During the fall months of 1991, when the sun rarely shown in Indiana, I forgot about the gray curtain. My memory of how the world was supposed to appear took over. In my mind I saw all of the buildings looming around me, the contrast between sidewalk and grass, the outlines of cars, the sharp contrast between the snow and Elli. However, when I returned home to Texas, the sun was shining brightly through the windows--it must be since I could feel its warmth--but I could not see the furniture in the house or the dark shape of Elli sitting on the patio waiting to come into the house. Panicked, I saw the ophthalmologist. It was then that I was diagnosed with glaucoma. The doctor did not know whether treatment would bring about improvement in my vision.
On January 23, 1992, I decided to tell God once and for all how I felt. I had been attempting to read through the New Testament, but it seemed that every time I began reading, I was reading about people who had been healed. By this day, I had finally had enough. Was healing available today or not? If not, then I didn't want to read about it. If so, then I didn't want to believe in a God who obviously didn't think I was good enough to deserve it. I threw down my braille Bible and started typing in my journal file on my computer. I unleashed all the desires I had hidden for the previous six months while trying to convince myself that God would use me as I was and that the desire for healing was a stumbling block placed in the way of my spiritual growth by Satan. I released all the pain which had been building since the doctor's admission that he didn't believe that lowering the pressure in my eye would lead to the return of my vision.
The desire won't leave me, Lord. I don't know why. I don't know whether it is a stumbling block or not. I don't want to focus on it--I have been over this and over it and over it before; what else can I say? But I have to ask You for it. ...
I remember writing in April that I heard You say You would heal me. Please don't let me hear in vain. Tell me I didn't hear wrong. This IS the desire of my heart, and it will not leave me. ... I want to believe You can do this. I really do. I want You to do it, if You will. I don't know how much faith I have in Your ability to do it.
Immediately after writing those words, I lifted up my head--and gasped. How could my mind play such evil tricks on me? Or had my roommate really left the reading light on over her desk? I crossed the room and held my hand under the lamp. It was warm.
Unsure whether to be excited or confused, I called Angi at the campus box office, where she was working for the afternoon. "I don't know what to think of this," I told her.
After I finished the story, Angi suggested that I accompany her to a Bible study led by the pastor of her small Charismatic church. Although I was not entirely comfortable with aCharismatic churches, I agreed to go, thinking that perhaps I could gain some understanding of what was happening to me.
We arrived at the pastor's home after dark. I approached the house hesitantly. As I neared the door, I saw a light in the window. Just like the lights in the hallway at the hospital, that lamp showed me that I was not dreaming. God had answered my doubt by building my faith.
Over the next few days, my vision continued to improve. By January 26, it was once again useful for locating doorways and large objects which could serve as landmarks.
Over the next few months, I experienced periods of extreme light sensitivity which were followed by clearing of my vision. After each of these periods I would notice that there were a few minor improvements in what I could see. One evening in April, I identified the color pink, something which I had not done since childhood.
In May, 1992, I saw the doctor again. Despite the improvements in my vision, my pressure remained dangerously high. I was referred to a glaucoma specialist in Houston who confirmed this fact. "You need to have surgery as soon as possible," he stated flatly.
Shocked, I questioned him. "But my vision is fine," I protested.
"With your pressure at this level," he acknowledged gravely, "you could lose that vision at any time."
The surgery was done one week later, on June 8. It was supposed to be a measure which preserved my remaining vision. The doctor did not anticipate improvement.
My vision improved.
I began to forget about the gray curtain. I transferred to Stephen F. Austin State University because of lack of funds to continue attending Anderson University, and I changed my major to education of the visually impaired.
Encouraged by the events leading up to surgery, I decided during my first semester at SFA to ask the pastor of the small church I attended to anoint me and have the elders of the church pray for me. I still wanted complete healing, and I believed that I should follow the Biblical instructions in James 5:14-16 and profess my faith before the church.
The pastor refused to anoint me. I did not understand her reasoning, particularly when she began preaching sermons about faith in the spring of 1993. No one prayed for the sick people in the church. I began to feel very unsettled. How could I continue to grow in faith when I was attending a church where people did not exercise faith and the pastor clearly discouraged me from exercising mine?
I decided that I needed to move to a new church where I could explore the topics of faith and healing freely. I joined a Christian student organization called Chi Alpha, which was sponsored by the Assemblies of God. After a few months, I began going to church with a group of students from Chi Alpha.
