In my mother's hospital room, a white piece of paper is poorly taped on the wall above her bed with a message in all black capital letters. It reads: "LEGALLY BLIND."
It's the only thing I can see in the room; my eyes refusing to look anywhere else once they've locked onto it. The sign snuck up on me by surprise, having not been told that my mother is blind before this moment. I can feel my eyes starting to dry up as they remain open for a record amount of time. Part of me wants to blink. Maybe if I do, I will see a different message when my eyes open back up. Part of me fears what happens when my eyes do close; fearing the darkness that will suddenly take over during that brief second of a necessary bodily function that occurs between two, now apparently privileged, moments of vision.
My eyes refuse to leave that sign and find their way back to my mother. No one says anything about the sign, but I feel it has already told me everything. I start to wonder whether I'd be closer to my mother with my eyes back on her or if closing them would actually give me a truer connection to her. But even with my eyes closed, some light pierces through, as if to tell me they belong open. It's as if the world wants me to use my nearly perfect vision to view my mother's state of complete blindness. How unfair it seems. How unfair it is.
Back of the line.
My father briefly pauses before opening the door of my mother's hospital room. There is a quick moment of silence in him that has defined his communication skills all my life. Silence has always been his go-to tool for any situation, but this time I feel it might be something more. Something I might be afraid of, but am already too scared to attempt to dissect. Instead, I let the silence do all the talking. My head nods uncontrollably as if it is trying to tell someone that I completely understand. But I don't. I'm last in line to go in. I'm lost without guidance.
When my dad's hand finally turns the doorknob, he quickly enters the room, as if he needs to go in and hide something from my brother and me before we follow. The room is very dark, giving off the feeling of a place where not much has happened in a long time. This atmosphere only seems fitting since I have yet to be able to visit till right now. It makes me feel like it only started existing when I entered the room. And from my perspective, it has.
Despite the darkness, my father does not bother turning on any lights. My brother moves to the side of my mother's bed and attempts to talk to her, only to find out that she is sleeping. His attention then turns to the bag of McDonald's my father has placed on the side table, hoping its smell will wake her up for lunch. Standing close to the bed, my eyes quickly scan my mother for a spot that is both recognizable and free of anything that reminds me of why I dislike hospitals so much. Her body is mostly covered by a blanket that I can tell my father brought, based on its quality and familiar scent. My eyes catch the sight of her left arm, donned with an IV and the attached tube that makes me squirm. Then my eyes lock onto the right arm, attached to another machine for testing purposes. Working together, both eyes move to her head.
There, I don't see what I want to see. The face I remember, the smile I miss, and the sign of recognition I have been longing for since she left our house are all missing. Instead, my vision is awarded the sight of more tubes, around the mouth, in the nose, caught behind an ear. I blink and use that moment of darkness to slightly move my head, in hopes to position my eyes to be ready for a better picture, and to forget what I have just seen. When they open, I am met with her forehead, the only spot on her face completely void of any contraption. It's beautiful. It's so great that her hair is in a mess, trying to cover it up. Each strand fighting with the other, to be a part of the wonderful masterpiece of sight my eyes have laid upon.
