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My mother could not bear being blind,My mother could not bear being blind
My mother could not bear being blind, to be honest. One shouldn’t say it.
One should hide the fact that catastrophic handicaps are hell; one tends to hear,
publicly from those who bear it like a Roman, or somehow find joy
in the fight. She turned to me, once, in a Paris restaurant, still not finding
the food on the plate with her fork, or not so that it stayed on (try it
in a pitch-black room) and whispered, “It’s living hell, to be honest Adam.
If I gave up hope of a cure, I’d bump myself off.” I don’t recall what I replied,
but it must have been the usual sop, inadequate: the locked-in son.
She kept her dignity, though, even when bumping into walls like a dodgem; her sense
My mother could not bear being blind, to be honest. One shouldn’t say it.
One should hide the fact that catastrophic handicaps are hell; one tends to hear,
publicly from those who bear it like a Roman, or somehow find joy
in the fight. She turned to me, once, in a Paris restaurant, still not finding
the food on the plate with her fork, or not so that it stayed on (try it
in a pitch-black room) and whispered, “It’s living hell, to be honest Adam.
If I gave up hope of a cure, I’d bump myself off.” I don’t recall what I replied,
but it must have been the usual sop, inadequate: the locked-in son.
She kept her dignity, though, even when bumping into walls like a dodgem; her sense
ablaze with colour, the ground royal with leaf-fall. I told her this, forgetting,
as she sat too weak to move, staring at nothing. “Oh yes, I know,” she said,
“it’s lovely out there.” Dying has made her no more sightless, but now she can’t
pretend. Her eyelids were closed in the coffin; it was up to us to believe
she was watching, somewhere, in the end.
My mother couldn't handle being blind, truthfully. It's something you shouldn't say.
You should hide that terrible disabilities are hell; you often hear,
publicly from those who endure it like a stoic, or somehow find joy
in the struggle. She turned to me, once, in a Paris restaurant, still unable to find
the food on her plate with her fork, or not so that it stayed on (try it
in a completely dark room) and whispered, "It's living hell, to be honest Adam.
If I lost hope of a cure, I'd end my life." I don't remember what I replied,
but it must have been the usual comfort, inadequate: the trapped son.
She maintained her dignity, though, even when bumping into walls like a bumper car; her sense
alive with color, the ground regal with fallen leaves. I told her this, forgetting,
as she sat too weak to move, staring at nothing. "Oh yes, I know," she said,
"it's lovely out there." Dying has made her no more blind, but now she can't
pretend. Her eyelids were closed in the coffin; it was up to us to believe
she was watching, somewhere, in the end.