On July 20, 2001, I went in for the 15-minute miracle.

I came out living in the stark reality of an endless round of disturbing dreams. Why I haven't lost my sanity, along with my vision, is a long story, one perhaps worth telling, if only I had the words for it. I love my life, but I so despise my fluctuating, aberrated vision and excessively dry eyes. I wake up each morning, hoping against hope that the dream will be just a dream, that I'll open my eyes to the massive blur of -10.5 myopia, reach for and put on my half-inch thick glasses, and see the world in its pristine beauty and sharp clarity. And each morning, I realize that was then, this is now.

I've always been a workaholic. 100-hour work weeks have been routine since I got my first "real" job as an artist. It was more than a job, it was my play, my creative expression, as well. One job wasn't enough, I had to have another, and in between, I raised two sons (neither of whom has any inclination toward workaholism, thankfully). I took for granted the 2am bedtime, the 6am wake up. I've never needed an alarm, and I've never seemed to need much sleep. Dr. Hartzok, my SEF "boss" says that I can resist sleep better than anyone he knows...a dubious distinction, but borne of the knowledge that life is short, and I don't want to miss anything!

I still work till 2 or 3am, still wake up at 6am, but the difference is that now when I fall into bed at that hour, my fried eyes are burning acid holes into my head, and my eyelids are stuck open despite the hot compresses and saline flush, followed by drops. Once I finally fall asleep, I awaken every hour or so needing more drops. The foreign body sensation is always present on waking, as is the danger of epithelial erosion if I open my eyes without first lubricating them.

I've become a prisoner of the dark, leaving home at night only if someone else navigates. I live amongst the ghosts indoors, even in bright light, unable to distinguish one cat from another, one face from another. I've learned to listen for the sounds of each cat (Ghetto Kitty is little and loud, Rocky is BIG and quiet); to recognize my friend whose face I can't distinguish in the murkiness by the particular tilt of her head when we meet at the coffee shop on Saturdays. I no longer chop anything with a knife, but use a sealed chopper for fear of missing the mark through the multiple images.

Movie theaters are for people who can see in the dark, likewise indoor sporting events, plays and concerts. I used to read several books a week, now reading is reserved for necessity and almost exclusively on the computer. Gone are the late night walks through my neighborhood, where the sidewalks are uneven and street lights are the exception rather than the rule. I used to love to sit out on the porch and watch the night sky, occasionally spotting a shooting star...now there are no stars. I'm bruised all over from bumping into things I can't discern in the semi-darkness, and I climb stairs like a toddler, one step at a time, both feet on each step.

My work, which used to be my play, is now an effort, something to be gotten through each day. Some days I struggle to see the monitor in front of which I'm parked for 18 or more hours, juggling eyeglasses to find a pair that might work, putting drops in every hour or so. I've learned to delegate certain tasks to my staff, who don't really understand, but who are good sports, anyway. I no longer attend professional meetings, nor do I attend seminars and classes routinely held at night in Chicago, 90 miles away. The list of loss seems endless.

Despite that long list, I still choose to embrace life and living. My most abundant blessings are my two almost-grown children, both amazing, extraordinary young men—one completely miserable at Army boot camp in the sweltering Georgia heat, the other celebrating his engagement to his high school sweetheart, his 21st birthday, and his final year of college.

I continue to create original, one of a kind jewelry wearing my plus 8 (ugly-ugly-ugly) glasses, and using a high quality magnifier with a daylight lamp. I've been forced to become creative in ways I never imagined. I'm far more conscious of readability in my graphic design than ever before, developing an entirely new approach to that aspect of my work, and I've learned how to say "no" when i just can't manage something.

I'm blessed with many wonderful friends who, should I break down and ask them to, will take me just about anywhere I would want to go at night or on dark, rainy days. And through my work with SEF, I've met some of the most courageous, inspiring, kind and compassionate individuals anywhere. I'm now working on SEF's new web site, inspired by many of those people, and by the knowledge that what SEF has to offer is still so very much needed, judging by the numbers who just keep coming. Registrations reached 7300 last night. A bittersweet milestone...

I've had the privilege of working one-on-one with Ron Link, Dr. Hartzok and our board of trustees, and I've had the satisfaction of knowing that at least some people are getting help, even if it happens one by one by one. I've learned more about eyes, non-profit organization management and human nature, both good and bad, than I ever dreamed I'd want to know, and I've been touched by the kindness of complete strangers.

This is definitely NOT the life I had planned, and yes, there are some big disappointments, but that's what "life" is—you get what you get, and you just have to do the best you can with what it is. I still hope for a "fix" someday, but I'm not "on hold" in the meantime. For all of us living 24/7 with complications—visual trash, pain, depression, etc., may we all be blessed with complete healing (sooner than later!)

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