It was one of those mornings when I didn’t want to get out of bed. Buried under a pile of blankets, I reached behind the headboard and pushed open the window. Cool Autumn air drifted into the bedroom onto my face. The light patter of raindrops fell upon the fallen leaves in my yard. The sound was hypnotic. I wanted nothing more than to remain enveloped in the blanketed fortress of warmth.

I opened my eyes and thought about the day that lay before me. There was an important sales pitch scheduled with a potential client, one I had wooed for weeks. If successful, the coup guaranteed a promotion. Hopeful thoughts of what might be were interrupted once I noticed the paddles affixed to the ceiling fan were missing, as was the fan itself, and the ceiling. I was shrouded in darkness.

“Dammit, of all days,” I thought.

It was the sense I feared losing the most. Self sufficient and living alone, my lifestyle required the ability to see. Losing the other senses in previous years had proven debilitating but manageable. Without the inability to see, my life would be meaningless. It was a conclusion that struck me a decade earlier, after researching the potential complications that could arise if my diabetes was left unaddressed. I would rather lose a limb than my eyesight. It was a staunch belief that culminated in the decision to end my life if blindness ever occurred. Promises like that, though, are easy to make when there isn’t a gun in your hand and you still have twenty twenty vision.

Conspiracy theorists had long speculated why the population was afflicted by the annual loss of one of the five senses. The theory that made the most sense, even though there was the least amount of proof, was that it was a test orchestrated by God. A way to teach empathy to the heathens who occupied the world He created long ago. It could have been how the dinosaurs became extinct. I can’t image a blind Tyrannosaurus Rex would have lasted very long.

I hadn’t temporarily lost my vision before but assumed it would happen eventually. A few times, in preparation, I walked around my house wearing a sleep mask, to practice the maneuverability of the floorpan. It always made me feel like I was attending a slumber time costume party. Frustrated, I gave up on the practice sessions, something I now wished hadn’t been the case.

In the very least, I knew where the bathroom was located, in relation to the bed, and walked with confidence across the room. My self assuredness disappeared when I walked into the wall. At least I didn’t trip into the shower or shove a toothbrush up my nose. Making breakfast proved difficult as well. I tried to make a microwaved cheese omelette but instead of cracking the eggs against the edge of the bowl, I shattered the shells atop the counter. Cleaning up the mess was a challenge as well. Absent minded, I resigned myself to picking up breakfast at a local drive thru restaurant.

When I realized I couldn’t see where my keys had been left, it struck me that driving would be impossible. I telephoned a co-worker for a ride but he lost his hearing and couldn’t hear my request. Another friend heard his phone ring but lost his ability to speak. Having never utilized a taxi or ride sharing service, I wasn’t certain if either was available in the rural area my house was located.

It felt like the expanse of my home had been reduced to however far my arms reached. Anything beyond my grasp had disappeared along with my eyesight. It didn’t exist. The simplest tasks, which had long been taken for granted, became unattainable. It was everything I feared it would be, only much worse. Sitting in the dark, paranoia began to invade my thoughts. What would happen if this wasn’t just for the day? If my eyesight never returned? How would I survive? In past years, I hadn’t asked myself these same questions when other senses disappeared. I dealt with the inconvenience and moved on. Losing the ability to see, however, had generated genuine fear within me. Without knowing why we were stripped of our senses every year, I couldn’t be certain that my vision would be restored when the day was over. What if it was a permanent condition?

Panic stricken, I dropped to my knees and prayed for the return of my sight. All of my possessions became fair trade in the negotiations that followed. I promised to do better, to be better, to never take for granted the vision that was taken from me. I was willing to give anything for my sight to be restored. Hours went by, still on my knees, until I crawled back to the bedroom and passed out from exhaustion.

When I awoke the following morning, the darkness of the unlit room made it impossible to differentiate between the dark colored carpeting and the walls. It was 3:00 am. I reached behind the headboard and pushed aside the curtains. Faint rays of moonlight filtered through the window and created an array of shadows. I stood up and stretched, then took note of the time with a casual disregard. After entering the bathroom, I picked up the sleep mask that had been discarded on the counter and tossed it into the wastebasket.

“Being blind wasn’t that bad,” I rationalized with callous nonchalance. “Since I survived the day then anyone else should be able to.”

My eyesight restored, there was no reason to dwell on the situation. Any empathy from the previous day was cast aside. No lessons had been retained. Life continued no different than it had always been. It would be another year before I gave the subject any more thought. The issue would only be worried about on the day a sense was stripped from me and not a second sooner.