To relate these moments of decline is to describe torture. Many of the incidents took place in the presence of my family when my younger siblings inadvertently witnessed my being cut open as a person. It was embarrassing, but worse was that there was no way to hide it or make it appear less brutal than it was, and it was extremely brutal.
Sue and Arthur saw the worst of it. As my condition deteriorated, they never suggested that I was the origin of what was troubling me, nor did I think that, either. The source was always treated as if somewhere outside of our presence, on the periphery, very much like an aura, something on which we could not focus specifically. In other words, we did not speak seriously of the decline because to do so would have been to acknowledge it. I wanted none of that, and neither did they. Even after it reached its climax, there was very little talking about it. That winter, everyone, with the partial exception of Arthur, treated me gingerly, as if I were a thin-shelled egg.
Eventually, of course, the egg would have to break, but only by degrees.
There was, for example, the executive committee meeting of the National Student Association, convened that year at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor. I went. Tim Zagat, my friend from Harvard, was there as well. Tim, who went on to found the Zagat Survey of restaurants and other venues, recalled the episode later: “We were both sitting in at these very, very long meetings, talking about all kinds of things [on] very heady subjects. Sandy and I were sitting next to each other, mainly because we liked to joke around and share our views about things we were being asked to vote on. It was around two or three…in the morning that Sandy put his hand on my left arm and said: ‘Tim, I can’t see.’ Then he said, ‘Please, if you could take me back to the dormitory’ where we were staying, ‘I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.’ And so I led him back to the dormitory. The next morning when he woke up, he said he still couldn’t see.”
My vision did return that time, at least enough of it to take a flight back to New York well before the executive committee adjourned. I could not bear to expose myself further to Tim and the others in Michigan.
There was also the visit in early December to Arthur’s home in Queens. He could see my growing distress and thought a change of venue might help. We had spent many sunny spring weekends there playing basketball on a court at his old high school. He was the king of the foul shot; I was prince of the jump shot. This time, though, things were different.
Arthur’s mother fed me my Mallomars, but I was uncomfortable with my condition and showed it. I gobbled up the cookies, drained the accompanying glass of milk, and stood up to escape to the bedroom. She hugged and kissed me as I stumbled off to bed. It was only around four in the afternoon, but I was soon nestled comfortably in my friend’s room. The sleep I was always seeking swept me into dizzying nightmares. Final exams were quickly coming upon me in reality, but now in dreams as well. I dreamt that I was flying—first around Arthur’s room, then around our room at college, and finally around the exam room. I dreamt that I feverishly wrote exam answers but failed at them all. I dreamt of crystal chandeliers, sparkling rainbows crushing my head, shards of shiny glass sticking into my body. I dreamt that my blood poured onto the floor. I awoke some twenty-two hours later.
Then there were the actual exams themselves—what cracked the egg wide open.
Not surprisingly, I couldn’t sleep the night before the first of the term’s final exams, even though I was exhausted from weeks of reading. At nine o’clock on the morning of the first exam, Arthur guided me into a large gymnasium and placed me in a seat in the center of the room. On my desk were a blank blue book and a list of essay questions.
The test began, and once I captured the essence of each question, I wrote furiously. I could not see well enough to make my pen follow the blue lines, so I disregarded them. I continued to write like this until an hour or so later when I glanced at my watch. I saw absolutely nothing.
I shook my head. I blinked. I rolled my eyes. I rubbed them. Nothing helped. I sat still, trying to figure out what to do. Finally, I picked up my blue book and found my way to the front of the room, where I handed it to the proctor and attempted to explain my predicament.
He took the book from me and laughed. “Son, I have heard a lot of excuses, but this tops them all. I want you to know that you will be graded on what you just handed in.” I repeated
