The Vision
“I’m no Helen Keller!” The narrator tells the reader early in this saga. WHY? A doctor’s experiments gave her sight just before school age. HOWEVER, "It’s NOT like the movies depict! You don’t just wake up form ‘landmark eye surgery’ and see clearly." This novel is based on a true story. In reality, Hope’s physical disabilities start by slowing her learning and chances at ‘the good life’ that education provides. Compounding her sight issues, her dad suffers with bipolar disorder wreaking havoc on her family life. Will Hope break her dysfunctional chains? What miracle- of medicine or faith- changes the direction of her life? Does this girl ever gain vision? Is it physical or spiritual? Why does Hope's story even matter? In spite of all her issues, this girl finds ways to rise to any occasion by stooping to honor other BEINGS- especially her image of God. What is THE VISION that sustains her?
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EXCERPT- Benchmark1: Blind Sighted
Being summertime, it felt as if the sun constantly shined. Due to the intense heat and surrounding bodies of water, humidity overflowed every crevice and corner it touched with vaporous warmth. By the afternoon, homes converted into saunas especially the dwellings without air conditioners, which in the late 1950s and early 1960 meant most houses felt the sun’s influence on their environment.
This situation self-corrected because, every afternoon, tropical storms invaded the peace of our neighborhood. These thunderous events full of lightning highlighted the glistening streams forming puddles as the buckets of water poured off rooftops. Those emerging tributaries changed to steam followed by misty figures dancing upward blurring the lowest point on the horizon.
Before tropical, weather disturbances; on summer mornings; everywhere; children made melodic sounds of play. Sometimes, if you listened closely, you could hear the voices of my parents or siblings chanting, “Car! Car! Spelt C-A-R!” This was done for my benefit; it allowed me to play in the yard without misjudging my safety near the roadside.
As a child, my whole world looked similar to the scenery after a summer thunderstorm. Being born legally blind, with an inability to clearly focus, one eye alternated from foggy and shadowy to near vision; psychedelic best describes its point of view. Meanwhile, my lazy eye caused me to misplace objects due to my total lack of depth perception. Commonly, my feet tripped on non-existent items bruising body parts as I skewed through door jams or tumbled over furniture as well as toys. My eyes could determine that shadowy objects existed but failed to pick up details and nuisances when working or not functioning as a team.
One day, while playing hide and seek, my abilities challenged me. It was my turn to count to one hundred then go search for my siblings and friends. My parents sat quietly observing as my head remained under my arms and against a nearby tree. After more than one hundred seconds, my father approached because he noticed my chest heaving in a rhythm.
“Honey, it has been long enough to go find the other children. What is wrong?” My father approached.
Water poured from my cheeks like rain off the rooftops while turning around; my mouth produced garbled words. “I want to play fair but I don’t know how to count high enough!”
He sent me off to search for the kids after assuring me that he trusted my integrity. When I found their secret places too soon after my turn began, my sister bellowed, “You cheater! You cheater!” My soul instantly knew that being called that name was bad! I raced away banging into a power pole before hitting the ground resuming my tears for a different reason. Next, she called me a cry baby, which added to the abyss between us forming early in life.
That night, our house was hot. Mom opted to open the jalousie windows allowing the sea breeze to infiltrate. With a bit of coaxing from our fans, a gentle breeze flowed. Long after sunset, my body argued with my pillow in search of peace. My psyche spent many restless nights begging for the ocean wafts to lull me into slumber. If that didn’t work, I’d daydream at night about nicer places and happier faces. At a young age, my fantasy began as a coping mechanism against my realities.
The next morning, I awoke to my mother packing a suitcase. “A vacation?” My thoughts whispered. The very thought excited me with private whimsy. After standing in the hall a few moments, while writing an adventure in my mind, my mother interrupted my happiness, “The doctors think they can help you see better, Hope. You’re headed to the hospital.”
I raced into her arms as fear gripped my soul. “Will I have to stay there alone, mommy?”
Entering the room, my father answered my fears, “We got special permission so that I can stay with you, there.”
Just as my nerves calmed, my mother told me the full procedure so that my mind could adjust to the idea. “He won’t be able to be in the operating room but daddy will spend the rest of the time with you.”
“And, you?”
“I will be at the hospital as much as possible but have to take care of your sister and younger brother.”
My chest heaved reminiscent of my day at the tree. “I want you, mommy!”
