Four years ago today I choose to stop driving because of my vision loss, caused by Retinitis Pigmentosa.
On November 12, 2004, I had an annual appointment with my ophthalmologist. At the appointment, my doctor asked me the usual questions about how my vision was doing. Then he paused, and asked me if I was still driving.
I responded, “Oh yes! I had a great drive in today. It’s a beautiful day out and…”
The look on my doctor’s face stopped me mid-sentence. At that moment I knew that it was time for me to stop driving.
People with RP, or slow vision loss, often wonder how they are supposed to know when it is time to “hang up the keys.” I always knew that the day would come when I would have to stop driving, but I didn’t know when, or how I was going to make that decision. I didn’t want to sell myself short and cut off that independence too soon, but I also didn’t want to endanger myself or others. It’s a fine line. A very fine line.
So when that day came, and I saw the look on my doctor’s face, I think it confirmed what I already knew, but I couldn’t seem to decide for myself. It took the authority figure of my doctor to help me realize the potential danger I was putting myself and others in.
So I choose to stop. Right then and there. Cold turkey. I didn’t even drive home from the appointment. The look on my doctor’s face hit me that hard. Plus, I knew myself well enough to know that if I didn’t quit cold turkey, then that “fine line” would always be blurred. I might always be tempted to drive “just one more time.”
Quitting driving was the most difficult decision I have ever had to make. To consciously give up that independence was devastating. Absolutely devastating. As melodramatic as this is going to sound, I really didn’t know how I was going to survive.
In addition, at the appointment, my doctor told me that the flashes of light I had been seeing inside my eyes since my high school years, were cells dying. Every flash of light was more vision lost. I had no idea. I mean, I figured it had something to do with my Retinitis Pigmentosa, but I didn’t realize that it was literally cells dying. I could no longer deny that I was losing my vision; the flashes in my eyes wouldn’t let me.
My loss of independence from driving devastated me, but it was my inability to hide from my vision loss that really shattered me. I felt broken, and incapable of doing anything to fix the situation or myself. So I did the only thing I could think to do: I turned to God.
At this point in my faith, I was still loosely drawing the boundary lines of what I believed and what I didn’t. I wasn’t sure what would happen when I turned to God, I just knew that it felt like my only option. I was that depressed and hopeless.
So I prayed, and I asked people in my church community to pray for me. Later, I found out that people in my church then asked others to pray too. People I didn’t even know where praying for me, trying to help me overcome the loss of independence that driving once provided me, and also to help me accept my impending vision loss. It was humbling, to say the least.
Months passed. Grief lingered over the winter, despite the help and support of my amazing family, friends and church community. But then, slowly, the following summer, the veil started to lift. And one morning, I woke up, and I just knew that it was all going to be okay. The grief was gone. Just like that.
And so here I am, four years later. It’s amazing how things can change in such a short amount of time. I no longer feel devastated or shattered by my vision loss. Rather, I consider it one of the biggest blessings of my life because, ironically, in the end, my vision loss is what opened my eyes to the power of God. And for that I will always be grateful.
Do I miss driving? Of course. I used to love taking the “Magic Bean” (the name of my 1996 Honda Civic Hatchback) on road trips. Highway driving was my favorite: a long stretch of road, music on the radio, and the wind in my hair. And, I miss the convenience of driving and owning a car. If I forgot something at the store, I could just zoom out and get it.
But I no longer feel hopeless without it. Thanks to my family, my friends, and the various means of transportation (rail, air, bus, not to mention my own two legs), I have options. And, I think that is one of the hardest things about vision loss: Something is taken away from you without your consent, and it is difficult to remember that you still have options. You still have choices. You can still have independence.
I feel particularly grateful to my family and friends, who have helped me understand this. Thank you for mourning with me, when I needed to grieve. And thank you for supporting and encouraging me as I took those first few timid steps back into my newly found independence.
Because of your support and encouragement, those first few baby steps eventually led to me walking across Spain.
Who knows what other adventures still await.
Blessings,
Luci
