Losing Sight

My mom wasn’t around much when I was a little girl because she was always working. She picked me up from school, dropped me off at home, and went to work until 2 AM. Because of this, I spent most of my time with my father, and we had a great time. He didn’t cook much so dinners usually consisted of frozen food that was easy to heat up and we never complained. I have very vague memories of play-wrestling with him in our living room and asking him about his collection of Tonka trucks. More prominent memories of my father revolve around one thing: his temper. Nonetheless, I was very close to my father as a child.

It was late one night, my father was cleaning the kitchen after dinner and I was with my three-year-old sister in the dining room. I loved my little sister. I loved her chubby cheeks and envied her curly hair, but my favorite thing about her was that she loved to be picked up. That night, I decided to try something new, and carry her on my shoulders rather than in my arms. At first, it was easy, but as I reached the kitchen to show my father, the weight became too much and I dropped her. Her head hit the tile floor and she screamed louder than she ever had. I was horrified, wishing I could go back in time and not pick her up. “What have you done?” I looked up to meet my father’s eyes, but as soon as I did, something was flying towards me.

The next thing I remember is my father screaming. “What have I done?” He handed me a wipe and told me to hold it to my eye. I found myself confused, but I did as I was told. Maren was sitting on the floor, silent, sucking on her fingers. I watched my father race around the house, gathering our shoes and his wallet and keys. He told us to get in the car, and when I looked up at him this time, I realized he was crying. The last time I had seen my father cry was when Grandma Barbara died. So, we followed him out to the car, and when I got into the backseat, I pulled the wipe away from my eye and noticed the deep crimson. “Daddy, my eye is bleeding.” My father did his best to gather himself and sped out of our neighborhood.

“Please keep the wipe on your eye.” I turned the wipe over to a clean section and put it back, though every once in awhile, I’d sneak another peak at it until we reached Saint Francis.

We walked up the the lady at the counter and my father, though panicked, did the best he could to explain what had happened. I remember her asking about my mom, who had no idea that any of this was going on. The woman instructed my father to call her, and he did. She picked up on the fourth try and all I remember was my father trying to breathe, quietly begging her to come to Saint Francis. I don’t remember a single thing about the waiting room other than sitting in it. When my mom got there, she couldn’t even look at my father. He continued to cry and I sat on his lap and told him that it wasn’t his fault.

I don’t remember much after that. I have vague memories of being wheeled around, vomiting in hospital trays, and being told to stay still for the MRI. I can’t tell you what the doctors said, or much that happened after that. They gave me a bubble I had to tape to my face at night so nothing would harm my eye or the stitches under it. I remember the days of having to wear an eye patch to school, where all the kids made pirate jokes, and wearing safety goggles to soccer practice. I hated what my injury had caused me.

I never regained the sight in my eye. Not only was my vision never the same, but neither was my relationship with my father. It didn’t feel like we were friends anymore. I realize now that this incident caused a great shift in our dynamic. He became colder towards me. I wonder if every time he looks at me he thinks about my eye and how I’ll never see out of it again. Whatever it is, we have never recovered from it. This incident really did change my entire life.