“Don’t worry, baby! I will be there as much as possible especially after you wake up from your operation!”
“What are they going to do to me, mommy?”
“They will fix your eyes. When you wake up from your operation, it will be dark.”
“Night?”
“No, dim because there will be bandages on your eyes,” She explained.
“I can see, already! Why are they going to make it dark so my eyes can’t see?”
“You don’t have the same vision that a normal person has, dear!” My father interjected.
What escaped me? What did they mean? I thought everyone saw things through a swirling blur.
After analyzing these things, my eyes did their tried and true trick. If I placed one hand over my left one, some distortion went away. If I did that all day long, my body tripped and bruised less.
Why couldn’t I survive today the same way I did yesterday?
On the long trip to the teaching hospital that my doctor and parents chose, I played with my hand over one eye and then the other. This game helped me noticed that if I squinted, my vision improved or did it? My mind possessed no guideline to properly make that decision. Nothing I did stopped the car from arriving at the hospital on schedule.
During my admission, voices haunted me. Moaning and groaning invaded my mind then heart. Looking around, even with my hand held over one eye, I couldn’t determine the source of the low-grade whine. Once in my room, realizing that the solemn noise came from other patients, my mind wondered if I’d sound like them after my operation.
Suddenly, a women burst into my room. Making out her figure but very little other details, my reaction followed just as swiftly, “Who are you?”
“I’m your nurse.”
As she puttered around grabbing parts of my body sometimes hurting them with stick pins, she dared ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Thinking of an opportunity to get even with her for this torture, my psyche responded, “Your nurse!” She only heard the nurse part clearly as I garbled my first word similarly to my vision.
So far in my life, the only women I encountered were the ones that helped soothe you when you were hurt and the ones like her that tried to act pleasant as they punctured your body. This woman left and didn’t close my door. Bodies wandered slowly by. Surely, some dropped off the edge of the hall into some kind of Hell because this place seemed like the beginning of a nightmare. My psyche wondered if my parents loved me, why this torture?
Glancing out the open door, one eye saw the nurses’ station- almost clearly. An elderly man bent over with one finger raised in protest. “I want it, now!” He proclaimed.
“Calm down. We’ll call your doctor to see if he will approve an extra painkiller. Now, let me take you back to your room to rest!” One of the nurses took charge.
As she ushered him from view, another lady exclaimed, “If that man doesn’t rest more peacefully, he is going to rest in peace!” I knew that ‘rest in peace’ meant death to someone. Troubling thoughts pursued me as my mind toyed with that thought. My eyes tried to determine which of the souls strolling past were on their way to the end of that hall. It worried me until the nagging subsided because I realized that the hall had two ends. One terminal certainly led to peace according to the nurses’ conversation overheard by my fully functioning ears.
That night, as we awaited the dawn and my procedure, my father walked with me in those halls; a better term to describe his actions might be paced. My dad seemed rather nervous and distant. He busily surveyed the corridor making sure he didn’t have to warn me of a pending disaster, “Patient! Patient! Spelt P-A-T-I-E-N-T!” As we walked, he repeatedly warned me not to stare and not to look into open doors. At four, I wasn’t old enough to respect the privacy of others.
Suddenly, the brisk actions of a nurse interrupted our stroll, “Get her back to her room. We have an emergency, and doctors will be flying through the halls, soon. She’ll be trampled.” The bold nurse continued shouting orders, “Hurry, the old man is suffering a heart attack!” Then, she muttered but my keen ears managed to receive her words loud and clear, “Too bad we’re overbooked! That little girl shouldn’t have been placed on this floor!”
My mind assumed that she meant I would get to use the stairs to leave this place one day instead of wandering the halls moaning and groaning. It made me feel safer to hear the words she garbled. Before my mind could bask in that thought, my father shut the door after he pushed me into my hospital room. Evidently, shutting the entry kept me from seeing the events unfolding in the hall. However, my soul could feel the whole trauma. At first, I was curious but, soon, succumbed to dad’s fear especially of the unknown.
Someone was dying, and my father feared death.
When my mother arrived the next day, I immediately told her about resting in peace. “We don’t know that the old man died!” My father insisted while unnerved by my innocence. Young children rarely block realities as well as adults so my psyche highly doubted my father’s next speech, “He had his doctors with him. I am sure the man will go home, soon!”
