A Hole In the Moon

It was a cold winter night and I was on my way to a parent association meeting with my two kids, age 8 and 11, who although excited to leave home at night weren't so happy to be headed to their local public school. I was also growing weary of the routine and reevaluating why I had decided to be co-president. It was a thankless job that few embarked on and now I could see why. How many months had we been having the same meeting over and over again, lasting for two hours, with no resolution in sight.

My eldest, a defector from the school the year prior, too many cut and paste projects, did what I called our ceremonial dance. She took my arm and walked next to me while my youngest kept mentioning any uneven patch of cement that might pose a potential stumbling block. Looking at the scene, being a part of the scene, I felt like a deflated balloon. I told my eldest to go ahead with her sister. She held on for a second longer then started to let go. As she removed her fingers from my arm I knew what I was doing was the right thing, I couldn’t keep her back. I watched my eldest as she ran up to my youngest and together they went jumping over twigs, hitting leaves, crunching them as they went by. Most of my central vision was intact so I slowed my pace and made sure to turn my eyes in every direction possible before I took a step.

I walked like this for several blocks. Passing cracked cement, light poles, and what I have come to fear most, fire hydrants. For someone like me a fire hydrant is akin to a kid who sticks out his foot at the very last minute hoping to trip whoever might be walking by. Once, while walking with my husband, I tripped over a fire hydrant and fell. It was such an awkward moment, the fire hydrant had been to my left, big and fat, and painted a hideous red. How could I not have seen it? I filed it away in my brain under 'forget as soon as possible.' And that's what I did, at least until I was diagnosed. Then, memories like that came cascading down around me, often filling my brain so I forgot all the good and focused only on the bad. Tonight, I looked up at the moon hoping to be reminded of Harold, and all of his wonderful adventures chasing after the moon with his purple crayon.

But this was to be a very different night.

As I glanced up at the moon, I didn't recognize it. The moon looked like a sphere with an oval hole poked through one side. Around the edges of the hole where brown and when I looked through the hole I could still see the other side of the moon. The edges reminded me of a piece of paper that had been burnt by a match, various shades of brown and black, ready to fall apart the minute they were touched. I was at first startled then mortified.

I called to my kids who were rather far ahead of me. My eldest started back first with my youngest some distance behind her.

Does the moon look weird to you," I asked my kids, who at this point were looking at me oddly. I guess wondering what I was seeing that they had not.

They turned and looked up at the moon.

My youngest quickly said, “No.”

My eldest scanned it a little longer before gently replying, "No."

My eldest then asked, "What do you see mommy?"

Without thinking I replied, " The moon, it looks like someone burnt a hole through one side." It reminded me of a piece of paper that had been burnt through with a cigarette. But this was the moon not a piece of paper. I turned my head to view the moon from several different angles. I closed one eye, then the other. The moon, it still looked like it had been burnt. But now I also saw a faint resemblance to an eye. There were brown and red lines running through the moon. I had never seen anything like it.

“Do you see the lines?” I asked.

My eldest replied, “ I see the craters.”

“They don’t look like craters, they look something like veins or arteries, except they are brown like that have been lightly scorched by fire.” I said

Realizing I was close to a branch that might have been playing odd tricks with my eyes I walked until I had a clear view of the sky, my kids following behind me, then I looked up. It looked the same, the lovely luminous moon, shining in all its glory, was burnt, with veins bulging outward, but only through my eyes.

I Don't Know Where To Begin

I'm going blind from an eye disease called retinitis pigmentosa, yet still I want to write. How crazy must I be to want to pursue a profession in a field where even those who can see are often forced to wait tables to support their family? But I suppose saying it on paper at least gives me some clarity. For those who don't know, retinitis pigmentosa is an eye disease that causes the rods and cones in my retina to die, sometimes quickly, but most often slowly, very slowly. My diagnosis came not from a retina specialist but from a nuero ophthalmologist in the form of medical jargin. And it stated, “Bone spicule-shaped pigment deposits are present in the mid periphery.” The translation or in laymen terminology, my photoreceptors were degenerating or not functioning properly. And this meant that things were disappearing in the front of my eyes, and on both sides too. The results were confirmed by an electroretinography test, which involved using a machine that relied on a contraption connected to contact lenses which were placed in my eyes and measured my eyes response to a variety of light stimuli. Prognosis, you wouldn’t want to be crossing the street with me behind the wheel, odds are I’d see you only when I hit you.

Truth be told, I knew something wasn’t quite right before that piece of paper ever hit my fingertips. I knew before the neurologist sent me to the nuero-opthamologist, before the ophthalmologist sent me to the neurologist. Before I started bumping into green metal poles 10 feet high positioned on the sidewalk alerting drivers about alternate side of the street parking. I just hadn’t figured that the condition was irreversible or perhaps I had known it all along and that was why I read The Man Who Mistook His Wife For A Hat so many times.

My first inkling that something wasn't quite right came one night while I was outside playing with other kids in my neighborhood. They weren’t my friends, not because I hadn’t tried, they’d probably smelled my desperation like the lingering scent of some badly cleaned up poop on the side of the road. I was eight: Pink bike, two ponytails, and lenses that hadn’t been purchased by someone who cared that coolness was judged by the thickness of ones’ lens. The kids in my neighborhood were watching a cat intently as it ran across several front yards darting around shrubs and trees in pursuit of a rather large dog. I on the other hand had no idea what was going on with the dog and although I joined in their laughter I felt like an outsider. I couldn't see the cat, and yes it was really there. It would be years, 27 to be exact, before I would understand why.

I don't know how to begin so I guess I'll begin in the thick of it.