APRIL

Jackson was a vision on our wedding day. Dressed in a sharp black suit with a vest over a crisp white shirt, he cleaned up perfectly. Not like I didn't know he could, but he took my breath away as I walked down the aisle that afternoon.

As I got closer, I could see his shining eyes and clasped hands, anticipating my arrival. Everyone's gaze was on me from the audience, but I only cared that he was looking at me. In that moment, I couldn't wait to look at him for the rest of our lives. That beautiful face, muscular body, brilliant mind - he was all mine in a gorgeous package.

We thought our marriage couldn't get stronger or better - until Peyton came along. The day she was born competes with our wedding day for the best day of both of our lives, and that's a known fact between us.

Her face was swollen and pinched with emotion as the doctors pulled her from my body via the incision in my middle, and she cried with ferocity. I was a little delirious - being in labor for 36 hours will do that to you - but once they laid her on my chest, my mind was clear. Her eyes were squinty, but colored a dark blue that would transform into the aquamarine of her father's. Her arms wriggled their way out of the swaddling blanket and Jackson and I held her hands and kissed each and every one of her tiny fingers.

When I saw Jackson in the hospital today before I left for the scene, I'd yelled at him. At the very least, I snapped at him. His face was frustrated and upset, pinched and irritated - he'd been trying to tell me something but I refused to listen. It seems stupid now. He was wearing his scrubs and lab coat, and I wonder if he still has them on next to me. I would assume so.

When I dropped Peyton off at daycare early this morning, she fussed but didn't throw a fit. She's been getting better at that, and although her attachment issues were tough to deal with, I almost miss them as they become lesser. I liked knowing how much she depended on me, how much she needed me and couldn't live without me. I liked knowing that, out of anyone, I was her favorite.

This morning, she was wearing baby jeans and a white onesie with writing on it, but I can't remember what it said. Something cheesy that people love to print on baby clothes, I'm sure. It doesn't matter - but it's bothersome that I can't place what the words were. I remember dressing her in it simply because it matched. Why didn't I read closer?

She smiled at me when I lifted her from the crib this morning, fist in her mouth. She giggled when I picked her up and set her on the changing table, then kicked her legs like usual. I had smiled down at her, joyful at the fact she was happy to simply be alive, and kissed her all over.

I keep the most recent images of Jackson and Peyton in my head along with the poignant ones from the past, because all I see now is darkness. It's due to the gauze wrapped around my head and eyes, but still the fact isn't comforting. The blackness goes on and on forever without a hint of light in any corner. I have to hold onto the images of my family to keep from becoming very afraid.

Jackson is beside me now, but as far as he can tell, I'm still asleep. I stay still, not wanting him to know that I'm awake yet, and feel his fingertips drift across my arm. He tickles it gently while resting his head on my chest and breathing slowly against me. He's tucked as close as possible, yet I wish he were somehow closer.

I wish I had kept him close all day. Maybe, if we hadn't been fighting, things would have gone differently. It's a silly thought, because I run the ER - which means there's no way I wouldn't have been on-scene for what happened.

I'm not sure how it occurred. It all happened so fast. One minute I was standing next to a gurney holding a badly-burnt woman, and the next I was on the ground screaming, in the worst pain of my life.

Before Peyton was cut out of me, I had contractions for hours upon hours. They ripped through my body like I was being torn in half for pleasure; my system had turned on itself. I thought, at the time, it was the worst pain I could ever experience.

What happened today proved the year-ago version of me very wrong. There was no reward for this pain, no life to come of it. And I had no idea where the sensation came from at first, so the burning, singeing, crackling pain came out of nowhere and literally blinded me. Paired with the fact that I couldn't move, I was beside myself. My own screaming flooded my ears, but I couldn't stop. I remember screaming for Jackson as I lay there in the dirt, I remember screaming for him in the ambulance, but I stopped once they shot morphine into my system. I could breathe again after that.

I could breathe, but I still couldn't see. And I still can't, even now. I wonder when that will change.

