They say that death comes like a thief in the night. Lesser
vandals have the same M.O. The affliction that stole my vision, or
at least a big chunk of it, did so as I slept. I went to bed
seeing the world one way. I woke up seeing it another.
This was about four months ago, though it feels like an eternity.
So much has happened since. I don’t mean all the tests and
procedures: the vials upon vials of blood; the mapping of major
arteries in my neck; the imaging of tiny vessels in my brain; the
first injection of an experimental treatment (or, maybe, a
placebo) into my right, dominant eye, where the damage occurred;
then the second injection; and then, last week, the third.
I mean the rest of it. I went to bed believing that I was more or
less in control — that the unfinished business, unrealized dreams
and other disappointments in my life were essentially failures of
industry and imagination, and could probably be redeemed with a
fierce enough effort. I woke up to the realization of how
ludicrous that was.
Bruni’s issues are far worse than what I’ve been through, but this really hit home for me.