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The nurse puts down the chart. She spins the chair she sits in so she’s facing me.
“I’m a professional.” She pauses. “I’ve been doing this job for a long time. I’m an efficient assistant and a good worker.”
I open my mouth to apologize, because I didn’t mean to suggest she was not doing her job well. She holds up a finger. “But I’m a little out of my depth here. My mom was just diagnosed with optic neuritis. And MS. And it is scaring me to death. I just wondered how it feels for you. And how it’s changing for you. Because I really hope it can change for her.”
I close my eyes and let my head sink down into my hands.
I want to make words. I want to say something true and helpful.
I have nothing.
After what feels like a very long time, I ask, “What’s your name?”
The nurse says, “Michelle.”
I scoot to the edge of my chair. “Michelle, let me be straight with you. I’m not really in a position to be helpful to you right now. I’m having a pretty hard time keeping it together, to tell you the truth. And I am very sorry for you and for your mom. But today, I feel a little sorrier for me.” I feel the constant tremble in my voice, but I manage to keep the tears away.
The nurse, Michelle, I remind myself, nods. “Right. Of course. Okay. I’ll let Dr. Montgomery know you’re ready, and since he pretty much repeats all the questions I’m supposed to ask you, I’ll let him do the talking. Do you mind if I stay around to hear the answers?”
I shrug, wrung out.
Less than a minute later, the door opens again. Michelle sticks her head in. “He’s on his way. And I’m grabbing you a soda. Any requests?”
She seems so human then, and like she recognizes my humanity in a different way. She’s smiling at me like it would make her really happy to bring me a drink. “I’d love a soda. I’m happy with anything. Thank you.”
She’s back quickly. “Here. Enjoy.” She sits in the spinning chair opposite me. “And I’m sorry I crossed the line before. This is absolutely all about you. I do work hard to be a professional, but you’d be surprised how occasionally the professional becomes the personal.”
I crack the top open and take a drink, enjoying the little fizz of bubbles that reaches my nose. Who knew all it would take to become the kind of person who likes soda was a few weeks of teaching high school?
“What do you do?” Michelle asks. I must look blank, because she clarifies. “For your job, I mean.”
“I’m an art teacher.”
For an easy answer to an easy question, the words hang between us in the air like a cloud of poison. Both of us look down at our hands. I can guess what Michelle is thinking. Of course I can guess. I’m thinking it, too.
Not many great prospects for a blind art teacher.
But, all told, a whole lot better than a blind professional photographer. Because I managed to teach every day this week. I took my pain meds by the clock, and I prepared classes when I felt most fresh, and I powered through the parts when it hurt and went dark and became scary. I can do this.
So teaching is a win.
I rub a spot on my temple where the pain has settled. If I start telling this woman all the reasons I can’t afford this stupid eye disease, I’ll lose it. I know it. So I decide to tell her something else.
“I teach photography at this great little prep school in Vermont. It’s the prettiest place I’ve ever been. And the kids are—well, they’re a little bit terrifying, but mostly because they’re all bigger than me. I’m pretty sure they’re great. Teachers are nice. Some nicer than others. Campus is lovely. One of the teachers used to perform on Broadway. He’s . . .” I’m not sure how to finish that sentence. Gorgeous? Arrogant? Charming? Funny? Cocky? Talented? Adorable? “He’s writing a play, and I’m creating the staging and sets.”
True.
“And it’s going to be great.”
Also true. I hope.