I adjust a bit and take a deep breath, and Jackson physically responds. He lifts his head and stops the movement of his fingers on my arm, and I feel a hand on my face that I didn't expect, so I jump.

"Hi, honey," he says, and his voice is so soft.

"Hi," I say, stretching my fingers to find him again.

They land on the plane of his chest, so I feel my way to his shoulders and pull him back to me. I wrap my arms around his big head and he tucks his face into my neck, and I try and put my memories in order. I remember waking up once before and knowing Jackson was here, but that's about it. Everything, even including that vague memory, is muddled and barely-there, like I wasn't present for what happened to myself.

He hugs me tight; I feel his breath against the plane of my sternum. He doesn't say a word, he just presses himself close and breathes against my body, letting me know that he's here and not going anywhere.

I don't know what I would've done had I woken up alone. I'm scared enough as it is - having him next to me is such a comfort, even if I can't see him. Feeling him, right now, is enough to let me know that I'm safe.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, still blinking against my neck. His eyelashes tickle - they're so long. Longer than mine.

When he brings it up, the pain of the skin surrounding my eyes throbs for attention. I grimace because of it and dig my fingers into his arm, and he sits up to assumedly look at me.

"Hurts," I say.

"I can get you some more morphine," he says, then leans to reach for something.

"It's right there?" I ask.

"No," he says. "I paged Mark. He's the lead doctor on your case. You're in good hands, itty-bitty."

I don't respond with words. Instead, I fold myself into him and rest my head in the crook between his shoulder and neck. We switch places as I rest on him, pushing myself as close as possible, and he wraps his arms tight around me and kisses the top of my head.

"You're okay," he says. "I'm right here, and you're right here. You're a fucking badass, baby. You don't have to be scared. Everything is gonna be just fine."

I nod, because I have no choice but to believe him. Any other prospect is terrifying.

When I get the morphine, it makes my body turn lethargic and my thoughts become cloudy. I can't quite discern what's real and what's not - it feels like I'm in a dream state that I can't quite wake up from. It doesn't help that I can't see, either. It makes the world feel much less real and tangible.

"How's your pain?" Jackson asks, though his voice is faraway and waterlogged. I feel his body next to mine, but for some reason it still doesn't seem like he's right there.

"Don't leave," I say, clumsily grappling for him. I convince myself that if I say I'm fine, he won't go. He won't leave to get me more medicine or bring more doctors. He'll just leave it like it is, just the two of us. "I'm fine. No pain."

That's not exactly the truth. My forehead burns along with my temples, and my eyes ache with a sharp, insistent throbbing. I don't know if the morphine just hasn't kicked in yet, but I refuse to take more. If the amount I got makes me feel like this, I can't imagine what a higher dosage would do.

"None?" he says, and makes me jump when he kisses my cheek. I hadn't expected it. "Oh, sorry," he says, and rubs a thumb over the spot where his lips had just been.

I shake my head subtly, not able to move it all that much, and adjust the way I'm lying. Another place where I'm uncomfortable is my chest, because my breasts are full and I either need to pump or feed my child. I'm not in the right frame of mind right now for either of those things, though, so all I can do is wince and cover my chest with one arm.

"You don't have to lie, babe," Jackson says, reaching over me. "You're allowed to have more morphine. "

"Not that," I say, lying flat while still protecting my chest.

"It'll help you feel better," he says. "There's nothing wrong with it."

"Not what hurts," I say, wrinkling my forehead with frustration over the fact that I can't seem to get my point across coherently.

"Baby, what?" he says. "I'm sorry. I don't understand what you mean."

"Baby," I say emphatically, trying to put across that I mean Peyton, and the pain I'm having has nothing to do with my injuries. "Baby."

"I'm right here," he says.

I make a loud sound of exasperation and let my arms flop to my sides. He pauses - his vibe is alert but he doesn't speak.

"Is there something I can get for you?" he asks. "Are you sure you don't want more meds? They won't hurt you."

