By Velma M. Rose Smith, January 1990

Dear Diary, I don’t know of anyone else that would want to hear how I feel today. I am feeling sorry for myself, I am losing my eyesight. No one, but one that is going blind, would understand. I write a letter but can’t address it. I can’t make a telephone call, without some one to look up the number. It seems as though Tina is never here when I need her. Then I get aggravated because she doesn’t come, and cross with her for not being here. Berwyn gets so nervous when I ask him to help.

I can’t bake because I can’t read the recipe. I can’t see to set the oven. I can’t sew for there is no one here to thread needles. I can’t read my Norman Rockwell book that Tina got me, how I would enjoy reading it. When I get a letter I can’t read it, have to wait for days before someone reads it to me. I got a business letter and have to wait until the end of the week before Eileen gets here to tell me what to do.

There are lots of things I can still do, but I’m not thinking of them, for this is my day to feel sorry for myself. Nothing like a gray, gloomy, cloudy day for this feeling.

So Be It!