Getting through the day, minus eyes || photo by Chris Herhalt

I don’t see my bus pulling up to the stop. Even if I had, I would not have been able to reach it in time. I don’t see the snow bank right in front of me, and I trip over its frozen slope, hitting my knees and pushing my bare hands through an icy crust.

It takes me several minutes to safely navigate my way around the snow bank, and tapping my white cane across the ice, I make my way to the shelter to wait for the next bus.

I don’t know someone is standing right next to me, and when their cell phone rings, it makes me jump. I feel vulnerable and out of control.

As I try to get on the bus, I miss the door and walk into the side of the bus. Again, I trip going up the stairs and the chatter and laughter on the bus immediately dies. Since I can’t see everyone’s eyes, I assume they’re focused on me and my lumbering attempt to find a seat.

My hands and knees hurt, and I’m embarrassed.

The bus lurches and as it sharply turns corners that I cannot see, and I start to feel nauseous.

The bus driver does not call out the stops, and the only reason I know that I am at my destination is because a girl says to another, “We’re at Billings Bridge.”

I quickly realize the necessity of eavesdropping.

At the mall I become swept up in a crowd that moves too quickly for me, and become completely disoriented. The world seems much bigger when you realize you can get lost in a parking lot or a bus shelter.

I run straight into someone and say “sorry” for what feels like the hundredth time in half an hour. I feel like I am an inconvenience. My cane connects with someone’s leg.

I apologize again.

The next bus driver does not announce all of the major stops, even after lowering the bus to allow me (a visually impaired rider) on. I miss my stop and stumble off at the next one.

I feel alone in the world. I can’t see people walking by and get an eerie sensation that I am the only one left in the South Keys shopping center.

For sighted people, a day is characterized by what you see. It’s inconvenient to forget your sunglasses on a bright day, to see an ex-boyfriend who looks good while you’re buying milk in your sweat pants, or to see a model in an ad leaving you feeling fat.

But when you are visually impaired, your day is characterized and severely inconvenienced by what you don’t see. It’s the strangely placed step that you don’t see, the unforgiving fire hydrant that you don’t see, and the icy snow bank that brings you to your knees.

I’ll never complain again that I forgot my sunglasses.