I shake my head vehemently. I debate trying to speak again, but I know my thoughts will just come out jumbled like before.

"Okay," he says. "Why don't you try and sleep?"

I don't respond. All I do is lie there on my back for a moment and try to breathe evenly without moving. If I don't move, the pain isn't quite as bad. I end up falling asleep for a little while - a deep, dreamless sleep that I'm not sure how to come out of when I wake up.

It's unsettling, because being wakeful looks the same as being asleep. I hadn't dreamed while I was out, therefore I didn't see much. So now, while my brain is conscious and alert, I'm still seeing what I saw while I was under. I'm not quite sure what to make of it.

"Peyton," I say, and Jackson shifts. He's still right beside me. I wonder how long I've been sleeping. My breasts still hurt, and I miss my baby like crazy.

"Hey," he says. "You're up."

"Mmm…" I grunt, stretching my legs out straight. I skim one hand along the scratchy sheets until I find his fingers, then firmly grip them. "How long?" I ask.

"Few hours," he says.

I have no concept of what time it is now. It could be the middle of the night or the middle of the day and I'd be none the wiser either way.

"What… when…" I begin, but I don't have to finish.

"It's morning now," he says. "Just after 7." I nod and swallow hard, and he changes the way he's sitting. "I want you to drink some water," he says. "You need to stay hydrated."

"That's what the IV's for," I say. The wires have been bothering me for a while now.

"April," he says, and I can tell he's serious by the tone of his voice, so I take the Styrofoam cup from him and find the straw with my lips and tongue. I suck it down greedily and he takes it when I'm finished, asking, "Are you hungry?"

I shake my head no.

"You should eat something," he says. "It's been a while."

"I want the baby," I say, finally able to voice what I was thinking from before. "Peyton. Where is she?"

"Lexie has her," Jackson answers. "You want… you want to see her? Um, have… hold her, I mean?"

I nod. "My boobs hurt," I say. "She'll be fussy. She'll want me."

"Of course," he says. "Let me give Lexie a call. And after that, Mark should be ready for your consult. Okay?"

I nod, resting back on the pillow without another choice. I don't listen to the details of Jackson on the phone, but instead tune my hearing into the beeping of the heart monitor and the drip of the IV near my head. Both are sounds that I'm very familiar with, but I never thought I'd be in the situation to hear them like this.

"She'll bring Pey by in a few minutes," he says, voice surprising me once again. "She's grabbing her from daycare."

"Okay," I mutter, and clasp my hands together to twist and wring my fingers. I can't seem to get comfortable now, lying here in one place. I'm starting to get antsy.

I hear Peyton long before she and Lexie arrive, all the way from down the hall. I'd know that voice anywhere - high-pitched and joyful - and the first smile since the accident blooms on my face.

"I hear her," I say, sitting up a bit straighter. "I hear my Peanut."

"...gonna go see Mama. Doesn't that sound good? We're gonna see Mama!" I hear Lexie talking baby-talk to Peyton as they come through the doorway, and then the air falls silent and still.

"Lexie?" I say, holding my arms out. "That's you, right?"

"I'm here," she says, but I don't hear any footsteps.

"Dada!" Peyton says, and the mattress lifts as Jackson must stand up and walk over to her. He mutters something, but I can't place the words he says. I strain to hear, but I'm unsuccessful. I don't want to ruin the moment by asking what their apparent secret is, though. I just want my baby.

"Can I have her?" I ask, feeling helpless. I can't get out of bed because I can't see where I'm going, not until this gauze is off. So, all I can do is hold out my hands and wag my fingers, practically begging for my child.

Jackson gasps playfully. "There's Mama," he says. "There's your pretty mama. Let's go see her."

He comes closer and sits back on the bed, and I reach my arms towards him once again.

"I'm handing her over now," he tells me, which I appreciate. "One, two, three. There she goes!"