It didn’t take long for them to start preparing me for my surgery. “Hi, I am you anesthesia doctor. I will help you sleep during surgery, today.”
“I’m not tired. I’m hungry. Can you get me some orange juice and some toast with butter and jelly?”
“Sorry! You can’t eat before surgery,” My dad explained.
“Then, let’s skip the surgery or do it later!”
“Baby, they’re going to do your eye operation, today. You can eat when you wake up!” My mom controlled the room.
“But!”
Before I could demand food again, the brisk nurse and doctor were wheeling me out of the room towards my date with the surgeon. My ears recognized the voice of the man that would fix my eyes. We met many times in my life. This knowledge calmed my nerves. “Hey, I know you!” My voice easily chanted.
“Yes, I am going to do your eye operation!”
“He’s the best!” The nurse proclaimed.
“World renowned!” Another man added.
Then, my doctor leaned over, “If you can, will you count from one hundred to zero for me, Dear?”
Flabbergasted and embarrassed, my chest heaved. Suddenly, my soul groaned similar to the people in the halls. Finally, my soul felt in tune with their pain. “I just learned my numbers zero to one hundred. I can’t count the other way!”
“Don’t worry, honey. Count anyway you want,” The kind doctor stated. He knew I wouldn’t make it too far into the count no matter where I started or intended to end those numbers.
It was darker than night when I woke up. “Mommy!” My mouth squealed raising myself from my pillow quicker than my dad pushed me through the hall the night before.
Someone grabbed me immediately and forced me gently to the pillow, “Don’t be afraid!” My company’s voice calmly reassured. “Call her parents in. She is awake, now!”
The door squeaked in desperate need of an oil can. It made me think of faraway places and the desire to find my home. I could almost see the tin man but he was overcome in a curtain of black. “Mommy!” I yelled out, again.
“I am right, here!” Another body grabbed my extended hands in theirs. “Don’t be afraid. I told you about this darkness. You’re going to be fine!” My mother reassured.
“I am here too!” My father added. “Are you still hungry?”
“I can’t touch my face,” My brain shrieked aloud.
“They have splints on her arms to keep her from scratching the site of the operation,” The other lady in the room explained.
“I can feed her, then!” My mother assured the nurse as well as me. Then, I ate and drank until my tummy was full. Time passed but my eyes couldn’t determine if it was day or night. “I have to go get your siblings from the babysitters. I will be back in the morning.”
My room remained quiet after that. The only reason my mind was sure my dad remained behind is my ears heard a television on and tuned to his favorite show, Sing Along With Mitch. My father used to be a talented, Vaudeville singer; he chose to terminate his promising career for his family. Soon, we were singing along changing words on purpose and acting giddy. My behavior might have been the drugs; his interaction seemed to relieve his tension. After that entertainment, my psyche drifted in and out of thought.
This situation self-corrected because, every afternoon, tropical storms invaded the peace of our neighborhood. These thunderous events full of lightning highlighted the glistening streams forming puddles as the buckets of water poured off rooftops. Those emerging tributaries changed to steam followed by misty figures dancing upward blurring the lowest point on the horizon.
Before tropical, weather disturbances; on summer mornings; everywhere; children made melodic sounds of play. Sometimes, if you listened closely, you could hear the voices of my parents or siblings chanting, “Car! Car! Spelt C-A-R!” This was done for my benefit; it allowed me to play in the yard without misjudging my safety near the roadside.
As a child, my whole world looked similar to the scenery after a summer thunderstorm. Being born legally blind, with an inability to clearly focus, one eye alternated from foggy and shadowy to near vision; psychedelic best describes its point of view. Meanwhile, my lazy eye caused me to misplace objects due to my total lack of depth perception. Commonly, my feet tripped on non-existent items bruising body parts as I skewed through door jams or tumbled over furniture as well as toys. My eyes could determine that shadowy objects existed but failed to pick up details and nuisances when working or not functioning as a team.
One day, while playing hide and seek, my abilities challenged me. It was my turn to count to one hundred then go search for my siblings and friends. My parents sat quietly observing as my head remained under my arms and against a nearby tree. After more than one hundred seconds, my father approached because he noticed my chest heaving in a rhythm.
“Honey, it has been long enough to go find the other children. What is wrong?” My father approached.
Water poured from my cheeks like rain off the rooftops while turning around; my mouth produced garbled words. “I want to play fair but I don’t know how to count high enough!”
