Welcome

Welcome to my blog! I’m Kymberlee Heath, and I've been happily married to my best friend, Brian, for 21 amazing years. I'm a proud mom of three sons and an even prouder grandma to five granddaughters and three grandsons—being their grandma is hands down my favorite role in life! By profession, I’ve spent the last 22 years working as a Senior Analyst in WFPA Forecasting and Scheduling at Verizon Wireless. But there’s more to me than just my career. I’m passionate about true crime, crafts, and crochet, and I have a special love for old cars. One of my most prized possessions is my ’71 Karmann Ghia, which I absolutely adore.

Visually Impaired

Being visually impaired means that I have a significant loss of vision that can't be corrected with standard glasses, contact lenses, medication, or surgery, but it doesn't mean I'm completely blind. I still have some usable vision, which means I see things in a blur. When my environment changes, I'm only able to distinguish light and shadows. Once my vision has adjusted with time, I have difficulty seeing at certain distances and around the edges of my vision, with some blur in my central vision.

In contrast, being blind would mean having no vision at all or only being able to sense light without any clear images. As someone who is visually impaired, I often rely on the vision I have left to navigate the world, using aids like magnifying glasses, large-print texts, or screen readers. Someone who is blind would rely more on non-visual methods, such as Braille or auditory cues.

Here we go again

August 16, 2024: Nearly Seven Years Later

Today, we found ourselves in Sinclair, Wyoming—a small town that feels miles away from the chaos of everyday life. Brian had work to do at the refinery, and I was there to relax. But for me, it became the backdrop of something I didn’t see coming.

Taking the puppies out for a walk should have been routine, but as soon as I stepped outside, the brightness overwhelmed me. It wasn’t just the sun; it was as if the world had been turned up to maximum brightness, and my eyes couldn’t adjust. When I came back into the hotel, the sudden transition from the brightness outside to the dim interior left me in complete darkness.

I lay down, closing my eyes, praying that whatever was happening would pass. After almost 20 minutes, I opened my eyes. The room wasn’t dark anymore, but it looked wrong—dim and smoky, as if I were seeing through a veil. Something wasn’t right.

Determined to distract myself, I grabbed my tablet to work on a PowerPoint presentation I’d started earlier. But as I added images, I noticed they weren’t clear. The sharpness I relied on was gone, replaced by a blur that I didn’t immediately understand. I told myself it would pass, that it was just a temporary glitch. After all, I was on vacation. I wouldn’t need to push my eyes too hard for the next few days.

Saturday was the town’s centennial celebration, and I couldn’t wait to attend. There’s something special about holidays in a small town—the kind of charm that stays with you. I fumbled through the day with my crazy vision but still enjoyed the celebration. It was a moment of normalcy in the midst of uncertainty.

The ride home from Wyoming was a new challenge. The sunlight was so intense that my usual sunglasses weren’t enough. I found myself wishing for something darker to shield my eyes.

As soon as we got home, I searched for my prescription eye drops and started using them immediately. This wasn’t unfamiliar territory—I had gone through something similar with my left eye years ago. But this felt different. The fear of the unknown crept in, along with the questions: Would my vision return? Would this be my new normal?

For now, I’m holding onto hope, relying on what I’ve learned from past experiences. Tomorrow is a new day, and while my vision may be uncertain, my determination to adapt and push forward remains steadfast.

Seeing Through My Eyes: A Visual Comparison

I often find it challenging to explain what my world looks like to those who see differently. Visual impairments are hard to put into words, so I thought I’d share a side-by-side comparison to give you a glimpse into my perspective.

In the first photo, you see an actual, clear image of the cityscape—a crisp view of buildings, trees, and distant mountains under a colorful sky. Every detail is in focus, and nothing is hidden in the background.

Now, the second photo represents close to how I see it. The center remains visible, though not as sharply, while the edges blur into obscurity, fading away like a vignette. This effect is what I experience every day: a focused view in the middle, surrounded by a clouded, blurry periphery. My vision often feels as if I’m looking through a narrow tunnel, where the world beyond my direct gaze fades, making navigation and recognizing surroundings much more challenging.

This comparison is just one way to help others understand my reality. It’s a reminder of the adaptations I make and the support tools that help me continue exploring and engaging with the world around me.

Everything is so Loud it Hurts

Heightened Hearing After Vision Loss

Everything feels so loud now. Background noises rush in all at once, making it tough to focus on the conversation right in front of me. Take work, for example—while sitting at my desk, I can clearly hear conversations happening five cubicles away, details I never would have noticed before. At home, it’s the small, constant sounds that drown out the movie I’m trying to watch. The dishwasher hums in the background, water drips from the faucet, the toilet flushes, and I can even pick up on the tumbling sound of clothes in the dryer. There’s a strange duality to it; while this heightened awareness has its perks, it also has its challenges.

Since losing some of my vision, I’ve noticed my hearing seems more sensitive, especially to sounds that are loud or unexpected. It’s likely a condition called hyperacusis, where everyday noises feel amplified. I’ve thought about trying earplugs to muffle some of these sounds, but I’ve learned that could make the sensitivity worse in the long run.

This shift in my hearing isn’t entirely unexpected. When someone loses a sense, the brain often reorganizes to heighten other senses, like hearing, as a form of compensation. This adaptation can happen at any age, though it’s more pronounced when someone loses their vision early in life, while the brain is still developing. For me, it feels like my hearing is finely tuned to details I hadn’t noticed before, as if my brain is making up for what my eyes can’t quite capture.

Dancing Paisleys

When I close my eyes, I'm greeted by brilliant colors swirling in intricate patterns, like dancing paisleys performing just for me. Each vision feels breathtakingly beautiful, a fleeting piece of art I wish I could hold onto forever. But as soon as I open my eyes, it’s gone—only to be replaced by a new, vibrant display the next time I drift into this colorful world. I often lose myself in these visions, my mind joining in the dance until I gently slip into sleep.

These mesmerizing lights and patterns are known as phosphenes—small, flickering lights or swirls created by the electrical activity of the retina. Phosphenes are a natural part of how our eyes process visual information, even when they’re closed. For some people, particularly those with vision impairments, these visions take on even deeper and more personal meanings. Some describe a “visual tinnitus,” an internal landscape of shifting colors and shapes that fill the spaces left by lost sight.

Whether you have full vision or not, these "dancing paisleys" offer a glimpse into the mystery of the mind’s ability to create beauty, even in darkness.

Managing Light Sensitivity During Easter Jeep Safari

It’s so bright it hurts, and I can’t see. To keep the light out of my impacted eye, I wear an eye patch. Whether I’m at work or out in public, I often wear dark sunglasses indoors as well, just to find some relief from the overwhelming brightness.

This year, it’s Easter Jeep Safari time in Moab, Utah. Being out in the great outdoors all day, I’ve opted to wear the eye patch. Even though it makes me feel a bit uncomfortable with the stares and questions from others, I found a moment to make light of it—no pun intended.

A young boy approached me and asked, “What happened to your eye?” I couldn’t resist and simply responded, “Red Rider.” The look of surprise put a little fear in him and a little smile on my face.