Micky woke up uneasy. Something was wrong, something he couldn't identify. He heard a creak from the bed next to his. "Pete, are you awake?" he whispered.
"Of course I'm awake. How would I be putting my socks on if I were asleep? Why are you whispering?" Peter answered aloud.
"What?" Micky looked baffled. "What time is it?"
"About quarter to nine."
"In the morning?"
"Of course." Peter was becoming equally confused.
"Is it foggy out?"
"No," Peter replied. "It's nice and sunny; I pulled the shades up already."
"Then how come it's so dark in here?" Micky was blinking and rubbing his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
"Pete, I can't see."
Peter shouted down to Mike and Davy from the top of the stairs, and in a few moments they were all huddled around Micky's bed. "You can't see anything?" Mike asked. He noted with concern that Micky seemed to be staring vacantly at Davy's dresser.
"No, nothing...just some...gray...shadows."
"Do your eyes hurt?" asked Davy.
"No, not at all. I just can't see anything."
"But you were fine last night", Peter said.
"I know...this doesn't make any sense."
Mike was decisive. "Man, we gotta take you to the hospital and figure out what's goin' on here. I'll go get the car. Pete, Davy, can you help Micky get dressed?"
The trip to Westmount Hospital was mercifully short. Mike concentrated on the road like a Grand Prix driver, trying to keep from thinking about anything else. Davy stared fixedly out the car window. In the back seat, Peter sat silent and anxious; finally, he put a gentle hand on Micky's arm and kept it there. Meanwhile, Micky repeated in his mind the same mantra, to fight off his feeling of dread: There has to be an explanation for this, there has to be an explanation for this. Then he asked himself: People don't just go...blind overnight...do they?
As he filled out Micky's admission forms at the front desk, Mike thought, without wanting to, How much is this going to cost?, then hated himself. An orderly loaded Micky into a wheelchair and whisked him away almost before Davy and Peter could say, "It'll be all right, Micky; we'll see you soon."
Mike, Davy, and Peter settled reluctantly in the hospital lounge. The three of them talked about nothing, listlessly watched soap operas on the TV, and drank too many cups of bad vending-machine coffee. After nearly four hours, a nurse approached them, asking, "Are you the ones here with Micky Dolenz? Please come this way – Dr. Kenworth would like to see you."
They crowded into a small office decorated with diagrams of the human eye. Micky was sitting directly in front of the desk, looking tense and very much alone. "Hey, Mick, we're here", Mike said quietly, and gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze. At the sound of his voice and the touch, Micky relaxed a little.
Dr. Kenworth was a handsome young man with a blond crew cut who looked like an extra from General Hospital. "Mr. Dolenz, we've examined your eyes thoroughly and run some very extensive tests. We've diagnosed what the problem is. There's a condition called ischemic optic neuropathy; it simply means that something has blocked the blood flow to the optic nerve, and permanently damaged it. Of course, you know that the optic nerve is responsible for transmitting what the eyes see to the brain so it can be processed. The vision loss can be very sudden, but completely painless, and it can sometimes literally happen overnight, as it did with you. In your case, the vision loss was also almost total. Apparently, you can just tell the difference between light and dark: what we call 'light perception only.' Ischemic optic neuropathy is a rare condition, and it normally affects much older people. In fact, this is the first time I've come across it in someone as young as yourself."
"Oh, great", Micky murmured. "I'm the special one." Aloud, he asked, "Do you know what caused this...blockage?"
"Sometimes it's related to a history of migraines, or certain blood vessel diseases", Dr. Kenworth replied. "But you don't have either of those things. I'm afraid we don't really know what caused it in your case."
Mike spoke up. "You said permanently damaged; is there any kind of eye operation Micky could have?"
Dr. Kenworth shook his head. "No, once the optic nerve has been damaged, there's no way to repair it surgically. An operation would be of no use." He paused. "You're more than welcome to get a second opinion, but I honestly don't think another doctor would tell you anything different."
The truth began to circle around the tiny room, but it was up to Micky to actually speak it. "So there's no way to fix my eyes?"
"Unfortunately, no. None that we know of", Dr. Kenworth replied.
"So...I'm never going to get my sight back. That means I'm going to be" – Micky hesitated for just a fraction of a second -"blind?"
Dr. Kenworth sighed. "Yes. I'm very sorry."
Micky took a deep breath, then let it out slowly. "OK", was all he said. No one else spoke.
Dr. Kenworth finally broke the silence. "Of course, there are many rehabilitation services available here in California that can help you." He jotted something on a piece of paper and handed it to Davy. "I'd like you to go to our social work department on the third floor. Miss McCarthy can give you more information." He paused. "Mr. Dolenz, you're in good health otherwise; there's really no reason for you to stay here. You're free to go home. Please call me if you have any further questions. I'd like to see you in a month for follow-up. Again, I'm sorry."
Micky stood up, and seemed to be looking around uncertainly. "Come on, Micky", Peter said, taking his arm and carefully guiding him to the door. Davy followed.
