Museum Of The Living: I See You

This morning, I dropped off my car at the repair shop. It seemed like an ordinary errand until I stepped into the facility and noticed a man lying on a leather couch shaped into a car. He clutched something folded tightly in his hand, a quiet tension in his posture.

He sat up when he heard me, adjusting himself quickly. “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice steady but guarded.

I smiled. “I’m here to drop off my car.”

He nodded and rose, moving carefully. “Let me get the owner for you. he’s with another customer right now. In the meantime, could you sign in at the desk?”

“Of course,” I said. “And thank you for being here.”

His name is Scott.

As he fumbled to find a pen, I noticed one sitting right in front of him, untouched.

“Oh,” he said, almost embarrassed. “I didn’t see that.” He paused. “I’m still figuring things out.”

I glanced at the object in his hand and immediately understood. It was a collapsible cane, brand new, without a single scratch.

I softened my voice. “About being a person with low vision?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah… but I can still see a little bit.”

“That’s good,” I replied gently. “And it’s okay.”

After signing in, I took a seat by the front desk, my coat and hat in my lap, and stared out the window for a moment before adding, “I’m a person with low vision too. I have diabetic retinopathy, and I’m slowly losing my sight. I may not fully understand what you’re going through, but I do understand and I’m dee[;y sorry.”

He sat down across from me, his head bowed. “It’s life,”

And then he began to share.

He told me about his father, who lost his vision after surgery. He spoke about his own story. How his vision had once been restored after surgeries, only to fade away again in mere hours.

“Three hours,” he said, his voice breaking. “That’s all it took to take so much from me.”

I didn’t press, but he kept going, as if the words had been waiting for someone to hear them.

He told me about his fiancée, how she had left him almost immediately after he lost his sight. She wasn’t prepared for the life they now faced. She took what she could, left him with almost nothing.

His voice cracked when he spoke about losing his dog, the one constant companion he had and the child he helped raise, a little girl with cerebral palsy. He lost them all in one sweep, along with his sense of control to see.

I listened. I didn’t interrupt. Sometimes, the best thing you can do for someone is to let them be heard.

He talked about the financial weight of vision loss and the staggering costs of adaptive tools like seeing-eye dogs and assistive glasses. I shared my own experience, spending thousands on injections just to hold onto what little vision I have left.

Despite everything he had endured, he told me he felt grateful. He had found work at the shop, a safe place to stay for now, and even a new girlfriend who seemed to see him for who he was beyond his disability.

“Scott,” I said. “You’ll always have options, and I pray the best ones find you. No matter what you’re going through, you have the power to do good for yourself and to help others too.”

“Thank you,” he said. “For listening. For seeing me.”

We sat in silence for a moment until the owner arrived to assist me.

I turned around to Leave and I looked at Scott “Thank you for being here, Scott. I see you, and I support you. One day at a time, you’re going to be okay.”

He grabbed me by my haand and looked me directly in my eyes. Face to face.

“I see you too,” he said.