The afternoon of May in 2002 was pleasantly cool. At 19, I drove to Westport beach in Washington with some friends to spend a day by the ocean.
As a child, I was an enthusiastic gymnast, constantly performing backflips and lively routines. As I grew older, I maintained the habit of performing cartwheels whenever I encountered an open space. On that day at the beach, with the soft, flat sand beneath me, I found it impossible to resist.
I managed to complete 13 in succession, bursting into laughter afterward. My friend hurried over to assist me, chuckling as well. Overwhelmed by dizziness, I realized something unusual: I was unable to see my friend’s face. It appeared as a vibrant orange streak. My peripheral vision appeared to be fine, yet when I concentrated directly on her, I noticed a lack of details. I shook my head, yet the feeling lingered on.
We joked that perhaps I should attempt 13 cartwheels in the opposite direction to clear my mind. I reclined on a blanket, and we lingered at the beach for an additional hour, yet my vision remained unchanged. I felt a bit uneasy, yet I made an effort to remain composed. I felt fine and reassured my friends not to be concerned.
I started to feel anxious only when we strolled down a shopping street later that day and I struggled to read even basic signs. Whenever I attempted to concentrate on the text or the details, an incessant orange blur clouded my sight. Upon returning home in the evening, I recounted to my mum the events that had transpired. She expressed her concern and mentioned that if it remained serious in the morning, we would head to the hospital. I attempted to persuade myself that rest could be beneficial.
However, the following morning, it seemed even more unbearable. My stepdad observed that I was having difficulty with basic tasks and took me to the emergency room. Upon reviewing my eyes, the doctors initially diagnosed me with sun damage to my retinas, indicating that it could take a few weeks for healing to occur. Learning this was quite unsettling, particularly with my final exams approaching.
It ended up being even more dreadful than I had anticipated. Upon consulting an ophthalmologist, it was revealed that I had ruptured blood vessels in my macula, the central region of the retina that is crucial for detailed vision. The quantity of blood was minimal – akin to a small ink dot – yet sufficient to obstruct my central vision. She mentioned that healing would likely take much longer than two weeks; if I was fortunate, I could expect to regain my sight in three months. I was legally blind; driving, completing my studies, or watching TV were not options for me. I felt utterly crushed.
I found myself depending on others for basic tasks, like preparing lunch or sending a message. I seldom ventured outside. My friends gathered around, and I made an effort to remain optimistic, but it was challenging.
After a lengthy period, the blood was gradually reabsorbed, and my vision slowly started to enhance. After three months, my central vision came back. The experience left a profound impression. I was diagnosed with early-onset macular degeneration, a condition that, at 42, gives me the vision of someone who is 80 years old.
In the subsequent years, I encountered less severe instances of vision loss. Once, it occurred during an enthusiastic singalong in the car with a friend, but only for a few days; another time, it happened while I was weeding blackberry bushes.
Upon becoming pregnant, I was informed that the stress of labor might provoke another episode. I chose to have a scheduled C-section because the idea of not being able to see my son during the first few months of his life was unbearable.
I never experienced anger regarding my condition; however, I sought clarity on the reasons behind its occurrence. My grandmother mentioned that a similar issue had impacted a distant family member, implying that it could be genetic.
Currently, my condition is being closely monitored by doctors, though there remains a risk of complications reoccurring. The idea of losing my eyesight forever is unbearable, as I can’t imagine what I would miss. I exercise with greater care and steer clear of activities that could lead to a sudden rush of blood to my head.
More than twenty years have passed since I last tried a cartwheel. There are moments when I long for it. However, certain things are just not worth the gamble, regardless of the happiness they may have brought in the past.