Mike was left alone with Dr. Kenworth. Automatically, he said, "Thank you", and shook hands.
The visit to Miss McCarthy's office was brief; Mike filled out more forms and forced himself to pay attention to what she said about a place called the Pacific Rehabilitation Institute for the Blind. Miss McCarthy gave Mike a brochure and a business card. Meanwhile, Micky, Davy, and Peter waited out in the hallway.
The four of them sat, silent and disconsolate, around the kitchen table.
Micky was expressionless, his eyes staring at nothing. Under his breath, he murmured, "Somebody tell me this isn't really happening..."
Peter said, seemingly to himself, "I wish it was yesterday."
Mike asked hesitantly, "Mick, do you want to...see another doctor? Get a second opinion, I mean?"
"No, what's the point?" Micky answered tonelessly. "You heard what Dr. Kenworth said. Nobody's gonna fix my optic nerve. I'm no M.D., but I know that much. Besides...I don't want to hear another doctor telling me that I'm going to be..." He left the sentence unfinished.
There was another long silence.
Davy said quietly, "I'll make us some tea. Me mum always says that no matter how bad your trouble is, a spot of tea will make things better." He took out the big red teapot which had traveled all the way from Manchester.
Mike nodded gratefully. "Thanks, Davy."
Davy set the mugs of milky tea on the table. He remembered to say, "Micky, yours is by your right hand." Micky felt for it cautiously.
Perhaps it was the tea; after a cup or two, everyone, even Micky, felt a little calmer. The day's events seemed slightly less surreal.
Peter said timidly, "I'm hungry", as though ashamed to admit to something so mundane in this time of crisis.
Mike replied, "I'm not surprised; none of us has eaten all day."
Micky asked dryly, "Any of you guys up for spoon-feeding me?" Davy, Mike and Peter looked at each other in dismay.
"Let's get a pizza", Davy suggested. "That would be...OK, wouldn't it, Micky?"
He shrugged. "I guess so. I don't feel much like eating anyway."
"Why don't I go turn on the telly? Maybe we could watch..." Davy's voice trailed off. "I'm sorry..."
"It's all right, Davy. You can still say 'watch'; I know what you meant", Micky said quietly.
They sat in front of the TV watching The Man From U.N.C.L.E.; it was a welcome distraction for anhour. Between mouthfuls of pizza, Mike did his best to narrate the action for Micky's benefit. But all Micky could think about was not spilling pizza on his clothes and not knocking over his bottle of Dr. Pepper.
Mike was examining the narrow, winding metal staircase, looking thoughtful. "Davy, those stairs are gonna be a stone drag for Micky."
"You're absolutely right. He's going to have to sleep down here for a while. We can take turns staying with him. We better talk to him."
"Mick?"
Micky was sitting in the armchair, seeming to stare out the window at the ocean. "What, Mike?"
"Um...you know the staircase..."
"Uh-huh."
"Well, Davy and I think that, well, it might be kinda...complicated for you...right now."
"You mean you're afraid I might fall down the stairs or something because I'm...blind." Micky said the word carefully, as though it were in a foreign language he was just learning to pronounce.
"We just don't want anything to happen to you, mate", Davy added. "So, for the time being, Mike and Peter and I will take turns staying with you down here every night."
Micky looked resigned. "Yeah, it'll be like a slumber party", he said dryly.
With Peter's help, Mike and Davy carried two of the mattresses downstairs and placed them in a corner of the living room.
The first few days of Micky's blindness were worse than anything they'd ever experienced. All his exuberance gone, he spent hours at a time in a silent stupor of misery and bewilderment. Mike and Davy and Peter could only look on, in almost equal misery, not knowing what to say or how to help. They made certain that one of them was always awake in case Micky needed anything at midnight or 5 a.m. With just a shadowy approximation of daylight and darkness now, he was sleeping and waking at all hours.
"Mick, do you want something to eat? I could make you some cinnamon toast." Cinnamon toast was one of Micky's favorite snacks.
"No, thanks, Mike. I'm really not hungry."
The morning dragged along. "Micky, is it OK if I turn the TV on?"
"Sure, Pete, that's fine." Micky returned to silence.
There was a noise outside the front door. "Oh, the mail's here", Davy said.
"Guess I won't be reading it...", Micky murmured to himself.
Mike, Davy, and Peter sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee in the late afternoon sunlight. Micky was asleep on the couch, as he had been for most of the day.
"It's never going to be the same again, is it?" Davy asked somberly.
Mike shook his head. "No, it won't."
Peter said passionately, "It's not fair! Why did this have to happen to Micky?"
Mike and Davy had no reply.
There was a long silence. Finally Mike said, "We've gotta do whatever we can to make things...easier for him."
Davy and Peter nodded in unison.
Davy asked hesitantly, "What's going to happen to...the band?"
Mike replied, "I have no idea." He sighed. "Man, I can't even think about what's gonna happen ten minutes from now."
Then Peter asked, "Are we ever going to be happy again?"