The warm weight of my daughter is pleasant and grounding, and I squeeze her tight to my chest as a greeting. She doesn't make any sound, which is unusual, but I try not to read into it. I rub her back and try to get her settled, but she won't relax. Her muscles are tense, and she won't comply like usual, like how I normally position her to nurse.

"You have to be hungry," I say. "And I'm ready for you to eat, little one. Come on. Don't you wanna nurse?"

Peyton fusses and whines, and I feel both of her little palms push against my chest. I try and readjust her, but she squirms into a different position and ends up with her hands on the gauze over my eyes, and I flinch away with a surprised-sounding shriek.

That reaction sends the baby over the edge. She pulls away from me and starts crying, loud and emotional, and by the way her torso swivels I can tell she's reaching for Jackson.

"Oh, come on, P," he says. "What's wrong? What's up with you today?"

"Take her," I say. "Jackson, please. Just take her."

Noticing my sharp tone, he does as I ask. After the baby is out of my arms, still whimpering in Jackson's, I touch the gauze self-consciously. She was scared of me - that's why she cried.

"Honey, it's fine," Jackson says, then his voice muffles a bit when he said, "Could you give us a minute?" Lexie must have still been in the room, silently watching.

"She's scared of me," I say, turning my head down and to the side. "Don't let her see me. I don't want to make it worse."

"She's not scared of you," he says. "She's just not used to the bandages. Cut her some slack, baby."

"I must look horrible," I say, then feel my face. Even the skin that isn't covered by the white cloth feels bumpy and covered in ridges - my cheekbones, my jaw, there seems to be residual scarring there, too. The skin is sticky, like there's been ointment put on it. How come I can't remember that? "I must look like a monster."

"You don't," Jackson insists. In his arms, Peyton has stopped crying, now lessened to minor whines and sighs.

"What do I look like, then?" I ask, and realize for the first time that my fingers are trembling.

"You look like you," he says, and the mattress shifts as he leans closer.

I feel his breath on my skin before he touches me, and then he presses a benign kiss to my neck - a place that wasn't affected by burns. He pulls away, and immediately I yearn for him to stay, I yearn for more. But I don't tell him that.

"I don't feel like me," I whisper, and let my chin hit my chest.

"I know," he says, and doesn't offer anything more. He doesn't have to.

We spend a moment in silence, and I wonder what Peyton is doing. Is she staring at me? Is she expecting me to make a funny face at her like I usually do when I catch her eye? I don't know. Maybe, she's looking off into the distance, out the window, or at her Daddy's face. Into her daddy's eyes, the ones who will look back. I wonder what she's thinking, if she even knows that it's me sitting in front of her. Maybe, for all she knows, I'm just another patient at the hospital where Mommy and Daddy work.

"I need to pump," I say, situating. "If she won't eat, I need to… they hurt."

"Oh," he says. "I can… do you want to try her again, maybe?"

I shake my head and set my jaw. For Peyton's sake, I would love to. But if she pushes me away again, it would only shove the knife in deeper and I'm not sure how much more pain I can take at the moment.

"Alright," he says. "I'll go find one."

I don't like to sleep as much as I have been, but I can't help it. It feels like days upon days have gone by, though every time I ask Jackson he says it's only been a few minutes, or a couple hours at most. It's a horrible feeling - like I'm caught in time, stuck in limbo, and I can't climb out because I don't have the energy.

When I wake up this time, I hear conversation. There's more than just Jackson in the room - I recognize Mark's voice alongside his, both of them speaking in low, hushed tones as they probably were trying not to wake me.

"I'll know more when I see the condition of her eyes, her physical eyes," Mark says. "There are three categories she could fall into. After I know what one she's in, I'll know whether or not to be worried."

"Okay," Jackson says, sounding troubled.

I try not to move, but Mark somehow notices I'm awake, anyway. "Hey there, Sleeping Beauty," he says, and I hear wheels roll closer. When he speaks again, his voice is right next to me. "How're you feeling? Any pain?"

"Don't want any more morphine," I say, and hear how groggy my voice sounds. I wonder how long I was out. "It makes me all… I can't think."

