LEARNING

to SEE
What Counts
By Ingrid Ricks
Going blind SUCKS. So does walking into an eye doctor’s office for the first time in your life with trendy
red cat-eye frames already picked out, only to be told that you’ve got a serious problem that no glasses
– regardless of how good they look on you – are going to fix.

I was thirty-seven when I was diagnosed with Retinitis Pigmentosa, a degenerative eye disease that first
steals your night vision, then knocks out your peripheral vision, then usually takes what’s left. I should
have guessed something was wrong when I sideswiped a car on the freeway after looking into the right
lane and seeing nothing. But it was dark and raining, and I chalked it up to that. It wasn’t until I played
racquetball with my husband a few weeks later and couldn’t score a point that it occurred to me
something wasn’t right.

“You can’t chase the ball with your eyes,” my husband coached, acting as though I had never played
before. “Just pick a spot on the wall and watch for the ball with your peripheral vision.”

When the ball whizzed by my head a minute later and I didn’t see it, my husband – who often
commented on my tendency to bump into things – suggested it was time to get my eyes checked. I
agreed, figuring a cute pair of glasses couldn’t be all bad.

Even after the eye doctor gazed into the back of my eyes and quietly informed me that what he saw
resembled a rare degenerative eye disease, I wasn’t overly concerned because I had gotten by just fine
until now and figured if I did have RP – which he admitted he wasn’t sure about – I was in the very the
beginning stages. But I knew it was serious when I saw a nurse whispering about me to the retinal
specialist my eye doctor had recommended, then heard my name called ahead of a whole roomful of
patients with scary-looking eye patches, walkers and canes.

By the way they were acting, I was suddenly convinced I had a brain tumor – a possibility I had
uncovered during the countless Google searches I had done in the week since my first eye appointment.
So I was initially relieved when the ancient-looking specialist announced that I had all the classic signs of
RP. That is until he told me that I was already legally blind, asked me how I’d ever managed to get by on
such limited eyesight, chastised me for waiting so long to get my eyes checked, and then propped me up
like a monkey, trained what felt like a car light on my inner eye balls, forced my eyelids open and invited
a string of residents to get an up-close look at an advanced case of RP.
“What resources do you recommend?” I asked at the end of my torture session, rattling off the list of
vision-enhancing nutritional supplements I’d found during my Internet searches. Given that he was the
RP expert, I figured he would be a wealth of knowledge. Instead of counseling me on the best vitamin
brands, he scribbled down the phone number to the Center for the Blind and shoved it into my hand.

“Here,” he said. “I’ve yet to discover a vitamin or anything else that’s made any real difference with RP.
Medical help is at least twenty years out and it’s not likely to benefit you anyway. I’m sorry.”

“What about driving?” I pleaded, sucking in my breath like a two-year-old.

“You seem like an intelligent woman,” he said, already turning toward the door. “What do you think?”

I spent the next week huddled in my basement sobbing. I mourned the vision I had lost, but mostly I
cried because I was terrified about what awaited me. I cried out of fear I wouldn’t see my two
daughters, barely five and two, grow up. I cried about lost future candlelight dinners with my husband
and about the burden I feared I would become to him. I cried because I couldn’t drive anymore and
because I was scared I wouldn’t be able to work. I cried over lost sunsets and ocean views and any other
beautiful scenery or image I would miss out on. I cried until finally it occurred to me that I could still see
and that maybe, instead of mourning the unknown future, I should concentrate on Now.

It’s been nearly seven years since I discovered that my tunnel-vision eyesight wasn’t merely a reflection
of what friends have often joked is my tunnel-focused personality. In that time, my vision has shrunk
from a ten-degree to five-degree visual field – fueling a determined quest to halt the progression of the
disease and preserve what precious eyesight I still have. Having concluded that the retinal specialist was
bad for my health, I’ve instead sought out every alternative treatment I can find. I’ve changed my diet, I
down Chinese herbs, I undergo acupuncture, I ingest cocktails of vitamins, I stare into a color therapy
lamp, I pump electrical micro currents into my eyes, and I try to do daily eye exercises.

In a world of fading vision, I’ve encountered plenty of things to avoid. They include coffee shops that
allow dogs – one belly flop onto a hard cement floor amid a Saturday morning coffee crowd is enough;
treadmills – flying off of one at six miles an hour hurts; stairs without rails, crowds, darkness and
negative people.

But I’ve also discovered there’s plenty to embrace. Every day I look at my two daughters, now eleven
and eight, and soak in their amazing beauty, their smiles, and their zest for life. I walk a lot, which
means I’ve gotten to know my Seattle neighborhood and the neighbors in it, and I’m in good shape as a
result. I eat better, have grown to love spinach, and even have my eight-year-old daughter craving
salmon and salad. I’ve learned to accept help from people who extend an arm when it’s dark, and I
treasure my friends who offer a listening ear and encouragement when I’m down but know that the
words Seeing Eye Dog, White Cane and Braille aren’t in my vocabulary. I’ve also learned that I have an
incredible husband who doesn’t shy from adversity, that hope is power, and that living fully in the
moment is the best defense against fear.

I’m still feeling my way around this world of semi-darkness. During an evening party a month ago, I
spent an hour talking with a woman, only to introduce myself to her a few minutes after we had parted
ways because I didn’t realize we had met. The next night, after tucking my daughters into bed and
making myself some tea, I went searching the house for my latest issue of The New Yorker. I rounded a
dark corner too sharply, smashed into the divider wall, and cracked open my forehead – leaving an inch-
long vertical gash extending mid-forehead to my eyebrow. My husband cleaned up the blood and
cinched up the wound as tight as he could with a bandage, then warned me I might not want to look in
the mirror.

Gazing at my reflection the other day, I found myself lamenting over the fact that the new scar on my
face wasn’t going away. Then it occurred to me that the alternative was not seeing the scar at all.

That’s when I discovered something new to embrace. Because every time I see the scar, I’m reminded
to stay vigilant about doing everything I can to save my remaining eyesight. But I’m also reminded to
focus on what matters in life – my family, my friends, this moment. And I know now that’s the vision
that counts most.

Ingrid Ricks is working on a memoir about her journey with RP. Her agent is
currently shopping her first memoir, HIPPIE BOY: A DAUGHTER’S MEMOIR, to
publishers. HIPPIE BOY is a compelling true story about a feisty teenage girl who
escapes her abusive Mormon stepfather by joining her free-wheeling dad on the
road as a tool-selling vagabond — until his arrest forces her to take charge of her
life. For more information, visit www.ingridricks.com or read excerpts on Scribd:
Hippie Boy – Chapter 1, Running From the Mormons, and Arrested.