I started losing my vision 25 years ago, and life hasn’t looked the same since. But losing sight isn’t just about what you can’t see—it’s about what you still can. Here’s what it’s really like navigating everyday life with blurry eyes, a little sarcasm, and a lot of stubbornness.
Tags: vision loss, diabetic retinopathy, glaucoma, blindness, disability, independence, daily life, humor, aging, caregiving, resilience, low vision, chronic illness, real life
I began losing my vision nearly 25 years ago, and it hit fast and hard. Thanks to diabetic retinopathy, most of what I’ve lost happened in just six months. Toss in a generous helping of glaucoma, and you’ve got a recipe for visual disaster. You know that giant E at the top of the eye chart? I can’t see it with my left eye. My right eye does a little better—about 20/100 on a good day—but that’s not exactly a superpower.
I’m grateful I’ve had great eye doctors and treatments over the years, but gratitude doesn’t erase frustration. I’m also completely blind in dim lighting, which means if the lighting isn’t perfect, I can’t hardly see a thing. Depth perception? Gone. Recognizing faces? Only if you speak first. Reading? I zoom in on everything like a human microscope, but that’s just going through the motions—eventually, I hand it to Bob and have him read it to me anyway.
I had to give up driving years ago, and every outing now requires military-level planning. No more spontaneous Target runs or quick errands. I depend on others, and while I’m lucky to have Bob, it still chips away at my independence.
At home, basic tasks are now obstacle courses. I can’t see the control panels on the oven, microwave, dishwasher, washer, or dryer. Just finding the right button feels like a cruel guessing game. Cooking? Bob’s a great cook—thankfully—because I’d probably end up serving raw chicken or charred toast.
Watching TV is another adventure. I need a 75-inch screen to have any chance of reading what’s on it, and even then, most shows are filmed so dark they might as well be radio plays. And people—who know full well I have vision issues—still try to show me things in books or point at screens like I’m going to squint and have a magical revelation. No. I’m blind, not suddenly clairvoyant.
Cleaning is hilarious in the worst way. I try to vacuum or dust, but it’s like painting my nails in a dark closet. Fortunately, we have a cleaning lady who saves us from my well-intentioned efforts.
The hardest part? The fear of falling. It’s constant. Sidewalks, stairs, rugs—they’re all potential enemies. I walk cautiously, always scanning the floor like it’s out to get me, because sometimes it is.
Still, I adapt. I vent. I laugh. I rely on technology, Bob, and good old-fashioned stubbornness. My eyes may not work like they used to, but I still see what matters—my family, my memories, and all the parts of life that aren’t so blurry when you look with your heart instead of your eyes. And someday, if someone invents talking soup cans, I’ll be first in line.
