To See, Or Not To See

Image by 愚木混株 Cdd20 from Pixabay

I always assumed that being blind would be like if I closed my eyes or put something over them.

I thought blindness would be nothing but darkness. Like having the lights out.
At night.
All the time. 

I’ve had a slow-growing cataract in one eye, gradually reducing my vision in that eye over the past three years. At this point, It looks like I’m looking through fogged up glasses, or a steamy mirror after a shower when I look through just that eye. I can still see light, even the larger outlines of things, but, like that fogged glass, details are lost to me. 

At a visit to an ophthalmologist, I learned that I am pretty much legally blind in that eye.

Legally. Blind.

But I can still see … sort of. It’s not dark, like when I have that eye shut, but I can still see …

I can see my book and the marks on the page, I just can’t make out the words. Or the letters.

I can see the crochet project I’m holding in my hand, but I can’t see the stitches or the space where the crochet hook needs to go to make the next stitch.

I can see street signs, I just can’t read them until I’m pretty much on top of them. And I can see where other cars are, but it’s as though through a foggy windshield. 

I never imagined blindness included sight; it’s just limited sight.

It’s certainly not what I’d thought blindness was.