Chapter 1 – Why has nobody sent you to the Emergency Room!?

Through Darkness and Light: The Story of My Blindness

It’s funny how life has a way of playing with symbolism. The beginning of this chapter in my life was shrouded in darkness, and so was the end, though the two kinds of darkness could not have been more different.

I was 34 years old when I lost my sight to a brain tumor. But blindness wasn’t the t the only struggle I faced. This is my story, one filled with trials, emotions, surprises, and triumphs.

The First Darkness

The first darkness wasn’t physical it was mental. Depression had settled over my life like an unshakable fog. I couldn’t understand why. On paper, I had everything: a high-paying job as a Director of Technology at a Houston-based marketing firm, close friends, and a family I loved. But none of it mattered. I felt lost, exhausted, and numb.

My days followed the same miserable pattern. I’d start work at 9 a.m. from my home office, just a desk in my living room. I put in the effort, but every task felt like an uphill battle. By lunchtime, I wasn’t hungry just overwhelmingly tired. I’d collapse into bed, waking up only to drag myself through the rest of my workday.

At 6 p.m., I would order the same meal: chicken and broccoli from a local Chinese place, Bamboo Spice. By 7 p.m., I would eat, and by 8 p.m., I was asleep again, only to wake up and repeat the cycle.

Day after day, week after week, this pattern continued. My exhaustion was constant, and I assumed depression was the culprit. I was too tired to care otherwise.

The First Sign

Then, one morning, I woke up to something strange, a small, black spot in my left eye. It floated there, unmoving. I should have panicked, but exhaustion dulled my reactions. I was too tired to be anything more than vaguely concerned.

A few days later, I finally mustered enough energy to Google it. A floater, the internet said. The advice? Wait it out. If it disappeared, no need to worry.

So I waited. And sure enough, it vanished. I forgot all about it, slipping back into my haze of work and sleep.

The Descent

A month passed in a blur. Then, something new began to happen. Every so often, my vision would flicker, brief moments where I couldn’t see clearly. It lasted only seconds, and I dismissed it.

But the episodes grew worse. My vision would go completely blurry for 8 to 10 seconds at a time, happening more frequently each day. Still, I ignored it, convinced it would fix itself.

Meanwhile, my depression deepened. I was reaching a dangerous place, calling friends at night just to keep my mind occupied, terrified of what I might do if I was alone for too long. My body was shutting down, and now, so was my vision.

The Wake-Up Call

One morning, I realized something terrifying, my right eye’s peripheral vision was completely blurred.

I couldn’t ignore it anymore. That day, I made an appointment with my primary care physician.

My doctor was concerned but not alarmed. He referred me to an ophthalmologist. Over multiple appointments, the eye doctor ran tests, but my vision continued to deteriorate. Every day, I lost a little more.

Then, one morning, I woke up to find my world shrinking. My right eye could see nothing but a pinhole of clarity. My left eye was starting to lose its peripheral vision as well.

That was the day I knew, I could no longer drive.

For the first time in my life, I called an Uber.

The Wrong Answers

At my next ophthalmologist appointment, the doctor seemed unsure. He did a few tests, then, unbelievably, started Googling on his phone.

“I think it might be cat scratch fever,” he said finally.

He prescribed antibiotics and casually mentioned that I might need an MRI. When I told him I couldn’t afford one, he brushed it off and instead referred me to a neurologist. Then, after handing me the appointment details, he asked how I had gotten there.

When I mentioned the Uber, he seemed surprised. Only now did it occur to him that I was functionally blind.

The Breaking Point

By the time I arrived at the neurologist’s office, I was clinging to the last scraps of my sight. My left eye had been reduced to a pinhole, and my right eye was completely gone.

The neurologist didn’t waste time on pleasantries.

“Did you drive here?” she asked immediately.

I shook my head.

Then she glanced at my paperwork and frowned. “Are you lying about what you can see?”

I stared at her, dumbfounded. Was she seriously accusing me of exaggerating my blindness?

She picked up the reports from my ophthalmologist and started reading. And that was when I saw it. The moment everything changed.

The color drained from her face.

Her voice was sharp now. “Did your ophthalmology st order an MRI?”

Panic settled into my stomach like a lead weight. My brain scrambled for an answer. No, he hadn’t. Or, wait. He had, but I couldn’t afford it. That part had slipped my mind in the rush of everything.

She stood abruptly. Her chair scraped against the floor.

“I can’t believe no one has sent you to the emergency room,” she said, shaking her head. Sit down. I’m calling for a wheelchair.”

And just like that, my life was about to change forever.

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