COLUMN: By almost going blind, I finally learned to see

From Alan Lowinger's, "The Rest of the Story," Fall '00 From Alan Lowinger's, "The Rest of the Story," Fall '00I was losing sight in one eye, and I was powerless to stop it. There was nothing at all ominous about the day. Some study-abroad friends and I had decided to head down to Jerusalem for the celebration of Israeli Independence Day. Arriving at the only area hospital dealing with eye emergencies, I timidly walked over to my assigned doctor. Completely scared out of my mind, I could think nothing more than, "Please don't tell me that this is permanent. Let me know that I will see again." The doctor was surprisingly pleasant for a 4 a.m. emergency. Using my best Hebrew, I explained that over the past four hours the sight in my left eye had deteriorated to the point that I could only detect lights and blurred images. She explained that some corrupt marketers sell rat poison or pesticide that looks and foams like "snow in a can" -- the culprit had been found. She calmed me and told me there were significant burns to my cornea and my pupil, and she would medicate my eye the best she could. After 20 minutes of hell, she placed a bulky self-adhesive patch over my ailing left eye and wished me the best. It would only be an emergency situation if there was no improvement by the next day. As I was leaving, I noticed the next patient -- a tall man accompanied by a gorgeous woman. She tried her hardest to hold him up. He was slumping over as he walked, cupping his hands over one of his eyes and sobbing uncontrollably. "It got him, too," or so I thought. The next day was extremely strenuous. It was difficult to find my way around with only one eye; try it for even a half-hour, and you'll realize how important a second eye is. Even worse, wherever I went, I felt a sea of eyes follow me. I did not want this hideous handicap to be the center of attention, and yet, it drew stares like a magnet. Some laughed at me, some gawked and some could not stand to look. A white cotton patch on my eye, and suddenly I was the town freak. The fear was overwhelming. Twenty-four hours before, my life was going perfectly: sipping a perfect beer with perfect friends and in perfect health. The thought of being handicapped for the rest of my life was all too much to bear. The double-edged sword of being handicapped reared its ugly head; not only would I have to change my lifestyle, but I would have to deal with the way society would treat me in the aftermath. A stranger approached me and asked about the eye. "I heard about the eye -- I'm really really sorry. That was a cheap shot." Quite puzzled, I asked the man how he knew about my injury. He replied, "I was there at the Rock Bar and I saw that guy do that to you. Are you OK"? At that point, I realized that this man had me confused with another. The story became clear: The day before, an American had gotten into a fight with another young man in a bar, and the American had a broken bottle deliberately shoved in his eye in the ensuing scuffle. My thoughts raced back to the scene in the hospital. That crying man must have been the one about whom this stranger was talking. Chills ran down my spine. Later that day, taking off the patch with trembling hands, a miracle occurred: I could see again. Not perfectly, but well enough. And thus I started on the road to complete recovery and re-entered the friendly world of obscurity. A tremendous sigh of relief followed. The rest of the day was characterized by my writing in an otherwise-empty journal: "I gained a perspective today that will last me a lifetime. I wore the guise of a handicap for only one day, and for him [that poor American], this is one costume he'll never take off. We both had little control over our situations, I was just a little luckier, I guess. The thin line separating [society's notion of] freak and normal is often more fragile than any of us can comprehend. Is he too short, missing a tooth or limb? Is she too tall, too obese? Let's find them, and alienate them. They don't deserve respect anyway." Night fell again and my ears were drawn to beautiful music. I noticed that the musician was missing a leg and sat on a wheelchair next to a sign that read something like, "This is my income." He played typical Independence Day songs, if only a day too late. That night, I emptied my pockets for the stranger whose plight I had known for only a brief moment.