no one in the room who heard it
ever forgot it.
"I can't see! I can't see! I'm
blind! Blind! Bl—ind!!"
The shot quickly administered by a
nurse who had seen this before sent Brenden back into blessed sleep.
Dr. James looked at the people in
the room.
"I hate to do that when he's
concussed, but with the bleeding going on, we can't have him upset. That kind
of agitation could cause additional hemorrhaging. I'm sorry, but we're going to
have to put him in restraints."
Lindsey gasped audibly, and Mora
clutched the rails of the bed.
"No," she said, "Dr.
James, you don't have to do that. We'll monitor Brenden. We'll keep him
relaxed."
"I don't think so," the
doctor said quietly. "You all need to understand that this is not just
simple vision loss. It isn't temporary. Your son had it right. Barring a
miracle, he's going to be permanently blind."
chapter
seven
Dark. Darkness.
I will forever live in a state of darkness. To be blind means to live in the
dark. To never see the light. To never know a sunrise. Never see color—the gold
of the aspens in the fall; the blue of the ocean; the reds, yellows, purples,
and oranges. To never see a sunset. Being blind is to never see a smile or to
see my Lindsey's eyes when they dance at the pleasure of a joke I've told.
I am blind. I
won't live like this. I can't live like this. Life, my life isn't
worth living if it's going to be like this, if I'm going to exist in a constant
state of darkness, never being able to see the light.
Brenden McCarthy thought all of
these things as the reality of his situation began to replace the haze of
concussion. He tried to sleep to blank out the pain of his thoughts, but the
pain was overwhelming, and it enveloped him in an impenetrable blanket of
self-pity. No one could touch him. Love could not breach the walls he built up.
Already he had constructed a
personal identity that said he would never be a doctor, and he would never
treat patients. He would never even be able to care for himself. He would be
forever helpless, dependent, worthless, handicapped, blind. From Superman with
super thoughts and dreams, hopes and ideas, Brenden had become Clark
Kent—invisible, vacuous, disconnected—and all of this occurred in an accident
that took only five seconds.
He expressed none of these
emotions. Time had not yet allowed him to come to terms with his feelings, much
less to communicate them, and so he did not speak. Not to his mother, who
constantly sat at the end of his bed, or to Charlie, who hovered at the far
side of the room, or to Lindsey. He registered that Lindsey came and went, like
a restless bird, not willing to perch or nest.
He registered this information but
did not indicate he knew. He worked to keep his eyes closed, pretending to be
asleep, wanting to remain alone. He heard their muffled conversations,
wondering oddly if his newly acquired blindness already improved his capacity
to listen. They spoke quietly, sometimes with each other in shorthand and
sometimes with the doctor, a good man who came in twice a day to check on him.
When that man asked him how he was
doing, the manners that his mother had so diligently worked to teach him
instinctively took over. He said he was fine, that nothing hurt, that he wanted
to go home as soon as possible, and then when the doctor left, he would turn
his face to the wall, especially after the physician confirmed to all of them
that the damage to the occipital lobe, causing his
blindness, would quite likely be permanent. Surprisingly, they did not press
him. In fact, they, too, seemed uncomfortable about sharing any conversation
that would open up the floodgates to feelings so new and not yet understood.
He heard them
discussing the preparations they were making with the hospital's rehab people
regarding what they might do to make his homecoming easier. They would be
signing him up for adult classes in mobility and rehabilitation. His mother
talked about finding a counselor who would
ever forgot it.
"I can't see! I can't see! I'm
blind! Blind! Bl—ind!!"
The shot quickly administered by a
nurse who had seen this before sent Brenden back into blessed sleep.
Dr. James looked at the people in
the room.
"I hate to do that when he's
concussed, but with the bleeding going on, we can't have him upset. That kind
of agitation could cause additional hemorrhaging. I'm sorry, but we're going to
have to put him in restraints."
Lindsey gasped audibly, and Mora
clutched the rails of the bed.
"No," she said, "Dr.
James, you don't have to do that. We'll monitor Brenden. We'll keep him
relaxed."
"I don't think so," the
doctor said quietly. "You all need to understand that this is not just
simple vision loss. It isn't temporary. Your son had it right. Barring a
miracle, he's going to be permanently blind."
chapter
seven
Dark. Darkness.
I will forever live in a state of darkness. To be blind means to live in the
dark. To never see the light. To never know a sunrise. Never see color—the gold
of the aspens in the fall; the blue of the ocean; the reds, yellows, purples,
and oranges. To never see a sunset. Being blind is to never see a smile or to
see my Lindsey's eyes when they dance at the pleasure of a joke I've told.
I am blind. I
won't live like this. I can't live like this. Life, my life isn't
worth living if it's going to be like this, if I'm going to exist in a constant
state of darkness, never being able to see the light.
Brenden McCarthy thought all of
these things as the reality of his situation began to replace the haze of
concussion. He tried to sleep to blank out the pain of his thoughts, but the
pain was overwhelming, and it enveloped him in an impenetrable blanket of
self-pity. No one could touch him. Love could not breach the walls he built up.
Already he had constructed a
personal identity that said he would never be a doctor, and he would never
treat patients. He would never even be able to care for himself. He would be
forever helpless, dependent, worthless, handicapped, blind. From Superman with
super thoughts and dreams, hopes and ideas, Brenden had become Clark
Kent—invisible, vacuous, disconnected—and all of this occurred in an accident
that took only five seconds.
He expressed none of these
emotions. Time had not yet allowed him to come to terms with his feelings, much
less to communicate them, and so he did not speak. Not to his mother, who
constantly sat at the end of his bed, or to Charlie, who hovered at the far
side of the room, or to Lindsey. He registered that Lindsey came and went, like
a restless bird, not willing to perch or nest.
He registered this information but
did not indicate he knew. He worked to keep his eyes closed, pretending to be
asleep, wanting to remain alone. He heard their muffled conversations,
wondering oddly if his newly acquired blindness already improved his capacity
to listen. They spoke quietly, sometimes with each other in shorthand and
sometimes with the doctor, a good man who came in twice a day to check on him.
When that man asked him how he was
doing, the manners that his mother had so diligently worked to teach him
instinctively took over. He said he was fine, that nothing hurt, that he wanted
to go home as soon as possible, and then when the doctor left, he would turn
his face to the wall, especially after the physician confirmed to all of them
that the damage to the occipital lobe, causing his
blindness, would quite likely be permanent. Surprisingly, they did not press
him. In fact, they, too, seemed uncomfortable about sharing any conversation
that would open up the floodgates to feelings so new and not yet understood.
He heard them
discussing the preparations they were making with the hospital's rehab people
regarding what they might do to make his homecoming easier. They would be
signing him up for adult classes in mobility and rehabilitation. His mother
talked about finding a counselor who would
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