Preston
The doorbell rings obnoxiously loudly.
I look up from sulking into my bowl of oats. Ellie is already on his feet, moving to answer the door. "We’re going to have to get the doorbell sound turned down. It's way too much, even for me."
I manage a weak, "Yeah."
I can't decide if I'm more angry or disappointed in Vadim after last night. I've got no problem with him staying back late at work if something comes up, but I don't like having my calls go unanswered and my texts left on read.
That pisses me off. If he had the time to read them, surely he could've spared ten seconds to tap out a short reply.
Ellie returns, the top half of his body obscured behind the world's largest bouquet of deep-red roses.
"Looks like someone's remorseful," he says, placing the glass vase they're in on the island. "There's a note. Want me to read it for you?"
I hate that I can't read it myself, but with my central vision the way it is, it'd be near impossible for me to.
"Yes, please."
Ellie tears open the envelope and reads aloud, "I should have called or texted you back last night. I didn't, and that was wrong. I'm sorry. Tonight? Eight o'clock. I'll make it up to you. Nothing will get in the way of it this time. VIP?" Ellie scoffs. "That's a bit arrogant, isn't it?"
"They're his initials," I explain.
Ellie drops the note and sits down next to me.
"Are you going to go?" A half beat later, he answers his own question. "Of course you are."
"How do you know? I might want to play hard to get."
"Because I know you, and I've seen what you're like when you're into someone. And you're more into Vadim than any of the losers you've dated previously."
"Can you move in a bit closer please so I can slap you across the face?"
Ellie's laugh rings out. "Yeah, right. Now, listen, we need to do some furniture shopping. I've gotten some of the basics, like beds, but I want to do the rest with your input."
"That's nice of you, but you're the interior designer, so I trust that whatever you get will look amazing."
"Thanks, but it doesn't just need to look good. I've been doing some research into adaptive furniture, and I've found a high-end interior designer in Reno with accessible design experience who can help us source everything and set it up."
"Oh, El." My chest inflates because of course he's the kind of friend who would do something this thoughtful completely unprompted. "Thank you."
"I can't believe I'm about to say this, but for once, I'm with Vadim on this one. There's no need to thank me. We're family, and looking after one another is what family does."
Tears build behind my eyes. "You're the best. Can I say that?"
I hear the smile in his reply. "That, I will allow."
He goes on to explain about things like high-contrast furnishings, logical layouts, furniture with rounded edges, and tactile markers like small raised dots or textured strips on drawers, remotes, and appliances to help me locate things easily.
As I listen to him, a wave of fear comes over me.
This is real.
Like, this is really real. It's happening. The time for denying, delaying, and ignoring the inevitability of my condition is well and truly over.
The next step is to sit down and tell Vadim.
"So, want to go furniture shopping today?" Ellie asks. "Give me an idea of what sort of style and motif we'll go for."
"I can't. I've got my appointment with the neuro-ophthalmologist today. First one in months, actually."
"Months? You weren't seeing a doctor while you were in San Jose?"
I pull an eep face.
"I was referred to a specialist in San Jose, and I intended to make an appointment, but, you know, things got hectic with Dad, and I kept putting it off until I never got around to it. I'm sure I'll hear all about it today from Dr. Moloney."
"Preston Gertrude Miller!"
"What?"
"I can't believe you let your medical appointments slide like that."
"I know, it's bad. I just… You know me."
"I do. Probably better than anyone else. But that's no excuse. You've been on your mom's case for not looking after herself, and meanwhile, you are literally going blind and not attending your medical appointments."
I hang my head, ashamed and embarrassed and angry at myself for neglecting something any normal person would have been more on top of than I've been.
“It’s not as if the doctor can do anything to prevent what's going to happen from happening. They're more like checkups."
It's a weak defense.
"I call bullshit," Ellie retaliates with more than a hint of defiance in his tone. "From now on, mister, you are going to every single doctor's appointment, and I am going to take you there myself."
"You don't have to do that, El."
"Like hell I don't. I've stood back and let you handle this yourself for long enough.
I've said nothing as you have relegated what should have been a top priority to the background.
I've watched you squint, and struggle with headaches, and lie to my face that you're fine when I can clearly tell you're not.
You never accept help for even the smallest things whenever I offer.
I mean, for god's sake, Pres, anyone with your shitty vision would be wearing glasses or contacts, but nope, not you.
I get that you're an adult and can make your own decisions, but I'm stepping in.
This stubborn streak isn't serving you anymore.