He sent me off to search for the kids after assuring me that he trusted my integrity. When I found their secret places too soon after my turn began, my sister bellowed, “You cheater! You cheater!” My soul instantly knew that being called that name was bad! I raced away banging into a power pole before hitting the ground resuming my tears for a different reason. Next, she called me a cry baby, which added to the abyss between us forming early in life.
That night, our house was hot. Mom opted to open the jalousie windows allowing the sea breeze to infiltrate. With a bit of coaxing from our fans, a gentle breeze flowed. Long after sunset, my body argued with my pillow in search of peace. My psyche spent many restless nights begging for the ocean wafts to lull me into slumber. If that didn’t work, I’d daydream at night about nicer places and happier faces. At a young age, my fantasy began as a coping mechanism against my realities.
The next morning, I awoke to my mother packing a suitcase. “A vacation?” My thoughts whispered. The very thought excited me with private whimsy. After standing in the hall a few moments, while writing an adventure in my mind, my mother interrupted my happiness, “The doctors think they can help you see better, Hope. You’re headed to the hospital.”
I raced into her arms as fear gripped my soul. “Will I have to stay there alone, mommy?”
Entering the room, my father answered my fears, “We got special permission so that I can stay with you, there.”
Just as my nerves calmed, my mother told me the full procedure so that my mind could adjust to the idea. “He won’t be able to be in the operating room but daddy will spend the rest of the time with you.”
“And, you?”
“I will be at the hospital as much as possible but have to take care of your sister and younger brother.”
My chest heaved reminiscent of my day at the tree. “I want you, mommy!”
“Don’t worry, baby! I will be there as much as possible especially after you wake up from your operation!”
“What are they going to do to me, mommy?”
“They will fix your eyes. When you wake up from your operation, it will be dark.”
“Night?”
“No, dim because there will be bandages on your eyes,” She explained.
“I can see, already! Why are they going to make it dark so my eyes can’t see?”
“You don’t have the same vision that a normal person has, dear!” My father interjected.
What escaped me? What did they mean? I thought everyone saw things through a swirling blur.
After analyzing these things, my eyes did their tried and true trick. If I placed one hand over my left one, some distortion went away. If I did that all day long, my body tripped and bruised less.
Why couldn’t I survive today the same way I did yesterday?
On the long trip to the teaching hospital that my doctor and parents chose, I played with my hand over one eye and then the other. This game helped me noticed that if I squinted, my vision improved or did it? My mind possessed no guideline to properly make that decision. Nothing I did stopped the car from arriving at the hospital on schedule.
During my admission, voices haunted me. Moaning and groaning invaded my mind then heart. Looking around, even with my hand held over one eye, I couldn’t determine the source of the low-grade whine. Once in my room, realizing that the solemn noise came from other patients, my mind wondered if I’d sound like them after my operation.
Suddenly, a women burst into my room. Making out her figure but very little other details, my reaction followed just as swiftly, “Who are you?”
“I’m your nurse.”
As she puttered around grabbing parts of my body sometimes hurting them with stick pins, she dared ask, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Thinking of an opportunity to get even with her for this torture, my psyche responded, “Your nurse!” She only heard the nurse part clearly as I garbled my first word similarly to my vision.
So far in my life, the only women I encountered were the ones that helped soothe you when you were hurt and the ones like her that tried to act pleasant as they punctured your body. This woman left and didn’t close my door. Bodies wandered slowly by. Surely, some dropped off the edge of the hall into some kind of Hell because this place seemed like the beginning of a nightmare. My psyche wondered if my parents loved me, why this torture?
Glancing out the open door, one eye saw the nurses’ station- almost clearly. An elderly man bent over with one finger raised in protest. “I want it, now!” He proclaimed.
“Calm down. We’ll call your doctor to see if he will approve an extra painkiller. Now, let me take you back to your room to rest!” One of the nurses took charge.
As she ushered him from view, another lady exclaimed, “If that man doesn’t rest more peacefully, he is going to rest in peace!” I knew that ‘rest in peace’ meant death to someone. Troubling thoughts pursued me as my mind toyed with that thought. My eyes tried to determine which of the souls strolling past were on their way to the end of that hall. It worried me until the nagging subsided because I realized that the hall had two ends. One terminal certainly led to peace according to the nurses’ conversation overheard by my fully functioning ears.
