Photo by Mikita Yo on Unsplash

My diagnosis of retinitis pigmentosa at age 16 devastated me. In that moment, I began the long journey of accepting my prognosis, the doctor’s shocking prediction that I would be blind by 40. I had to learn to become comfortable in this new life which would make me vulnerable. Navigating through this gradual progression of vision loss humbled me, teaching me that blindness is not a purely physical trait. Everyone is blind in some way, and we all must accept and even embrace our weaknesses.

When I noticed my night vision was disappearing, I was in my twenties and enjoying a fun social life. My feelings of uncertainty grew as my vision deteriorated. One evening, my date thought a gondola ride through Little Naples in Long Beach would make for a romantic experience. It was a lovely surprise, except that it was dark by the time we reached the waterfront. I gulped, knowing that I hadn’t been truthful about my vision loss, and told myself, “Nancy, you can do this.” He carried all the groceries, asking me to help him with the rest. I fished around in the back seat for a blanket and champagne he’d brought, grabbed his arm, and off we went. Soon, we got to a skinny ramp leading down to the water where I realized we would have to go single file, and I panicked. I really needed his arm to guide me, but that wasn’t possible. There was a brief debate after which he talked me into letting him go first.

I had evidently faked my visual abilities through the first date in fine fashion, but this time, I was walking in pitch dark with only the light of the moon bouncing off his hair to guide me. I followed his bobbing, shiny head as best I could until I lost sight of him. I walked with full confidence right off the dock into the water, along with the champagne, the blanket, and my pride.

The man in the boat yelled, “This has never happened before!” I rolled my eyes, thinking, “You’ve never met Nancy before.” He asked me if I was all right. It became a full-on rescue. They pulled me out of the water. The gondola operator found me another blanket, and I shivered in the boat, thinking how my ego got in the way. As we started to row off, there I was, drenched; nevertheless, I was giggling inside, knowing my friends would find this scene hilarious. Still, I had to admit, “I put myself here.” I had wanted to hold onto my independence for as long as I could, but I hadn’t yet come to terms with the strength that comes from learning to laugh at myself.

Later, in Marina Del Rey, I was on a first date at a French Bistro. Again, I hadn’t gone into my eye condition with this new guy. I had learned to arrive early, choosing the seating, talking to the server to let them know about my visual impairment. I had everything covered. My date arrived, joined me on the patio, and I ordered the salmon.

At this point, I should tell you that I can’t see faces. I see light and dark, so I can see contrasts. For instance, if I look at pictures framed and hung on a wall, I can see a dark, square thing against a white wall. I can see that someone is holding something but not what they’re holding. I can sense and see a physical presence although not details of their appearance.

So, at the restaurant, when the food came, I was looking at my plate, but I couldn’t see anything on it. Nothing was defined.

I thought, “Come on, Nancy, you know what you ordered. You have salmon, green beans, and salad. Pull yourself together.”

I tried using the edge of my fork to serve up a portion of what I thought was salmon. It was kind of a big piece, so I stabbed it multiple times and finally put it in my mouth. Immediately, I realized I had taken an extra-large bite of half a lemon.

“Now I have a problem,” I thought. “This lemon is killing me.” My glands were tightening up. That lemon had to go. My date must have seen the tortured look on my face from the full-throttle power of the lemon’s citrus acid.

Still, not wanting to appear weak and vulnerable, I hesitated.

I could only imagine him thinking, “Out of all the things on her plate, did she really just dive into that lemon? Is she a lemon-freak?”

Somehow, I managed to spit out the sour fruit, demurely, into my napkin. Well, maybe not demurely. I’m pretty sure I wasn’t fooling anyone.

It would have been easy to give up. We can spend so much time preserving our dignity that we don’t see the humor in the situation, that perhaps others are waiting for us to embrace this part of ourselves so they can be comfortable, too.

But then there are the weird people.

After I received my guide dog, Frost, from Guide Dogs for the Blind, there was suddenly a huge visual cue to others that I was sight-impaired; The harness with a handle for me to use, the phrase “guide dog” on his vest — this imagery should serve as a cue to my situation. And yet, people can be so unseeing. There are two reactions, usually: People either won’t get out of the way, or they’ll run up and pet my dog even though they must know he is working — to help me navigate the street.

One time, I was waiting for a hamburger with Frost at my side in his harness, and a guy waiting in line said, “Is he your guide dog?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Are you training him?”

“No,” I answered. He’s my guide dog. I don’t see well.”

The guy asked, “How many fingers am I holding up?”

In that moment, I chose to say nothing back, thinking, I’d rather be blind than clueless.

I couldn’t get Frost until I could qualify for a guide dog — a certain level of vision loss is required for this stage, although, I could have used Frost on that gondola ride. There are times when it’s not feasible to bring him along, such as when I go into a bar to sing karaoke, which I do regularly.

Someone usually walks me up to the stage so they can help me face the crowd. More than once, this has not worked out well. One night, I was singing Britney Spears, but I must have turned toward the side of the bar where absolutely no one was sitting, and I belted out “Whoops I Did it Again,” to empty chairs. One Christmas, I sang Whitney Houston’s “I Will Always Love You,” but I was singing to an inflatable Santa that was bouncing up and down. The crowd must have thought I was really in love with Saint Nick. I’ve learned to laugh because vulnerability is a quality that inspires confidence — the ability to put others at ease — and this superpower has given me a “win” in life when it would have been easy to give up and quit.

People are funny and weird around someone with a disability. I’ve had ride-share drivers start whispering, treating me like I’m fragile. When I tell them I’m visually impaired, I often ask them to walk me to the door of a restaurant or meeting place, only to notice they lower their voices, taking on a serious tone with me like I’m a terminal patient — the way people talk at a funeral home. I often snap them out of this sense that I’m needy. If I’m in a cheeky mood, I might grab the arm of a skinny driver, compliment his muscles, and say, “Ooh, I get a driver and a bodyguard in one.” Getting others to laugh breaks the ice and keeps everything authentic. Most of the time, people don’t know what to say or how to act, so it’s up to me to make them feel comfortable.

I have little choice but see the humor in my life now. When I sold real estate, I kept my vision loss to myself. While I intentionally tried to memorize the geography of the property, I thought, “Who am I kidding? I’m legally blind.” My clients probably assumed I was accident-prone. They got used to the sound of impact from the times I ran head-first into a wall. Or the time I forgot about the sunken living room, missed the step, and landed on my face.

Truly, I’m a social person at heart. But all too often someone will say, “So, you have dogs?” I’ll say, “Yes!” And they’ll say, “I can see that. You kind of brought your dogs with you on your sweater.” We have a laugh, because who hasn’t shown up somewhere wearing their dog or cat as part of the ensemble? For that matter, who in this world isn’t truly vulnerable and real, as opposed to the fake image we feel we must present. Maybe if we accepted our own limitations, we would learn to embrace the diversity and complexity of the people we meet. We might even learn to accept that part of ourselves that makes us truly unique.