never been so noticeable before. I can feel the wood of the deck under my slippers and the sun on my face. The darkness seems to lighten a bit, becomes a different shade of black. Until now, I never quite realized just how many shades black seems to have.
He stops me and lets my hands go. Instinctively I reach out feeling through the air and taking a small step forward, my knee bumps into something soft. Reaching down, I feel the plastic armrest of my patio chair and using my fingers walk around it slowly to the front of the chair. Before sitting down, I make sure to that I can feel the cushion laying on top of the seat and keeping my hand on it, I turn and sit down. The scent of smoke wafts through the air and I can almost hear the crackling of the fire underneath my neighbor's grill.
What must he think of me sitting outside with a blindfold on? I haven't had the courage to tell anyone yet. The only reason my youngest knows is because he was with me when I was told that I was not a candidate for surgery and that my eyesight will deteriorate slowly until eventually I will be unable to see anything at all. While I was still trying to cope with the news, it was my son who spoke first. He wanted to know if it would help to practice "not seeing" and strengthen the other senses. The doctor didn't think it was a bad idea; I happened to think it was a terrible idea. My feeling is that I should be enjoying to every last sight.
In the car, I begged him not to tell the others. One is graduating next year and the other is in her first year of college. He argued with me saying that they have every right to know and that they would want to know but in the end he agreed on the condition that I partake in these exercises with him when the other two aren't home. Since then, he's come home right after school while my other son is at baseball practice and we "exercise my other senses." Though I'm reluctant to admit it, he was right. The periodic removal of my sight enhances the times when I do see. During these exercises, I realize what I don't see and burn them into my brain as best as I can.
Sometimes, when the natural darkness of night fills my room I cry silently to myself. It's so unfair that I have to go through this, that my kids have to deal with this for the rest of their lives. During those nights, it seems almost too much to bear but then I remember my youngest and how these exercises have made us some much closer. Somehow, the thought brings me out of my self-pity. Really, I'm lucky. We never would've connected like this otherwise. A heavy breeze blows under my hair and I'm brought back to reality. I hear him pulling up a chair and sitting next to me. "So," I say smiling, "have you asked her out yet?"
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