Fade to Black Part One

One of my greatest fears is going blind. I mean, almost everything in our daily lives requires sight. Think about it for a minute--what are your favorite activities? Mine are reading, crafting (too many things there to list), watching TV shows and movies with my family, more crafting, sewing--well, you get the idea. And each of those activities requires vision.

It doesn't help that I watched the struggle as my grandmother went blind from diabetes. I had an uncle that also lost his sight, also as a result of diabetes.

But I don't have diabetes, so I didn't think I needed to worry.

Yeah, right.

A few years ago I went to the optometrist to get new glasses. He did the exam, started writing up the 'scrip for the new glasses, and then started talking about the results of the visual exam. Turns out I had cataracts, very small and mild, but would probably need cataract surgery, several years down the road. And then he mentioned something called Fuch's Dystrophy, but gave no further information. Since he didn't elaborate, I didn't really worry until I got home and wondered exactly what he was talking about. So I did what anyone in this digital information age would do--I Googled it,

I did not like what I found.

In a nutshell, Fuch's Dystrophy (quit laughing--it's pronounced Fook's!) is an eye disease, frequently inherited, where the cells lining the inner surface of the cornea starts to die off. These cells help maintain the proper amount of fluid in the eyeball, and they don't regenerate or replace as they die. As more and more of the layer, or endothelium, is damaged, the pressure builds up in the eye, and vision is distorted.

It's more common in women than in men, and patients usually start to see symptoms in their 50's or 60's. However, the disease frequently starts much earlier, sometimes when the patient is in their 20's. The bad news is, worst case scenario, patients go blind. The good news--well, there's not a lot of good news. Not everyone goes blind, but that's because they die before the disease progresses to that stage. Each person is different and there's no way to tell how quickly the disease will progress, so no timetable of "how much time you've got." It's incurable, and really, according to most of what I've read, the only treatments are medication to reduce the symptoms, or transplant surgery, either cornea or cornea lining transplant.

I stewed on this for a couple of years, and realized that a lot of the vision problems I've had were related, or actually, symptoms, of Fuch's Dystrophy. Why my vision would change during the day--I'd see better mid-day, but mornings and evenings began to blur. Why I wore sunglasses almost every time I got in the car in daytime, even on grey, overcast days. Why I liked to have the lights on in the house during the day, but doing so didn't always make it easier to see.

And why, sometimes, I actually didn't see things I should.

And just maybe, why I wasn't able to keep the last two jobs I had, because I couldn't see well enough to be accurate. I just didn't realize it at the time.


A few months ago I went to the optometrist again for new glasses. He asked if he'd mentioned the
Fuch's Dystrophy last time, and we talked more about it. It's obviously worse than it was the first time, and he suggested I find a specialist. Which I can't do until my benefits kick in on my new job, and even then I don't know how much the insurance will cover.

 I've reached the point where reading isn't as fun as it used to be, because I never know if I'll be able to see. Most of the time, I read on my Kindle now so I can make the print larger. If I read books or the newspaper, or try do do anything on my phone or computer, I have what I call my "computer glasses." Really, they are just reading glasses with a 2.5 magnification I purchased at Costco a couple of months ago.

I may have to move up to 3.0X.


Today hasn't been a good day. I tried to read the newspaper, and my eyes felt--off. I can't really explain how they felt, other than just really, really tired; not really burning, but just off. Usually eyedrops will help, but today they did nothing. And I have no one to talk to, no one that understands what I'm going through. My husband, kids, and dad try to be sympathetic, but I hate to complain to them and even when I do, they don't understand. Not only that, but getting upset or emotional, crying, even elevated blood pressure, can all make symptoms worse. If I talk about it, I'll cry, and then I won't be able to see which will make me more upset and emotional.

Cue the emotional roller coaster, right?


So, I'm here. I don't expect anyone to read this, but I need someplace to whine, complain, and feel sorry for myself occasionally so I can kick myself in the backside, pick myself up by the bootstraps, and get back in the game.

Sorry, Blogger.com, you've become my cheap therapist.

This is a piece of Flash Fiction I wrote for a challenge--complete story in 1000 words or less. Let me know what you think. 

