On Mental Illness
The light that failed
by Pete Feigal
Editor’s note: Writer and artist Pete Feigal shares a life-changing
moment.
I haven’t been writing for Access Press lately because I’ve
been struggling with my eyesight. I can’t
even say the word “blindness.” I had been getting ready
for it for some time as my multiple sclerosis has been progressing,
but nothing can truly prepare you for the reality of it once it finally
happens. I’m afraid that I’m not doing very well at it.
I’m angry, even full of rage. I’m afraid, sometimes to
the point of panic. I’m frustrated and disappointed and bitter.
It’s still relatively new and I know I have to work through
the grief and drastic changes, but it’s been hard. So hard.
I’m approaching the one-year anniversary of The Day I Went
Blind. That day last year, July 29, 2007 was the day the “light
went out.” We all have days in our lives that mark anniversaries
or important events or even disasters or tragedies. And July 29th
at 12:33 p.m. is the moment my right eye, my “good” eye
stopped working. The left eye had stopped working about five years
ago, and it was amazing how well my body had reacted, come to my
aid, and how my “good” eye kept compensating, right up
till the end against the double vision that finally barred out entirely.
On that day, I was at
my drawing table working on a drawing in progress at the Oshkosh
air show, when it happened. I was talking to a group of kids about
art, about finding your passion. For a dozen years I had run a
booth at the air show selling my aviation drawings, drawings I
had had the time to develop after my first MS attack some years
before, a true case of “one door shuts and two doors open.” When
the loss of vision happened I was able to keep my cool, and
calmly called out for Melanie. I told her to, without making a fuss,
help me to reach the big chairs across the aisle from our booth and
then quietly inform the rest of the team what had happened.
And sitting in that
chair, with the incredible roar of classic World War II aircraft
performing above me, with the voices of excited kids and old friends
and customers, and the general din of the exhibition hall around
me, I realized two things. One was that I wished I had just stepped
outside the building to see the planes that I loved, planes that
I would probably never see again. The other was that I was at one
of those moments in life that, in many ways, other moments would
be compared against. It was a moment when your life has taken a
step in a direction and suddenly you don’t have the same
options to choose from, or at least you are faced with an entirely
new set of options. These moments come to us all, with car accidents,
with vows of “I do,” with the call that comes in the
middle of the night, with looking into the eyes of a newborn child,
with a coughing fit or a first bitter taste of liquor, or an exchanged
smile across a crowded dance floor. Sometimes we know the moment
for what it is, but most times we don’t. Later we realize it,
but not then, not at the exact moment.
That’s what the moment of my blindness meant to me: a change
that I could never come back from, even if I regained my eyesight.
It was in some ways a wonderful moment. How often is it in our own
lives that we realize those moments of destiny? I sat there,
working on keeping my fear in check, focusing on my breathing and
the sounds around me while Melanie and my team, far more excited,
were making plans to get me home or to a hospital. The moment was
so certain, the knowledge was so clear that my life had just changed
forever that I remember that I actually spoke to my old self, my
old life, now instantly changed and fading away.
I said out loud, “Goodbye.” I
had the tiniest smile on my face. “Goodbye. Goodbye.” ![end of story]()
Pete Feigal can be contacted
at PFeigal@aol.com
