I am posting as much of this story whilst I still can Part 4 tomorrow

We now know exactly which way things were going to go. I am now completely blind. Not only that, but I developed what is called peripheral polyneuropathy, which affects the motor nerves, and now I am unable to walk. This has also led to loss of feeling in my hands, feet, legs and face, meaning that the normal means of finding things that a blind person utilises is not available to me. I have no sense of touch. I have become totally dependent upon other people, and in this case namely my husband, for even my very basic needs. I am having to attempt new ways of living, in order to survive in any way at all. This is the hardest path I have ever trod in my life. The cancer did not kill me, but the chemotherapy left me like this. The sense of utter dependency is a very hard cross to bear, as it makes me feel that I am no longer a person. I have asked many tines the question as to whether I should ever have gone forwards with the chemotherapy, but I did, and am now here to tell the story. I live in a world of darkness, often confined to bed, cut off from the world abd any sense of being part of life. I hear sounds outside my bedroom window. People talking to each other, car doors slamming shut, children playing, workmen working and I am no longer part of any of it. I long to be. I crave it. But it is not to be. Hours of darkness stretch in front of me each day, with no relief from the boredom and the sense of hardly being human. My husband is my Carer and he too, being a wheelchair user, has far too much to do without having to entertain me. My world became my iPad and connection to people via the internet was vital to me, but even that is going now, as my blindness deepens and I struggle to find ways of dealing with an iPad as a blind person. I am writing in a time of pandemic, and so, even if there were any possible teachers around, I would not be able to have face to face contact, as I am defined as an extremely vulnerable person, meaning that if I caught the virus I almost certainly would die. I am therefore writing this story with extreme difficulty, yet it is one that I feel impelled to tell.
I spoke of the battle raging when I had cancer, and the expectation generally is that once the cancer is defeated, the battle is over. For me, however, the battle continues. The battle to survive mentally, emotionally and physically. Each day I feel as if I am climbing a steep and rugged mountain. I used to climb mountains, and it was always my ambition to climb Everest. In my own mind I was going to do it. Cancer put paid to that but, when I shared this with one of the nurses, she said,

“You are climbing your Everest now.” The trip continues, however as I am still climbing Everest today and every day. The path is hard and there are days when I despair. Days when the physical pain and the darkness gets to me. On those days I wish I had not fought the cancer. But I did, and I am here, and I have to go on.

We had to cut down our beautiful willow tree the other day, as it had grown too big. The birds used to nestle in its branches, but now it is bare and barren looking. In the Spring it should come back to life again, and hopefully the birds will return. I too have been cut down, and I hope that in some way I will begin come back to life. But for now the path is dark, steep and rugged.

17 thoughts on “Part 3 of MY STORY OF GOING BLIND

  1. Ever since I was diagnosed with Glaucoma, and then started to develop cataracts more recently, I have hated having to always rely on glasses to read anything, and different ones to drive the car. I cannot even imagine how awful it is to not be able to do either, or to even be unable to see across a room.
    Best wishes, Pete. x

    Liked by 1 person

  2. blindzanygirl

    Pete, thankyou. Will your glaucoma progress? On another not, I can “like” your posts but not comment. I wish I could but it’s a WP glutch. The other week someone was stodd inches away from meeand I had no idea they were there. I can only see a rhick pea soup fog. I cannot even see my own hands. I am sorry you have glaycoma Pete xx

    Liked by 1 person

  3. blindzanygirl

    That’s awful Pete. I know a lit of surfey has been delayed by this damned pandemic. I hope you can get it done. It must be socworrying. You can still drive though? Xxxx

    Liked by 1 person

  4. blindzanygirl

    PeteI have to look for where you have spoken to me to respond to your posts on your blog. I just wanted to say I am so glad Ollie is getting better. Best Wishes to you both xx

    Liked by 1 person

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