LITTLE ONE

Shh, Little One, don’t cry. Momma’s here, everything’s okay. Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Momma’s gonna get you a Mockingbird.

Your tiny fists are clenched tight against the world. My heart melts when you grab my fingers with those tiny hands.

How many times have I’ve counted your ten perfect fingers, your tiny, perfect little toes? And I’ll keep counting them, every day, because you are finally here.

You’re my little one.

Shh, Little One, go to sleep.

Hi, Little One, it’s just one step.

You’ve been trying so hard, you don’t even realize that you can walk. I’ve been watching you try.. You take a step, sometimes two, before you panic, give up, and fall. But I know you can do it.

Reach out, I’m here. Take my hand. Yes, I’ll let go, but I’ll catch you if you fall.

See? You did it!

Look at you, you’re walking. What’s that glistening sparkle just below my eyes? It’s just me, showing how proud I am of you, that’s all.

No, Little One, don’t put that in your mouth. That’s a toy, and we don’t eat it. I know it’s bright and colorful, but—no, it really doesn’t belong in your mouth.

Slow down, Little One, you’re running too fast! Oh, down you go. You’re okay, just surprised. Come here, Momma will cuddle you. I’ll kiss your knee. Doesn’t that feel better?

No, stay here in my arms just a minute longer. Oh, okay, go ahead and play.

I’ll be here when you’re tired.

It’s okay, Little One, it’s kindergarden.

You’re big enough to go to school now. I’ll be right here when class is over, and we can walk home. You’ll tell me all about the wonderful things you learned. Won’t that be fun? Look, there’s your friend, waiting for you.

Good-bye, Little One, see you after school.

Thank you for wiping that tear from my cheek, Little One. I’ll be okay, it’s just some dust that got in my eyes.

Well, Little One, you’re eight years old now.

I’m sorry, but you’ll always be my Little One, that’s just the way it is. No, I’m not laughing, I promise. You’re awesome. Look how tall you’re getting. You’re growing so fast.

What’s that? A slumber party? Well, okay, I guess you’re old enough No, I promise not to embarrass you. Not too much, anyway.

No, I’m not crying, it’s just allergies.

So, Little One, you’re a teen-ager.

I’m not sure you need to wear make-up just yet, but I guess we can practice a bit. My, you look so grown-up. You’re not a little girl any more, you’re turning into quite a beautiful young woman.

Yes, he’s cute, but you’re still a little bit young yet to act on those feelings. But I’m always here for you to talk to, just remember that.

Sorry, yes, that’s a tear. You’re just growing up so fast.

Little One, you’re sixteen. I guess we’ll go get your driver’s license tomorrow.

He asked you on a date? Well, let’s talk about it. It’s a double date? Do I know his parents? Oh, he’s their boy? That’s fine then. Have a good time. Don’t be out too late, okay?

No, I’m not crying, I just have a runny nose.

You’re not wearing that dress to prom, Little One, not without some alterations.

What’s wrong with it? You know what’s wrong. It’s strapless, low-cut, too short. All of the things we’ve talked about. Why are you stomping around? You know the rules. Okay, that’s it, we’re going home. We’ll come back when you’ve calmed down.

Yes, I’m crying. It’s either that or scream, right here in the store.

Oh, Little One, your last day in high school.

Where has the time gone? You’re eighteen, heading for college. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I rocked you to sleep?

Thank you for the tissue, I hadn’t even noticed I needed it.

Little One, you are so beautiful in that wedding dress.

He’s a fine man, and I’m sure you’ll make each other happy. Remember, marriage is all about give and take, okay? Oh, yeah, sorry. I know I told you I wouldn’t give you advice today, but I’m your mom; it’s allowed. This embroidered handkerchief is the perfect memento of your wedding day, I’ll treasure it always.

After I’ve washed it, of course, because it’s already gotten a lot of use today.

You’re going to be a mother, Little One?

A baby of your own. And I’m going to be a grandmother. It’s a girl? How wonderful. I can’t wait to meet her.

