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

At 27, when Japanese and Taiwanese specialists joined forces for my eye surgery, I realized I might never revisit a hospital—and that thought thrilled me. Strange, I know: most people dread hospitals, but I’d been counting down to this moment. Years of severe amblyopia and more than 60 degrees of strabismus had left me battling migraines and self-doubt—especially in love and career pursuits, where my congenital condition made me feel inferior.

The day before surgery, my mother accompanied me through pre-op checks. The anesthesiologist asked about my drinking habits—warning that even occasional sips could mean a higher dosage. The surgeon then meticulously marked incision sites on my face and head. I lay still, calm as a perfectly tied necktie.

Waking before dawn, I felt like a camera returned for repairs. At 5 a.m., the wheeled beds rolled in, and the antiseptic scent of the ward greeted me. Behind the nurse’s crisp uniform floated the soft aroma of freshly laundered linens—then my mother entered, arms laden with bags. Her first words weren’t about medicine, but dinner plans: “What shall we celebrate with tonight?” Food was our shared language, weaving aromas, flavors, and laughter into a sensory tapestry that had guided me through blindness.

As she chatted, I realized that her nightly stories—her own Thousand and One Nights—had sheltered me more than any fairy tale. Her voice, rich with hope and warmth, was my true medicine.

When the moment came, I bounced with excitement while my mother’s face showed every shadow of a mother’s fear—she’d nearly refused the surgery, convinced it might leave me worse off. I tried to soothe her, but my heart rattled like joyful thieves breaking free.

In the operating room, under that sober chill, I braced myself: “Will I ever wake without anesthesia?” I half-joked to the anxious nurse. She smiled and whispered, “Relax, you’re safe now,” as the respirator hissed me into a dream.

I awakened with tears of joy—though fewer than I expected. In that instant, I knew I would never need another hospital visit. But more than that, I felt my mother’s steadfast love etched into every cell of my being—and I vowed never to leave that memory behind.