Now I See You Read Online Free

the surface of my eye.
    I swallowed hard to keep myself from crying. If blinking annoyed her this much, imagine how apoplectic she’d be if I broke down in tears. It occurred to me that it probably wasn’t the smartest idea to apply mascara that morning. Then again, I’d expected a few drops and some flashlights, not electrodes.
    Finally, the nurse had gotten what she needed and handed over a bunch of tissues to mop up the goop that was oozing out of my eyes. I let my top lids drop and relished the cool, quiet easiness of not looking. Being able to close my eyes whenever I felt like it was a terrific luxury, one I’d entirely taken for granted.
    You don’t know what you’ve got…, I thought.
    The nurse held on to my elbow and led me back into the first exam room, because with all the drops and the goop, I could hardly see anything. I sat back in the exam chair, eyes shut as my relief was replaced with foreboding.
    Everything might still be okay, I reminded myself. There’s been no bad news. But there was a “yet” that followed the thought, and I knew that I should brace myself for impact.
    I heard the door open and a rotund figure waddled in. Dr. Hall regarded the ERG printout for a minute and then he spoke, slowly, deliberately.
    “Now, I want you to remember that I’m just the messenger here,” he began. “Don’t shoot the messenger.”
    “What is it?” I asked.
    “You have a degenerative retinal disease.” He paused, waiting for a response, but I sat there, silent, so he went on.
    “It’s called retinitis pigmentosa and it’s genetic, even in your case, where no one in your family has it. Essentially, the photoreceptor cells in your retina, the ones that turn light into electrical impulses for the brain, are dying.”
    He paused.
    I should not be here alone, I thought. I wish my mother were here.
    “The disease usually begins by destroying your rods, responsible for night vision and peripheral vision, which explains you bumping into things and your trouble at nighttime. The degeneration of the cones, which are responsible for central vision, typically comes later on, though how much later depends on the individual patient.”
    There were tears sliding down my face, from the goop. I wasn’t crying. I felt like it was important to tell the doctor this.
    “I’m not crying,” I said. “It’s just the goop.”
    “I understand,” he replied.
    Then I asked him if he meant I was going blind.
    “Now, please, remember, I’m just the messenger,” he stammered. He seemed nervous, which was disconcerting.
    I couldn’t imagine this was standard protocol for delivering bad news. It seemed unlikely that in medical school, the professor of Intro to Bedside Manners had instructed a younger, thinner Dr. Hall to sprinkle his diagnosis with the phrase “don’t shoot the messenger.” Was I even sure this joker was fully licensed? I knew more about breaking unfavorable medical news than he did, and my wealth of knowledge was gleaned entirely from over hearing my father on the phone and watching prime-time hospital dramas.
    “As I said, the loss of vision happens at a different rate for everyone,” he continued. “Some people become legally blind, some retain light perception, others lose all vision. Some sooner than others. It’s impossible to predict. So far your progression has been fairly slow, so all we can do is hope that it continues that way and that you have another ten, maybe fifteen years with lots of usable vision left.”
    My vision had just been given an expiration date. That seemed a bad sign.
    “So the answer is yes then,” I clarified. “I am going blind.”
    “In a manner of speaking.”
    “In what manner of speaking?” I shot back. There was no point in being polite anymore. “I mean, it’s not figurative, is it? I’m not losing my perspective. I’m going blind.”
    Dr. Hall said nothing.
    “So what medicine can I take?” I ventured. “Or do I need an