"Understandable," he says. "But if you're in a lot of pain, I don't want you to hesitate. Alright?" I nod halfheartedly. "I'm gonna grab your vitals. Then, we're gonna work on removing these bandages."

"What are the categories?" I ask, referencing what he said just moments ago.

He clears his throat softly. "Right. Well, there's Grade 1, 2, 3, and 4," he says. "Grade 1, your eyes look pretty clear. There might be some epithelial damage, but that's it. If that's the case, great. Grade 2, we're looking at corneal oedema. Significant swelling, watering, redness. If you fall into that category, it's fine. We can work with that. Grade 3 has to do with corneal ulcers. They're harder to work with, but manageable. Grade 4 is the easiest to spot - your eye would be completely white, no visible iris, pupil, or much of anything."

I nod softly. I don't have much of a response.

"I'm gonna listen to your heart now," he says. "This will be cold."

Even though he warned me, I still jump when the stethoscope hits my skin. He has me sit up to move it around my back to listen to my lungs, then takes my blood pressure. After he's finished, he takes a while to reapply the salve to the burns on my face. It stings, but I try not to let it show.

"You doing alright?" he asks, and the wheels roll away. I nod. "Okay. I'm gonna get my scissors, and we're gonna take the gauze off. Sound good? Still okay?"

"Yes," I mutter.

Footsteps come closer and Jackson takes my hand without warning, which startles me. "Hey," he says. "Sorry."

"It's fine," I whisper, suddenly very nervous as Mark gets near my face.

"This won't hurt," he say. "When the air hits the burnt skin, you might feel a little stinging. But I've got it numbed up pretty good, so you should be fine."

"Okay," I whisper, feeling the anticipation build over what I might see when they come off.

I'm looking forward to the world being lit up again, even if it's blurry. Even if it's not like my sight was before, at least it will be something. It'll be something more than the darkness I've been trapped inside - and I don't even know how long I've been behind this curtain. I just can't wait to get out.

"Alright, I'm gonna start cutting," he says. "Hold still for me."

I don't move a muscle. I keep my shoulders tense and straight, sitting with a rigid spine. I barely breathe while I listen to the scissors snip carefully, and Jackson keeps a gentle hold on my hand during the process.

It seems to take forever. When Jackson squeezes my fingers, I open my mouth and feel a breeze on my face, but there must still be some material left because I can't see anything different.

"Are we almost done?" I ask, trying to sound curious instead of impatient.

"We are done," Mark says, and his voice sounds far away. I realize only then that the snipping stopped a bit ago, there's cool air on my raw skin, yet the world is still dark.

"Oh," I say.

"Can you open your eyes for me, all the way?" he asks.

I thought they had been. At least, that's what it felt like. But, I don't argue. Instead, I try and lift the lids to an alert position, and I'm pretty sure they get there. Even so, the lightness of the room doesn't change. Or rather, the darkness of it.

"Thank you," Mark says. "I'm gonna give you a little exam, just to see where you're at. Can you tell me if you see anything, April?"

My stomach twists with nerves. The gauze is gone, my eyes are open, yet I still see nothing. Blackness, darkness, absolutely no speck of light anywhere. It's like I'm in a dark room with the curtains drawn, facing the wall. There's nothing to grasp.

I can't say it out loud. If I tell him I'm completely blind, there's no hope. I'm a doctor, I know that much, but I also know religion. If I keep the faith that I'll come back from this, maybe I can. If I put a little bit of hope into the universe, maybe I'll be rewarded for it.

"Any light? Any change at all from before?"

"I… yes," I say, running my bottom teeth over my top lip. "It's lighter. I can see light."

"You can?" Jackson asks, his voice full of excitement. I can't answer him with words - I only nod.

"Okay…" Mark says, then pauses. "Did you see that?"

I open my mouth and make a soft sound with my lips parted. "Um," I stammer. "I… I don't know."

"I'm gonna shine a light in your eyes again to see if there's any reaction," he says. "You let me know if you can see it."

