In the Blink of an Eye: Unleashing the Blind Girl

The Hospices Civils de Beaune, established since the Black Death, has a rich history. Alcohol has long been associatedwith hospitals and even fragrances. Since 1859, wine auctions have been a tradition, evolving into a renowned charitable event in Europe. © Jade Kayo MIKI

If I think about it, when I was 27 years old, the hospitals in Japan and Taiwan planned an operation together. What struck me the most was the idea that I might never be able to go back to the hospital again. I know it sounds strange because most people want to stay away from hospitals.

To be honest, I have been waiting for this day for a long time. My severe amblyopia is accompanied by over 60 degrees of strabismus, which has caused me to suffer from migraines for years.

These were processes that no one else could ever experience, let alone face my crushes and career. Every time I pursued love, I felt inferior because of my congenital disability.

Soon, the day of surgery arrived. The day before, I had to go to the hospital, accompanied by a family member - my mother, of course. We underwent a comprehensive health check, and the anesthesiologist inquired about alcohol consumption: "Do you usually drink? (He mentioned that he might need to increase the dosage fivefold if necessary, just because I occasionally drink, not just sip.) The surgeon approached to mark the incision sites on my head and face, and I remained as calm and compliant as a neatly pressed tie throughout the process.

The morning after waking up, I found myself in the hospital room. It was around 5:00 a.m. I imagined myself as a camera, anticipating a return to the factory for repairs. The sound of wheels approached, the door swung open, and a gust of wind carried the hospital's distinct antiseptic scent.

I looked in the direction of the odor and felt the nurses coming to move the beds. Behind the nurse, there was the scent of laundry and softener, and it was my mother walking in with a big bag. She was chatting about what she wanted to eat tonight, as she seemed to feel that this was a turning point in our lives together. She was looking forward to saying something that would make me remember her forever, and it was all about food. It was clear that much of our mother-daughter relationship was based on our intimate intertwining of aromas, taste buds, and hearing in the matter of food, almost a sensory landscape of the world without sight.

As she continued, I listened quietly, suddenly realizing that a thousand and one nights was nothing compared to the countless nights my mother had spoken by the end of the day.

Finally, it was time for my surgery. At that moment, I jumped up and down with joy, but my mother's face looked as if a child was going to be sent to the slaughterhouse (my mother did not agree to the surgery at first because she was afraid that I would go blind after the surgery). I tried to comfort my mother, but my body was covered with particles of excitement; like a group of rebellious thieves who had turned their backs on their masters.

When I got to the operating room, I was like a piece of breathing meat. The temperature was so sobering, and I was so excited, that I couldn't help but wonder if I'd ever be in a position where I'd have to wake up for an operation without anesthesia. (Don't Google before the operation, I'm serious.) But the nurse said, "Relax, I'm going to put you to sleep now. When the nurse said, "Relax, I'm going to let you sleep!", the respirator was put on, and I was in a dream world.

I was so happy to have a new lease on life that I cried tears of joy, but I didn't, not nearly as much as I thought I would.

What came to my mind in this second was the realization that from now on, there was no reason why I had to go back to the hospital. Obviously, I didn't want to leave the memory of my mother behind.