It's hurting you. And I can't keep standing by, saying nothing, and just letting that happen.
From now on, when it comes to anything medical-related, we're co-bosses. "
He blows out a stream of air after that mini rant.
I do the same.
It's not fun having your ass handed to you, but I love Ellie, I trust Ellie, and I know he's absolutely right about every single thing.
I should have taken this way more seriously from the start.
I should have been attending all my medical appointments, and I should have been wearing glasses my whole life, but ever since what Mom still calls 'the temper tantrum from hell' when I was twelve, neither she nor Dad ever forced me to wear glasses again.
They hinted and prodded and tried a combination of guilt and fear tactics to try to get me to wear them, but as everyone who knows me knows, you can't force me to do anything I don't want to do.
This might not make any sense to anyone else, but since I knew I'd lose my vision completely some day, I think I chose not to wear glasses or contacts to improve my sight because then I'd only know what I was losing. Whereas if I just got used to living with poor vision—which I did, and I’ve been able to live a normal life—when the inevitable loss came, I thought that somehow it would lessen the badness of it.
It's probably a deeply flawed theory, but it's the only one I have, and the one I've stuck to all these years. But if my pigheadedness is hurting me like Ellie claims that it is, maybe it's time I tried something else.
Like letting him help me.
I let out a sigh. "I miss the days when I was the responsible one and you were the loose cannon."
"Hey, I can still get loose. The food bill I racked up at the casino is basically grand larceny. But skipping doctor’s appointments is seriously not cool."
I drop my head again. "I know. You're right. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
"You're damn right it won't. Now, do you want me to microwave those oats for you again since they've gone cold, or are you done with them?"
"The progression since your last appointment is notable," Dr. Moloney says, which is the clinical way of saying it's gotten worse faster than expected.
She's already said everything she had to say about the months I skipped seeing a doctor. I copped an earful about that before Ellie was allowed into the room. I deserved it, so I sat there and said nothing.
Thankfully, she’s moved on and is now walking us through what to expect over the coming months.
"You'll experience increased difficulty with contrast and depth perception, your central vision will continue to narrow, and there's a strong likelihood you'll need a white cane sooner than we've previously discussed."
After that, she says, it becomes harder to predict. "Every patient is different. Some retain more peripheral vision than others. Some adapt faster."
"Is there an order or sequence of what I can expect?" I ask.
"Again, it varies, but given how far your condition has advanced, and how, as you explained, it comes and goes and changes, it's highly likely that next to go will be reading, then faces, then details.
Everything around you will eventually reduce to shapes and light and shadow at the edges. And then…"
"Nothing?" I offer.
"It depends, Preston. You may retain some residual light perception, or yes, possibly complete blackness."
Tears spill down my cheeks.
Ellie takes me by the hand and whispers, "It'll be okay. You're strong, Pres. We'll get through this."
I nod, catching my breath, letting it all sink in.
Like with Dad dying, it's expected but still carries a sting of surprise to it. Maybe it's not just grief, maybe my brain is just fucked up when it comes to processing anything it doesn't want to deal with.
Dr. Moloney gives me a referral to a low vision rehabilitation program and chats for a bit with Ellie about home accessibility modifications, jotting down a few helpful online resources for us to check out.
I'm overwhelmed and quiet on the drive back to our apartment. I keep turning Dr. Moloney's words over in my mind. Reading, then faces, then detail.
Small print is already out, so I guess large words will be the next thing to go.
I think about whose face I most want to be able to see for as long as possible—Mom. Ellie. Vadim—but it only makes me even sadder.
There are already times when I don't see them as clearly as I used to, their faces blurring at the edges until I'm reading expressions more by guesswork and from memory than I am from sight.
What's so confusing, and has contributed to me deluding myself for as long as I have been, is that a few hours later, my vision will sharpen, just enough to convince me that it's maybe not really all that bad, that maybe I can live with it as long as it doesn't continue deteriorating.
I now can see—pun intended—that's a lie I can no longer keep on believing. One of many I've deluded myself into believing.
I haven't replied to Vadim's note that accompanied the flowers yet, and I should.
From memory, I navigate to our Signal chat and tap around until the small tone confirms the microphone is on.
"Hey, Vadim. Thank you for the flowers. They're beautiful. I can't make it tonight, though. I'm not feeling well. Some other time? Send."
A soft whoosh sounds, and I drop the phone into my lap.
"You okay, Pres?" Ellie asks carefully.
"No," I reply, bringing my fingers to my temples and starting to rub. "I'm not okay at all."