"Okay."

A moment passes where I assume he's carrying out the action he told me he would, but still I see nothing. No change in the darkness, no fluctuation of light, no lift in the shadows.

"I saw it," I say, then hear him scribbling something down on a chart.

He doesn't respond, so I blink hard to try and make something come of my vision. I have the urge to reach up and rub my eyes, but I know that's impossible. The skin surrounding them would fall apart.

"Mark, I saw it," I say, when an answer still doesn't come.

"Okay," he says, but his voice sounds funny. "I'll give you another test, then. You tell me when the flashlight is on, then when it's off. Alright? We'll start in three, two, one…"

No matter how hard I squint or concentrate, I know nothing will come of it. So, I have to use my best guessing skills when saying the words 'on' and 'off,' but really it just feels like I'm throwing them out into the universe with no hope of getting the answers right.

When he speaks again, his tone is very serious and sounds very close to me. Jackson still hasn't let go of my hand, and now his forehead is resting upon it, assumedly with his body bent in half.

"April, I want you to tell me the truth," Mark says, sounding calm and even - the opposite of what's happening inside me at the moment. "Can you see that light?"

I open my mouth to instinctively give him an affirmative answer, but stop myself before I can. It's obvious I got the test completely wrong, so lying now would be a mistake. It would be beyond stupid, and counterproductive over anything.

"No," I answer, very soft and meek.

"Okay," he says, then writes something else.

"What does that mean?" Jackson chimes in, sitting up again. "She's blind? She's completely blind?"

The wheels on Mark's stool make a quiet sound as he moves around. "It's all in the way her eyes look, like I said," he explains. "April," he continues, and touches the hand that Jackson doesn't have. "You're in Grade 4. Your eyes are extremely cloudy, whitened over. No iris visible. When I saw them, I knew."

I begin to shake, and not gently, either. My body rattles and quakes, and I have to pull both arms to my chest to try and make it stop. It's relentless, though, as it makes its way through my body like a persistent wave of malaise.

"I'm blind?" I ask, clenching my fists. "For how long? When will my sight come back?"

There's a long pause before he speaks. "It'd be statistically impossible for it to come back," he says. "Because you're in Grade 4 with this much progression, there's not much to be done. Of course, I can treat the burns and fix up your skin as best I can. But the eyes… it's nearly impossible that your sight will return."

When I start to cry, it surprises me. It's a natural reaction, but it hadn't crossed my mind that tears would still be able to come out of my broken eyes.

I think of everything I saw today, and how much I took it for granted. How much everyone takes their sight for granted. I don't know what Jackson's expression is right now, and I don't know if Mark is looking at me. I can't see the weather, I don't know what time it is. I can't check my phone, I can't perform surgery, and I can't see my child's face.

"You're sure?" Jackson says. "Think about what you're telling her right now. You're saying that she'll never regain her sight, ever?"

"With cases like this, it's beyond rare," Mark says. "The acid corroded the cornea and nerves, there's no way for the body to heal itself in a situation like this."

We're quiet then. No one speaks. I don't know what could possibly be said right now. I have no words to fill the silence, and my chest feels like it's cracking. Tears sting my mottled skin, and I can't wipe them away. I just let them run over the bumps and sores and drip below my chin. There's nothing I can do. There's nothing anyone can do.

"I'll give you some time," Mark says, and I hear him get up from the stool. "If you need anything, just holler." He walks towards the door, but turns around before he leaves to say, "I'm really sorry."

Neither of us respond. There's still nothing to say.

After he goes, Jackson strokes my wrist with purpose. He takes my hand in both of his and just holds it, then brings it to his face to kiss the back of my palm.

"You really can't see anything?" he says. "No light, not anything?"

"Nothing," I whisper, facing straight ahead.

Why look over if I can't see him? But I reach my hand out anyway to find his face, and after a few blunders, I make it. I feel the scratchiness of his beard under my fingertips, and as I move upward, I feel wetness on his cheeks.

