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adam thorpe on her blindness
adam thorpe on her blindness
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
Adam Thorpe on her blindness
My mother couldn't stand being blind, to be honest. People don't usually say it. People tend to hide that severe disabilities are awful; you usually hear from those who endure it like a stoic, or find some joy in the struggle. She once turned to me, in a Paris restaurant, still unable to find the food on her plate with her fork, or not able to keep it on (try it in total darkness) and whispered, "It's a living hell, to be honest Adam. If I lost hope for a cure, I'd end my own life." I don't remember what I said, but it was probably the usual comfort, inadequate: the helpless son. She maintained her dignity, even when bumping into walls like a bumper car; her senses alive with color, the ground covered 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 hasn't made her any more blind, but now she can't pretend. Her eyes were closed in the coffin; it was up to us to believe she was watching, somewhere, in the end