I don’t remember the ambulance ride.
“Watch me!”
I remember waking up in a hospital bed and hearing my mother crying.
I remember doctors whispering words like “optic nerve damage” and “severe trauma.”
There was one surgery. Then another.
But sadly, the doctors couldn’t save my vision.
The darkness swallowed everything.
At first, I thought it was temporary.
There was one surgery.
I’d wave my hands in front of my face and wait to see them. I never did.
Weeks turned into months, and eventually, I accepted that the damage was permanent.
I hated the dark, depending on people, and hearing my classmates run past me in the hallways while I traced the lockers with my fingertips.
But I refused to shut down. I forced myself to learn how to live in the darkness.
I learned Braille. I memorized rooms by counting steps. I trained my ears to pick up the smallest shift in someone’s breathing.