Oh, stop it. You know I’m going to cry. I can’t help it if I snort when I laugh and cry at the same time.

She’s beautiful, Little One, she looks just like you.

You’ll be a wonderful mother. Those tears won’t stain the blanket, just throw it in the washer.

The doctor said he tried everything, Little One, but there’s nothing he can do for you.

It won’t be long now. I wish I could rock you like I did when you were young. I love you, Little One, did I ever tell you that?

Hush, Little One, Momma’s gone to heaven but Grandma’s here.

I know she’s sorry she can’t be with you, but she loved you very much. Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Grandma’s gonna get you a Mockingbird.

Your tiny fists are clenched tight against the world. My heart melts when you grab my fingers with those tiny hands. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve counted your ten perfect fingers, your tiny, perfect little toes. And I’ll keep counting them, every day, because I you are finally here.

Hush, little one, go to sleep.

You’re my Little One’s little one.

I'm Back

June 27, 2017

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted here on my writing blog.

A long while.

Okay, it’s been years. And then, to top it off, I looked at some of the things I had posted previously and was so horrified and embarrassed I had to remove them. I cringed when I read them, and there was no way I was going to let anyone else see them, ever again. They have been removed, cast into the deep, black pit that spirals down into absolute nothing. In other words, I deleted them with no hope of retrieving them.

Good riddance. I did it a week ago and don’t even remember what they were, other than atrocious.

So, I get to start fresh. Well, kind of. I did leave the very first post from this blog (started in 2012, in case you’re wondering). And I get to write, be myself, silly, goofy, geeky, scholarly, quiet, loud, everything and anything.

So buckle up, it’s gonna be a wild ride.

Or not. Who knows?

Self-Worth

I had an interesting conversation with some friends the other day. We were talking about self-worth. About realizing what you are capable of, and acknowledging it. That's not something I have really done in the past—you know, acknowledging what I was good at. Growing up, there was a name for that. It was called conceit.

According to the dictionary, conceit is “an excessively favorable opinion of one's own ability, importance, wit, etc.” There were people like that all—I knew a lot of them—and I didn’t want to become one of them. Someone who always thought they could do anything. Always thinking they were better than anyone else. They were considered obnoxious, stuck-up, and not fun to be around.

But there were people who really could do anything they set out to do. Some of them made sure everyone around knew it. Braggers.  But others just quietly accomplished things. Really big things. They just didn’t tell anyone. Well, they didn’t brag, but they didn’t try to hide their accomplishments, either. They knew their self-worth, and valued themselves.

I ended up trying to be humble as I grew up. But in reality, I just didn’t try. Somehow, in my warped little mind, if I thought I might be good at something, I was being conceited. So, I just didn’t try. Play the guitar? I always wanted to. As a matter of fact, I took lessons. But I gave it up. Same with the piano, the flute, and the accordion. Dance? I tried. This one I really wasn’t good at, so I quit. Thankfully. My partner’s toes may have had time to heal by now . . . it’s been over thirty years.

Over the years, I’ve realized it’s okay to realize you’re good at something. I’m good at teaching. I did it for years at work . . . lost track of how many people I worked with, teaching them how to be successful at their jobs. I’m good at giving hugs. To my own children when they were little, and needed a snuggle with Mom. And now, to grandchildren, who love to sit on Grandma’s lap. I’m good at cooking—well, sometimes. And I’m good at the crafts I’ve finally chosen.

But writing. Hmmm—not sure about that one. When I was in high school, I won an essay contest that my English teacher coerced me into entering. (Funny story about that—maybe another time.) First place in the district, out of thirty or so students. I didn’t even place in region, when there were only five of us. Writing was something I enjoyed, something I thought I was good at. Something that, given the time to study and practice, I thought I really could do. But I didn’t pursue it.

Until now.

Still not so sure, but this last year I've had the chance to do just that. Study, practice, and work at it. What a learning, growing experience. I want to call myself a writer. I don’t know if I deserve that title yet, but I’ll take it anyway. Notice I didn’t call myself an author, because I don't have anything published. Yet. But I’m trying to realize, and accept, that I can write.

Or maybe I’m just conceited.