That night, as we awaited the dawn and my procedure, my father walked with me in those halls; a better term to describe his actions might be paced. My dad seemed rather nervous and distant. He busily surveyed the corridor making sure he didn’t have to warn me of a pending disaster, “Patient! Patient! Spelt P-A-T-I-E-N-T!” As we walked, he repeatedly warned me not to stare and not to look into open doors. At four, I wasn’t old enough to respect the privacy of others.
Suddenly, the brisk actions of a nurse interrupted our stroll, “Get her back to her room. We have an emergency, and doctors will be flying through the halls, soon. She’ll be trampled.” The bold nurse continued shouting orders, “Hurry, the old man is suffering a heart attack!” Then, she muttered but my keen ears managed to receive her words loud and clear, “Too bad we’re overbooked! That little girl shouldn’t have been placed on this floor!”
My mind assumed that she meant I would get to use the stairs to leave this place one day instead of wandering the halls moaning and groaning. It made me feel safer to hear the words she garbled. Before my mind could bask in that thought, my father shut the door after he pushed me into my hospital room. Evidently, shutting the entry kept me from seeing the events unfolding in the hall. However, my soul could feel the whole trauma. At first, I was curious but, soon, succumbed to dad’s fear especially of the unknown.
Someone was dying, and my father feared death.
When my mother arrived the next day, I immediately told her about resting in peace. “We don’t know that the old man died!” My father insisted while unnerved by my innocence. Young children rarely block realities as well as adults so my psyche highly doubted my father’s next speech, “He had his doctors with him. I am sure the man will go home, soon!”
It didn’t take long for them to start preparing me for my surgery. “Hi, I am you anesthesia doctor. I will help you sleep during surgery, today.”
“I’m not tired. I’m hungry. Can you get me some orange juice and some toast with butter and jelly?”
“Sorry! You can’t eat before surgery,” My dad explained.
“Then, let’s skip the surgery or do it later!”
“Baby, they’re going to do your eye operation, today. You can eat when you wake up!” My mom controlled the room.
“But!”
Before I could demand food again, the brisk nurse and doctor were wheeling me out of the room towards my date with the surgeon. My ears recognized the voice of the man that would fix my eyes. We met many times in my life. This knowledge calmed my nerves. “Hey, I know you!” My voice easily chanted.
“Yes, I am going to do your eye operation!”
“He’s the best!” The nurse proclaimed.
“World renowned!” Another man added.
Then, my doctor leaned over, “If you can, will you count from one hundred to zero for me, Dear?”
Flabbergasted and embarrassed, my chest heaved. Suddenly, my soul groaned similar to the people in the halls. Finally, my soul felt in tune with their pain. “I just learned my numbers zero to one hundred. I can’t count the other way!”
“Don’t worry, honey. Count anyway you want,” The kind doctor stated. He knew I wouldn’t make it too far into the count no matter where I started or intended to end those numbers.
It was darker than night when I woke up. “Mommy!” My mouth squealed raising myself from my pillow quicker than my dad pushed me through the hall the night before.
Someone grabbed me immediately and forced me gently to the pillow, “Don’t be afraid!” My company’s voice calmly reassured. “Call her parents in. She is awake, now!”
The door squeaked in desperate need of an oil can. It made me think of faraway places and the desire to find my home. I could almost see the tin man but he was overcome in a curtain of black. “Mommy!” I yelled out, again.
“I am right, here!” Another body grabbed my extended hands in theirs. “Don’t be afraid. I told you about this darkness. You’re going to be fine!” My mother reassured.
“I am here too!” My father added. “Are you still hungry?”
“I can’t touch my face,” My brain shrieked aloud.
“They have splints on her arms to keep her from scratching the site of the operation,” The other lady in the room explained.
“I can feed her, then!” My mother assured the nurse as well as me. Then, I ate and drank until my tummy was full. Time passed but my eyes couldn’t determine if it was day or night. “I have to go get your siblings from the babysitters. I will be back in the morning.”
My room remained quiet after that. The only reason my mind was sure my dad remained behind is my ears heard a television on and tuned to his favorite show, Sing Along With Mitch. My father used to be a talented, Vaudeville singer; he chose to terminate his promising career for his family. Soon, we were singing along changing words on purpose and acting giddy. My behavior might have been the drugs; his interaction seemed to relieve his tension. After that entertainment, my psyche drifted in and out of thought.
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