On Sunday, Oct. 28, I woke up and discovered I couldn’t see out of my left eye. My shooting eye.
Later that morning, I learned my friend Anthony died on Maui. At 48.
My eye. That was annoying. Frustrating. My friend’s death. That blindsided me.
It took a few days for the finality of Anthony’s death to sink in, for his loss to settle on my heart. When talking about Anthony, I mentioned my loss of vision to a friend. He suggested I get it checked immediately. He said it several times until the potential seriousness of my situation sunk in.
I am an optimist, though I have friends who’d probably tell you I make my tent awfully close to the border of the Land of Denial.
Between my morning photojournalism class and my afternoon news writing class, I went to see an ophthalmologist.
A troll. He belonged under a bridge not in a doctor’s office. He barely looked at me when he told me that he couldn’t see a thing and I’d have to see a specialist. He said I shouldn’t eat or drink after midnight since I might have to have surgery in the morning.
I returned and taught my afternoon class with sadness pushing against my heart, seeking escape.
My sadness deepened when I couldn’t find a ride to Erie. I realized I was alone in a new town. I wasn’t in Kuwait or Paris or Oregon or LA or Alaska anymore. I’ve discovered it’s easy to say “let us know if you need anything.” It’s a whole different matter to honor those words.
I called my parents and they called my eye doctor in Houston. He called me and said: “Cheryl, I’m so sorry this has happened to you. You just get down here and we’ll take care of you. It’s going to be OK.”
That’s all I needed to hear.
Long story short. I had the surgery two weeks ago. The doctor is surprised my sight hasn’t improved much though he said he wasn’t worried. My case was atypical. Something he hadn’t seen. Something he couldn’t explain. That’s something I’d already heard in the hospital in Kuwait. Atypical. We’ve never seen this before.
It would take more time to heal. It takes time to heal. That’s also taken a while to sink in.
I realized that I didn’t take the time I needed to rest and recover after my hospitalization in Kuwait. I did a job interview from my hospital bed. And another a day after I returned from the hospital. I jumped on a plane and did a two-day interview stateside then flew back to Alaska to cover the troops’ homecoming events. I left Alaska for Oregon, where I packed then drove across country and started my new job at Allegheny College.
All the while friends and family reminded me to rest. I didn’t. I plunged into my new job.
Losing my sight showed me that I had lost sight of what’s important.
We’ve all been blindsided this year. By unexpected illnesses. By the death of dear ones. By the cruelty of others, intended and unintended. By inexplicable violence: the brutal shooting of a school girl in Mingora, Pakistan and the murder of school children at Sandy Hook Elementary in Connecticut.
Losing sight of what’s important can help us refocus. It’s often the things that are right in front of us, the things we cherish most, that we overlook.
Our friends. Our loved ones. Their steadiness in times of trouble. Their love and laughter in times of joy. The very breath we take and the life that infuses our body.
Our precious health and our days on this precious earth.
Tis the season. To be kind. To be thankful. To be there when your friends and family–even strangers–need you.
And to take the time to grieve what is lost–and give others the time to grieve–and heal.
Copyright 2012 Cheryl Hatch All RIghts Reserved