Going Blind is Hard. Being Blind is Easy

Before I went blind I never imagined people who lose their eyesight grieve their loss. It's tough going through it. There are days I feel jealous of people who take driving for granted like I used to. There are days I feel left out when everybody around me laughs at something I didn't see. There are hard days when I'd sell my soul for just a half hour more of decent eyesight so I could fix the broken oil pan cover flapping under my dad's car or get the hot water in the bathroom shower working again.

There are really bad days when I suspect I deserve this and wonder which flaw in my character I'm being punished for.

It's hard grieving our lost eyesight. I wish that's all we had to deal with, but there's more coming.

What did you want to be when you were growing up?

The Apollo missions happened when I was a little kid so all my school mates wanted to be astronauts - after we played for the Dallas Cowboys, of course.

We had big dreams back then. All kids do, but I think my generation's might have been bigger than any other. America had just put men on the Moon and we believed we'd colonize the solar system in a few more decades. Only 20 years passed from Orville and Wilbur Wright's first airplane flight until we had airlines spanning the globe and airports in every part of the world. We thought it would only take 20 years after the first rockets until we'd have world spanning spacelines and spaceports on every planet and moon. We believed we stood at an inflection point in human history, a point where progress before us had been slow but the progress just ahead would be exponential in both speed and audacity. Computers, robots, and space flight would accelerate our progress so fast we wouldn't recognize the world in 50 years.

Those were the dreams of my generation. It's good to dream.

Then POOF! Everything changed with a single visit to the eye doctor.

Getting the diagnosis is hard. Turns out you won't be curing cancer or building the next Eiffel Tower or landing a rocket on an asteroid. You won't even keep the supply chain moving or keep the office running or coach little league baseball. Your dreams just got a whole lot smaller.

I wasn't ready when that happened. It's easy to live with diminished eyesight, it's much harder to live with diminished dreams.

So now we're simultaneously grieving both the loss of our eyesight and the loss of our dreams. That's got to be it, right? There's no way it can get worse than that, is there?

There is. We also grieve the loss of our identity.

We don't know who we are anymore. What do blind people do? How do we act blind? How do we fit into this new life? How do we fit into our old life?

There's no instruction manual. We didn't grow up watching blind role models in movies. Consequently, we have no idea how to do this blind thing. Maybe Braille and dark glasses? Get a guide dog and a white cane? We don't know. More importantly, we don't know how to find out, either.

Things that were familiar in our lives are suddenly gone, and a bunch of new things take their place. And even if we are the kinds of people that generally do well with change, blindness brings so many changes so fast it overwhelms us. We knew who we were, but who are we now?

Before I went blind I was Mister Employee of the Month. That was a big part of my identity. I was the one who got stuff done at work, the boss' right hand man, the one who showed up early and stayed as late as it took to finish. I took pride in the quality of my work and in the respect I had in the industry.

Losing my job because I couldn't see anymore yanked that part of my identity away from me. I felt adrift when it happened. I grieved more for the loss of my identity than I did for the loss of my eyesight or the loss of my potential.

But grief wasn't finished with me yet. I just couldn't catch a break. Sitting at home with no job and no way to realize my dreams, no longer able to earn respect through my career, I realized I felt no more purpose in my life.

Before I went blind I never had enough time to do everything I wanted to do. Suddenly I had way too much time on my hands and nothing to do with it. I finally had time to get more exercise but what was the point? I had time to read but that seemed like a cruel joke. I still felt loved but I no longer felt necessary. The world was still moving but I wasn't helping steer it anymore. Life was driving away and I wasn't in the driver's seat, I was barely hanging on to the bumper.

I wasn't ready for any of those feelings.

Every kid in the world has imagined being blind. We've all closed our eyes and tried not to peek while we walk around our house trying to avoid furniture. We've each been in pitch black rooms with our hand outstretched, feeling for the wall and trying to find the light switch. We've all imagined the mechanics of being blind.

But it never occurred to me to imagine the emotions of going blind. The grief caught me completely off guard.

Luckily for me the adjustment period didn't last long. I found new ways to feel productive and respected. Being forced to quit giving my life to my job led me to a better headspace. My new life is different from my old one but it's every bit as good. I'm lucky to have a great support system and people who love me. If you read my first blog you saw me at the lowest point in my journey into blindness when I mowed the lawn for the last time. It's gotten better every day since then.

Being blind isn't hard at all. It's weirdly fun, at least for me. My kids tell me I look like a badass in dark glasses. People yield the right of way to me as soon as they see the white cane. I even get bonus cool points for doing the same things I've always done. I've had a blast working through my blind bucket list. Most of all, the priorities in my life all got rearranged. I'm seeing my life as more than just work, work, work. Life feels like an adventure, like it did when I was still a kid, riding my bike and dreaming of playing for the Cowboys and exploring the moons of Saturn.

The transition is hard. The destination is easy.

There's no shame in asking for help. I didn't go that route because I had a wife and parents and kids who made the transition easy for me. Without them I couldn't have made it alone. There are mental health providers who specialize in grief and loss. They can help us make the transition easier and faster than we could on our own. It doesn't hurt to call one of them if this is difficult for you.

But the point I want to make is it gets better. Don't despair! The grief will pass but you will remain.

My new life is different than my old one but it's every bit as good. A little worse in some ways, a little better in others, but these last few months have been the happiest of my life.