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 not something you should say. You should hide the fact that terrible disabilities are hell; you often hear, publicly from those who endure it like a Roman, 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 complete darkness) and whispered, "It's a living hell, to be honest Adam. If I lost hope for 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 kept her dignity, though, even when bumping into walls like a bumper car; her sense alive with color, the ground majestic 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 beautiful out there." Dying hasn't made her any 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.