organized. She had talked to the Colorado Rehabilitation Center for the
Blind and been referred to a counselor in Denver, who surprised her when he
spoke by telling her that Brenden's reaction was not particularly unusual.
"There
has to be a grieving period," he said, "and from what little I know
about your son, there also has to be some time to allow anger to be expressed.
Stabilizing him psychologically will take time, Mrs. McCarthy. It's a long road
with a great many pitfalls, but we'll work on it together, one step at a
time."
"Is
there anything I should be doing? I mean, in terms of preparing our house for
his coming home?"
The man on
the other end laughed softly. "I'm sorry, Mrs. McCarthy. I didn't mean to
laugh. It's just that people ask me that all the time. What's most important
for your son and for any newly blind person is that everything in his
surroundings be the same as he remembers when he was sighted. We'll be trying
to plug his new, developing sensory capacity and mobility into the mental
pictures of environments that he already had before his accident."
"Thank
you," Mora said, understanding. "I'll just try to make it like
home."
"That's
worth a lot, Mrs. McCarthy. Love is always the best cure-all."
Lindsey
had been in and out of the hospital for the last
three days, and as she drove home to Denver, this time obeying the speed
limits, she was angry at herself. Why had she been so uncomfortable with
Brenden and his mother? Of course I'm worried, she
thought. I love Brenden. I want him to get well, to see again. Is
that it? Am I so selfish that if he's not perfect, I can't handle it? Do I not
have the patience or goodness or love to share my life with someone who —she
nearly choked on the words— is handicapped?
She pulled
her car into a rest stop as the tears started to come. Were they tears of
sadness or tears of disgust at the kind of person she was being forced to face?
Eventually, she shook off her malaise and framed her own reality. It isn't
wrong, she thought to herself. I'm not wrong if I'm not sure I
can cope with this. I have hopes and dreams and goals of my own. If I can't
handle the idea that someone I wanted to marry is going to be blind, that
doesn't make me a bad person. Almost anyone with a life to live would feel the
same way.
Her cell
phone buzzed.
"Lindsey?
It's Andrea. Are you going to make study group? We really need your precedent
brief."
Lindsey was
glad for the diversion.
"I'll be
there," she said. "Tell everyone not to worry. Lindsey the litigator
will be there."
That's who
she was going to be: a lady lawyer litigator, driven to be a lioness in court,
a winner in life, and a woman with an unswerving determination to be the best.
Brenden was back at home and in his bedroom. Another
day. Another night. He didn't care. Nature was challenging his bladder, and he
knew he had to deal with it. Earlier they had wheeled him out of the hospital,
a requirement of the medical protocol, right to his mother's car, so all he had
to do was get in and ride.
Arriving
home, Charlie nearly carried him up to his room, both of them feeling
completely awkward, not understanding how to move together. The newly blinded
young man was hesitant to put one foot in front of the other, and his friend
treated him as if he were a crystal vase. At last his mother kissed him good
night and went to bed, and now he would have to make his first independent
voyage.
Where was the bathroom? he thought, trying to picture it. Out
the door, down the hall, to the right. That's what he remembered. Hands out in front of him,
he moved hesitantly toward the door, but his angle was wrong, and he knocked a
picture off his bureau— a picture of Lindsey, he knew—beautiful, independent,
wonderful Lindsey. He hadn't heard from her today. That didn't really surprise
him.
Finding the
knob, he stepped into the hall and turned left. One, two, three, four, five
steps. The door to the bathroom should be on his right.
Blind and been referred to a counselor in Denver, who surprised her when he
spoke by telling her that Brenden's reaction was not particularly unusual.
"There
has to be a grieving period," he said, "and from what little I know
about your son, there also has to be some time to allow anger to be expressed.
Stabilizing him psychologically will take time, Mrs. McCarthy. It's a long road
with a great many pitfalls, but we'll work on it together, one step at a
time."
"Is
there anything I should be doing? I mean, in terms of preparing our house for
his coming home?"
The man on
the other end laughed softly. "I'm sorry, Mrs. McCarthy. I didn't mean to
laugh. It's just that people ask me that all the time. What's most important
for your son and for any newly blind person is that everything in his
surroundings be the same as he remembers when he was sighted. We'll be trying
to plug his new, developing sensory capacity and mobility into the mental
pictures of environments that he already had before his accident."
"Thank
you," Mora said, understanding. "I'll just try to make it like
home."
"That's
worth a lot, Mrs. McCarthy. Love is always the best cure-all."
Lindsey
had been in and out of the hospital for the last
three days, and as she drove home to Denver, this time obeying the speed
limits, she was angry at herself. Why had she been so uncomfortable with
Brenden and his mother? Of course I'm worried, she
thought. I love Brenden. I want him to get well, to see again. Is
that it? Am I so selfish that if he's not perfect, I can't handle it? Do I not
have the patience or goodness or love to share my life with someone who —she
nearly choked on the words— is handicapped?
She pulled
her car into a rest stop as the tears started to come. Were they tears of
sadness or tears of disgust at the kind of person she was being forced to face?
Eventually, she shook off her malaise and framed her own reality. It isn't
wrong, she thought to herself. I'm not wrong if I'm not sure I
can cope with this. I have hopes and dreams and goals of my own. If I can't
handle the idea that someone I wanted to marry is going to be blind, that
doesn't make me a bad person. Almost anyone with a life to live would feel the
same way.
Her cell
phone buzzed.
"Lindsey?
It's Andrea. Are you going to make study group? We really need your precedent
brief."
Lindsey was
glad for the diversion.
"I'll be
there," she said. "Tell everyone not to worry. Lindsey the litigator
will be there."
That's who
she was going to be: a lady lawyer litigator, driven to be a lioness in court,
a winner in life, and a woman with an unswerving determination to be the best.
Brenden was back at home and in his bedroom. Another
day. Another night. He didn't care. Nature was challenging his bladder, and he
knew he had to deal with it. Earlier they had wheeled him out of the hospital,
a requirement of the medical protocol, right to his mother's car, so all he had
to do was get in and ride.
Arriving
home, Charlie nearly carried him up to his room, both of them feeling
completely awkward, not understanding how to move together. The newly blinded
young man was hesitant to put one foot in front of the other, and his friend
treated him as if he were a crystal vase. At last his mother kissed him good
night and went to bed, and now he would have to make his first independent
voyage.
Where was the bathroom? he thought, trying to picture it. Out
the door, down the hall, to the right. That's what he remembered. Hands out in front of him,
he moved hesitantly toward the door, but his angle was wrong, and he knocked a
picture off his bureau— a picture of Lindsey, he knew—beautiful, independent,
wonderful Lindsey. He hadn't heard from her today. That didn't really surprise
him.
Finding the
knob, he stepped into the hall and turned left. One, two, three, four, five
steps. The door to the bathroom should be on his right.
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