I felt self conscious, walking in the city square with my mobility instructor. I was learning to use my white cane, and wearing my dark sunglasses because my eyes were highly sensitive to the bright sun. Honestly, I loved those sunglasses. Not because they protected my eyes from the sun, but because they protected me from the prying eyes I suspiciously believed were all around me. People I knew lived near the spot where I was training -- friends and acquaintances who did not know yet about my vision loss, who did not know that over the last year my vision had slowly deteriorated. My hands clenched and unclenched nervously, and I feared someone I knew would see me sweeping that cane from side to side, and think “Oh my gosh, is that Heidi?”
But it wasn’t Heidi, anyway. At least not the Heidi I knew. Somehow as my vision became blurrier and blurrier, I had lost everything that made me…me. I was once that woman who spotted a friend in a crowd and rushed to make contact, to chatter on about family, catch-up on news, and laugh. Now I couldn’t recognize anyone in a crowd, and couldn't recognize my own family members unless they were standing nearby. I was once that woman who would sit in a bookstore for hours, breathing in the smell of the pages, absorbing the energy of their authors, slipping quietly from section to section, until every corner of the store had been examined and my list of ‘must reads’ filled a small notebook. Now I picked up a book, caressed it in my hands like a long lost love, and tears came to my eyes because I couldn’t read a single word.
When I first walked with my mobility instructor, I felt completely afraid that someone I knew would spot me from their car and think, ‘Why is Heidi walking with a cane?’ And if they did, I would yell - ‘I'm not Heidi anymore. I'm someone completely different. I just don't know who yet.”
That was nearly three years ago. I'm still growing and learning how to manage my low vision. In the process I’ve learned that I did not lose myself. All the things that make me Heidi are still very much alive – my love of books, my love of strong friendships, my love of adventure. But I’ve also learned some things about myself that weren’t so pretty. I learned that the Heidi who walked Marietta Square, embarrassed to be seen, was not as together as she thought she was.
I judged people. Not in a harsh, critical way, but to screen them and decide who I would hang out with and who I wouldn’t. Without knowing them fully, I made decisions about them based on stupid criteria – how they dressed, the music they listened to, their education level, even the books on their bookshelf. I put people in categories to analyze who was and wasn’t worth my time. But sitting in the midst of my vision loss, I felt useless. I thought if I could no longer contribute to my work or family at the same level or pace, what good was I? Was I worth anything at all? If I was not accomplishing something, did I have any intrinsic value simply because I was a human being? Just because I was me?
Through my faith, and the love of family and friends, I have realized that I do have value, not because of what I’ve accomplished, but just because I am me, someone made in the image of God. And if I have value , than it follows that so does everybody else. I’ve realized that every human being I’ve met has something valuable to teach me. No matter who they are, what they wear, what they listen to, what they’ve studied or what books they’ve read (or not read). I’ve always knew that everyone deserves to be treated with kindness but I honestly didn’t consider that everyone I meet deserves to be known. Thanks to my vision loss I have expanded my circle, ditched my self-focused screening system, spent time with people I previously had rejected and in the process, found beauty in every soul.
Not only did my vision loss give me a deeper understanding of human value, it made me more acutely aware of human suffering. How many times had I passed someone by who needed help? How many times had I given a pat answer to suffering friends about their situation, without helping in real, practical ways? My own loss and suffering has become like a yellow highlighter, alerting me to people around me that I would have never noticed before, people who had once been invisible to me. And when I really see that someone is suffering, I no longer feel compelled to look away because it is too hard to see. Instead I feel compelled to walk with them through it, and offer love and practical support even if I don’t have all the answers.
Lastly, my vision loss has taught me it’s o.k. to ask for help. Before my vision loss, I was self-reliant to a fault. The worst adjective you could have called me was needy. I grew up in a household that forced me to pull myself up by my boot straps multiple times at a very young age. As a result, I became hell-bent not to need anyone and believed that no one was as dependable as I was. No one. I would let people assist me with things from time to time, but I always had a plan B that I could control, in case other people’s help didn’t meet my expectations.
As I was losing clear vision, my pride kept me from asking for help. If I did ask for help, it had to be given my way. I had to control how it was delivered. I didn’t realize how stubbornly self-reliant I had always been until my husband of 25 years (originally the only one I showed I needed assistance) said, “Heidi, in all the years we have been married, I have felt loved, but I’ve never felt needed until now. Let me help you.“ I realized part of loving someone is showing them that you need them. When we show each other that we need each other, we acknowledge that we cannot go it alone. We become the community we were always meant to be, and in our humility, we find a deeper love for one another. Whether you have full vision, or low vision, it is healthy and beautiful to need others.
My cane is no longer an embarrassment to me, but I’d be flat out lying if I said, “I’m thankful my vision deteriorated, because I’ve learned all these valuable things about loving myself and others.” I wish I was able to say that, but I am not nearly that noble. I still miss seeing clearly and wish my vision could be restored. At some point in practically every day, I am made aware, again of my loss, whether it’s attending my son’s concert where I can’t make out his face as he plays, or it’s trying to organize an old file cabinet, fumbling with files in one hand and a cumbersome magnifier in the other. Yet even while wishing I still had my vision, I like who I am becoming without it, a Heidi who sees more clearly than I ever did when I had my sight.
Heidi Wright has damaged optic nerves in both eyes, causing blurry vision, and is legally blind. She Is a freelance writer who uses an IPad Pro, with magnification and VoiceOver each day to write.