Standing alone in that hallway, I was scared. I doubt that I had been that scared before, or had really known what it meant to be scared—to have an acrid taste in your mouth, to feel your bowels loosen, your gut turning over on itself. My hands and legs were shaking. I was thinking, “I cannot do this. I…can…not…do…this.” My fingers ached in anticipation of all the hurt they would encounter, which would be extensive. I could hardly breathe. I opened the door.
I stood for a while in the open doorway, my arms resting on the doorposts, my face turned toward the room. I was deluged by the memories of those dark, sleepless nights during the past school year, with pain in my eyes so sharp I thought they would burst from their sockets. The cold packs on my eyes, the pacing of bare feet on the cold floor, the futile squeezing of the temples. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind, I had known I was going blind, but I refused to accept the fact, choosing instead to prolong my denial and—foolishly, arrogantly—trying to force myself to live a normal life in the face of impending crisis. A tour de force of my will, my determination—and one hundred percent misplaced, leading inexorably to this day, this door.
Yet something embedded somewhere within my skull told me that the possibility for success was still there. Not just ordinary success, either, such as safety. But material success, which would involve being able to take care of myself and my family, to read and enjoy all the things one never has the time to enjoy fully—art, literature, music, whatever. The possibility of that greater safety—which I can assure you is of very special importance to blind people—was there. I could feel it, and it was an affirmation of my decision to return to Columbia. But it was hardly a guarantee.
I walked in, my heart pumping with fear and excitement, and set my suitcase down. The room smelled musty. I touched each thing in the room, slowly, carefully, deliberately. Oddly, everything seemed to be exactly as it had been when I had left in a panic. How could that be? I sank into the large, soft leather chair, which was just where it had been before. I sighed, the burden of the world on my shoulders. There was no relief in that sigh; I had no idea whether I’d made the right decision.
10
The Blind Senior
The first weeks of classes as a senior were nerve-racking. I was so intent on concentrating during the lectures that, in a sort of reverse Zen exercise, absorbing what was said became ever more difficult. I walked away from classes each day with my mind tied in confusing knots of sound and in mounting dread that I wouldn’t be up to the challenges in front of me. The senior year at Columbia was generally considered to be easier than the junior year. But I was already many credits behind, and it was going to take enormous amounts of concentrated effort just to keep up with a normal workload.
Gradually, though, I began to open up my brain the way a fish opens its gills—it does this or it dies. I memorized virtually every sentence read to me that year, something of which I did not know I was capable. Instead of cramming before an exam and then dumping the information and forgetting about it, I had to absorb material in a way I never had before. I still remember much of what I learned then. And I discovered that acquiring knowledge at such an insane pace would be a continuous wonder and joy for my life within the mind.
In order not to waste a single moment preparing for classes, I saddled myself with anything and everything I thought might be useful. I purchased all the required books and then some, as well as dozens of blank recording tapes. I prospected for readers among my friends and acquaintances. Professors selected students they thought would be able to help me. I called up all the institutions for the blind to request volunteer readers. (I will forever be deeply grateful to those readers at Columbia and in my later studies. They made possible the life I was trying to build back for myself. Many became dear friends for life as well.)
Through all these people, I was able to set up a most intricate and complex web of meetings. My planned schedule of readers began at eight o’clock in the morning and, except for classes, would end at midnight. I set aside no time for breakfast but reserved ten minutes for lunch and a half hour for dinner. Weekdays from midnight until 2:00 a.m. as well as Saturday nights were reserved for listening to tapes. I wanted to feel secure, so I clutched at everything.
My elaborate scheduling did not work quite as planned. Many of my readers, with the best of intent, were nonetheless human and did not show up as promised. Others came late. Some came at the right time but on the wrong day. Still others came on the right day but at the wrong time. There could be four-hour stretches with no readers, and then several would show up for the same one-hour period. To make matters worse, some of the friends with whom I made arrangements to travel around campus to difficult locations would fail to appear, leaving me stranded somewhere. To the last, however, and in spite of his own demanding schedule, Arthur remained my strongest and most reliable source of support. Staying true to our pact, he always came to my rescue. Sue helped as well, regularly sending me readings on tape.
My volunteer readers recited The Aeneid to me that first semester. They read
