Unlike the first time I took a visual field test, I knew why I failed that test this time, and I knew it was coming, but I still felt like I needed an emotion to come out when I had hard proof that I was really, truly getting more and more blind.
So I laughed. I just laughed and laughed, because confusion no longer applied, I was sure crying was unnecessary, and I was just so done with mad. Laughing felt right-ish.
A couple of days ago, my sister-in-law brought Eric and me a cutout life-size John Lennon. It will come out to a more central area of the house when we'll be using it to decorate for major and minor holidays, but for the moment, it stands in the doorway of Eric's music room. We love it so much.
Last night, I went to a movie with my friend. I needed a place to put the laughter. The movie was funny, but I'm pretty sure I was the loudest person in that theater. I spent a good deal of the movie laughing when nobody else was laughing. And I continued laughing on the way home.
As I walked through the garage door, and into the laundry room, I overheard Eric and Lennon talking about mastadons or something in the living room. I unloaded keys and removed shoes, shed cardigans, hung white canes... and I walked through to the hall, past the music room, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the six-foot-tall figure looming in the doorway. And I jumped.
And then it hit me. I SAW something out of the CORNER of my EYE. It felt like small victories, and ridiculous irony, and I imagined I probably looked pretty funny, flinching at a Beatle. And also I SAW something peripherally.
And I finally laughed in a way that didn't scare the hell out of me.