The Beauty of Dusk

On the morning of Christmas Eve 2018, after getting out of the shower, I couldn't see very well. The vision in my right eye was clouded by large blind spots, scattered gray areas, splotches of nothingness. I initially thought I was suffering from an optic migraine, which I have experienced several times throughout my life. But the blind spots didn't go away. During that night's Christmas Eve service, all I could do was to keep wondering, "Why can't I see out of my right eye? What has happened? Lord, why this blindness?" Needless to say, my Christmas that year was a bit more anxious than normal.

Because of the holiday, I couldn't get in to see an optic specialist until after January 1. From him I learned that sometime during my sleep on the night of December 23 I had suffered a stroke to the optic nerve in my right eye. The technical term for my condition is NAION: non-arteritic ischemic optic neuropathy. Thankfully, I was on sabbatical for the spring semester of 2019. I ended up spending a huge chunk of that term in and out of doctor's offices and hospital testing rooms. What was supposed to have been a period of writing a book, ended up being a time of getting pricked and prodded, scanned and studied.

For nearly five years now, I've been mostly blind in my right eye. The optic nerve specialist whom I visit twice a year has told me that there's about a 15% chance that I will suffer a stroke to the other eye as well. It turns out that I was born with abnormally narrow retinal blood vessels, the ones leading to the optic nerve in each eye. Ah, those blessed genes! Nevertheless, so far, so good--other than the blindness in the right eye, which, barring a miracle, will remain permanent. (Btw, my optic nerve specialist happens to be a close friend of a friend of mine who graduated a few years ahead of me at Concordia Seminary, St. Louis. Small world. The Doc and I occasionally discuss a little theology in between our focusing on optic issues.) 

While I can still see a little out of my right eye (which used to be the stronger of the two), most of that right-eye vision is dark and gray and blurry, a milky cloudiness. It's been a real cross to bear. But I'm managing. My brain has adjusted so that my left eye is doing a double load, so to speak.

For the first few years, I suffered pretty bad headaches most days, mainly as a result of the challenges of reading and working on my computer for long hours. Using a very large monitor (and enlarging my documents to 200%), I have been able to keep on writing. In fact, since 2018 I've published three books, totaling more than 2,000 pages. But I'd be lying if I said it has been easy. Much of that writing has been downright painful. The right-eye vision has been just good enough to interfere with the left eye's better vision. The result: some nasty headaches. Depth perception is non-existent. I have a lot more bruises, too, the product of accidentally running into things that I don't see on my right. I try not to drive at night. But now, after my brain has had a few years to adjust to the blindness, I don't suffer as much discomfort as I did earlier--or at least I know now when to stop reading and typing, and  when to give my one good eye a rest.

What Frank Bruni suffered and has written about so eloquently in his recent book, The Beauty of Dusk, is what I have been facing each day. (Mr. Bruni also experienced a stroke to the optic nerve in his right eye, in 2017.) I highly recommend his book, which is about more than just the loss of his vision and the challenges it has created for him. (He had been a columnist for The New York Times, and now he teaches journalism at Duke.) In that book he writes about a number of people who suffer from various levels of blindness. I was heartened and encouraged by the stories he narrates, including his own autobiographical reflections. 

I should add that my dad became legally blind after suffering a terrible battle injury in the Korean War. He was mostly blind from the age of 19 until his death at the age of 73. So his example of living many decades with near blindness, of leading a remarkably full and active life with only one half-way decent eye, has been encouraging to me as well. There's not a day that goes by when I don't think, "If Dad could live his life the way he did, I should be able to do so, too. Just take each day as Dad did, one day at a time." If my dad were still alive, he'd have been a good candidate for a Bruni interview!

The stroke I suffered in 2018 was not a Christmas gift I had wanted to receive that year. It's not the kind of set-back you want anyone to get in any year! But I have grown to see it as a gift of sorts. In a basic way, my partial blindness has led me to be otherwise grateful for things I had previously taken for granted. I'm grateful for the vision I still have. I'm grateful when I wake up each morning and can still see relatively well out of my left eye, that I can then see my beautiful wife across the breakfast table. I'm grateful that I have had to slow down in my reading, to slow down in my writing. I have to pay closer attention to details, to work hard at developing more patience. I'm now a strong proponent of "slow reading" and "slow writing." I think I'm a bit more patient and empathetic with students of mine who suffer from dyslexia or from other vision challenges. I'm grateful to learn from people who are blind, some of whom I've met in a doctor's waiting room, to be inspired by how they are navigating with their disability, with their cross. This blindness, this earthly cross I've been bearing, has taught me to see things in a new way.  I agree with Bruni: there is a new beauty that one can experience from such a loss. I am learning, slowly, the truth and wisdom conveyed in St. Paul's statements in Philippians 4:11-13 and 2 Corinthians 12:7-10. (That Paul wrote the ending to his letter to the Galatians "in such large letters," suggests that he likely suffered from a vision problem as well, maybe as a result of the blinding revelation of the risen Christ that he received on the road to Damascus.)