"You're crying," I say softly, thumbing away the teardrops.

He sniffles loudly and wipes away them away roughly, using the heels of his palm. He knocks my hand as he does, but I bring it back. My heart hurts knowing how much he's affected by this, and along with my sadness and anger comes an impeccable feeling of guilt. I'm the one who was blinded, but he'll be sent reeling from it, too.

I'm inundated with the amount of things I'll no longer be able to do, the things that came as second nature while I could see. I can't cook, I can't drive, I can't go shopping. I can't go on walks alone, I won't be able to do much of anything alone.

I didn't ask for this, but neither did he.

My face flushes with anger as I realize what position he's been put in. I move my hand away from his face and clench my fingers into fists, wanting nothing more than to reach out and punch something. I want to punish the man who did this to me as much as I'm being punished for doing absolutely nothing, for trying to help people. Helping people is what I do - I'm a surgeon - and this is how I'm repaid.

It doesn't seem right. This is all wrong. This isn't my life; it can't be.

"Maybe it'll come back," Jackson says, interrupting my fiery thoughts.

I let a loud breath from my nose, thinking of how to respond. "Or maybe, it won't," I say, snapping. Spit flies from my mouth when I say it, coated in vitriol.

"But it could," he says. "You're the one always talking about miracles. You never know."

My breath comes quieter after hearing him say that. He's right, I've always been the believer and he's always been the skeptic, but as the roles are reversed, I'm only able to wrap my head around one thing - he deserves a better life.

"You don't want this," I say.

"What?" he asks, sounding confused. "What don't I want?"

"This!" I say, blowing up and crying harder. "Do you really want to take care of a blind person for the rest of your damn life, Jackson? Think about it. Is that really what you want?"

He doesn't respond at first, and I'm terrified to think he's turning over the question in his mind and wondering if I'm right. I don't want to be right. If the tables were turned, I would take care of him until my dying breath. But the last thing I want to be is a burden, and I refuse to take on that role.

"You're not a blind person," he says, finally. "You're my wife. And I vowed to take care of you in sickness and in health, so yes. That's exactly what I'm going to do, and what I want to do."

I shake my head for a while without speaking. I just sit there shaking it, wondering what to say, wondering what words could patch up this gaping hole, this perpetual night. I'm not sure if ones exist that cover enough space. There's no Band-Aid big enough for this wound.

But sutures would work. Stitches, too. Stitches that bring the skin back together and fade with time, leaving a perfect, unbroken seam in their place.

"But this isn't the life you wanted," I say, voice weak and wavering.

We've always been a dynamic duo - a husband and wife surgical team, impressive in every category. Now, that can't be. We won't exist on the same plane anymore, in the same realm. Everything will change. Our idyllic lifestyle will be turned on its head, starting today. Starting this very moment.

"This is the life I wanted," he says, lifting himself onto the bed again. He must have been on a chair before, because now he's closer than he was. He wraps an arm around my waist and kisses my neck again without moving away, just resting there with his nose against my steadily beating pulse. "I'm with you."

I inhale deeply as more tears drip from the corners of my eyes and slide down my temples, into my ears. He's saying exactly what I need to hear, yet I don't feel the comfort that's supposed to come with it.

I'm blind. My sight probably isn't coming back, and everything I know was ripped from me. My stability, my independence, my livelihood. I was living the life I always dreamed - the perfect husband, job, and baby. And now, I'm left in the dark. I can't see what I've made. My passion was stripped away - I will never save someone's life again. Not like this.

This might be the life he wanted, but now the vision of mine is horribly skewed. More than skewed - it's gone. Now, I'll only be able to see what came before, what I've already done. I will never be able to make new sight memories or see what's to come. And I have to be okay with that, but I'm not.

I wrap my arms around Jackson's shoulders and cling to him with every ounce of strength I have, ignoring the stinging burns on my face. I press my white eyes shut and hope that when I open them, everything will be back to the way it was.

But I know that it won't be.