I wasn't sure what to expect. My memories of visiting Pentecostal churches as a teenager were not pleasant. I remembered a lot of babbling, and I remember feeling intense fear. To my surprise, I was very comfortable in this church. I liked the pastor's down-to-earth preaching style, and I loved the fact that the music was contemporary and I could learn most of the songs easily. I could sing whether or not I had a hymnal!
I began to participate more fully in church activities. I joined the Chi Alpha worship team. Eventually, I gave my testimony, and The pastor anointed me and had the elders of the church lay hands on me. He explained that sometimes healing takes time, and I committed myself to wait patiently.
In the fall of 1993, I enrolled in a class on the anatomy of the eye, a required course for teachers of the visually impaired. The course was taught by a local optometrist. I enjoyed his teaching style, and I was fascinated to learn about the parts of the eye and how they worked together.
By this time, my vision had stabilized. I decided to ask the optometrist if he would evaluate me for glasses or contact lenses.
He agreed, and in the summer of 1994, I began wearing a custom-made contact lense with a high power. The lens was designed to fit my eye, which was smaller than the average person's eye. Once again, the world opened up to me. I could see objects more clearly and judge distances more accurately. I could no longer read on a CCTV, but I gave that desire up willingly--my rehabilitation counselor had recently authorized the purchase of a scanner with optical character recognition software, and I could now read almost any book I would have read on a CCTV.
During 1994 and 1995, my pressure was relatively stable. I faithfully administered the eye drops prescribed for me in 1992. However, as people with glaucoma often do, I became too confident that my pressure was stable. I stopped using the medication--and I did not tell the optometrist. He began to express increasing concern and to urge me to see a glaucoma specialist. I ignored his advice--until April, 1998.
I had just moved back in with my parents after trying unsuccessfully to pick up my pieces after a failed marriage. I realized that I could no longer see the lights in my house. How long had this been going on? How long had I been assuming that things looked as I thought they looked? When had I stopped seeing anything but the brightest sunlight?
I made an appointment with my childhood ophthalmologist. My pressure had crept up to a dangerous level again, and my cornea was scarred. A new combination of drops was successful at lowering the pressure, and my vision improved slightly. However, on most days things continued to appear through that gray curtain which only glaring sunlight could easily penetrate. My ophthalmologist recommended a cornea transplant. "And maybe," he said, "something can be done for your retina."
The problem with planning for surgery was that my family was moving from Texas to Indiana. My parents and sister had been planning this move for months, and the house had been sold. I would have to wait and find a doctor in Indiana who would do the surgery--and while I waited, I would have to live with the gray curtain.
I became curious about what was happening to my eyes. I purchased a book about glaucoma, and I began searching for information about RLF, which I learned was now called ROP. Most of the information I found was published in medical journals, and I wished that I had kept the textbook from the eye anatomy class. I did find an email support group for people with ROP and their families. I joined it; and for the first time in my life, I talked freely about my vision loss and the feelings I was experiencing.
I began contacting people to ask about how to apply for Indiana's Medicaid program. In Texas, I had qualified automatically for Medicaid because I was receiving Supplemental Security benefits for people with disabilities. I hoped that this would also be the case in Indiana. I wanted to have my surgery, and I needed to be able to get the medications that were controlling my pressure. I now understood the importance of taking the medications, and I did not want to compromise the health of my eye any more.
I did not qualify automatically for Medicaid in Indiana. After we moved, I went to the office and applied. After I had settled my dog guide in front of my chair, the caseworker assigned to me began explaining the application procedure. "We'll need some information from your doctor," she said. "If you're blind enough, you'll be able to have Medicaid." She had no idea how long the application would take or how I should get my medications in the meantime.
Two months later, I finally received my Medicaid card. By this time, a friend from Indianapolis who was also on the ROP group had told me about a doctor, Michael Trese, in Michigan, who was an expert on ROP. I decided that if he could take Indiana Medicaid, I would like to see him. My decision was confirmed after a local doctor said that he would only recommend two doctors in the state of Indiana to perform a cornea transplant for me. The cornea transplant was the easy part. Who would he have recommended to work on my retina?
Dr. Trese agreed with the recommendation for a cornea transplant and possible retina surgery. He referred me to a cornea specialist in a nearby office, who agreed to do the transplant in December.
With several weeks to spare before the surgery, I began an intense period of self-exploration, writing in my journal about my feelings and thoughts about blindness. As I wrote, I began to make sense of all the experiences that had shaped my fear of vision loss. I also began to grow in my faith.
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