From Darkness to Light: Blind Man Struggles After Regaining Sight

Sept. 25, 2007 — -- A childhood accident blinded Mike May, but his disability never limited him. He drove motorcycles, hiked and even went downhill skiing.

Then after nearly a lifetime of darkness, May's doctors told him a stem cell and cornea transplant could restore his sight. May signed up for the surgery but soon discovered seeing wasn't necessarily believing.

The book "Crashing Through" by Rob Kurson chronicles May's journey after he regained his sight. May struggled with his new gift. He had trouble differentiating between men and women. Colors and patterns fascinated him, but his brain had forgotten how to process images. Learn how May dealt with his medical miracle by reading an excerpt from "Crashing Through" below.

Mike May's life was near perfect when, on February 11, 1999, hemade his way to the dais in the ballroom of San Francisco's St. FrancisHotel.The forty-six-year-old businessman had been invited to presentthe prestigious Kay Gallagher Award for mentoring the blind, anaward he'd won himself the previous year. Dozens in the audienceknew his history: blinded at age three by a freak accident; three-timeParalympics gold medalist and current world record holder indownhill speed skiing; entrepreneur on the verge of bringing aportable global positioning system (GPS) to the blind; coinventor ofthe world's first laser turntable; mud hut dweller in Ghana; husbandto a beautiful blond wife (in attendance and dressed in a tight blacktop, short black skirt, and black high heels); loving father; formerCIA man.

People watched the way May moved. He walked with a quiet dignity,effortlessly negotiating the obstacle course of banquet tablesand chairs, smiling at those he passed, shaking hands along the way.There was more than mobility in his step; his gait seemed free of regret,his body language devoid of longing. Most of the people in thisroom worked with the blind every day, so they knew what it lookedlike for a person to yearn for vision. May looked like he was exactlywho he wanted to be.

He was accustomed to public speaking, and his messages werealways inspiring. But every so often a member of the audience wouldturn on him, and it usually came at the same part of his talk, the partwhen he said, "Life with vision is great. But life without vision isgreat, too." At that point someone would stand and jab his fingerand say, "That's impossible!" or "You're not dealing with your innerdemons," or "You're in denial." The objections came from both theblind and the sighted. May was always polite, always let the personfinish his thought. Then, in the warm but definite way in which he'dspoken since childhood, he would say, "I don't mean to speak foranyone else. But for me, life is great."

That, however, would not be the message for this evening. Instead,the tall and handsome May spoke glowingly about the awardwinner, about how much it had meant to him to win the Gallagher,and about the importance of mentoring. He seasoned his talk withjokes, some tried and true, others off the cuff, all to good effect. Thenhe presented the honoree with a plaque and a check and returned tohis seat. When he sat down, his wife, Jennifer, told him, "You mademe cry. You look beautiful in that suit. That was a lovely talk."May and Jennifer stayed at the hotel that night. Ordinarily, theywould have awoken and made the seventy-five-mile drive to theirhome in Davis, California, each needing to return to work. But Jennifer'scontact lenses had been bothering her, so she had scheduledan appointment with a San Francisco optometrist—not her regulareye doctor, but a college friend's husband who had been willing tosee her on short notice. Though May was itching to get back to hishome office, he agreed to accompany Jennifer to the appointment.The morning was glorious as the couple strolled San Francisco andenjoyed that rarest of pleasures, an unhurried weekday breakfast at astreetside café.

The optometrist's office was nearby, so May and Jennifer, alongwith May's Seeing Eye dog, a golden retriever named Josh, walked upPost Street to make it to the morning appointment. Jennifer assuredhim that the visit would take no more than thirty minutes. May hadnever accompanied his wife to an eye appointment and was pleasantlysurprised to learn that they would be out so quickly.The waiting room grabbed Jennifer's attention straightaway. Aninterior designer, she lived in a world of color and flow, and shebegan describing it to May: the direction the chairs faced, the nar-rowing of the hallway that led to the exam rooms, the taupe of thewall behind the receptionist—"whose cheekbones are stunning, bythe way." It intrigued May that he had married a woman whose universewas so dominated by the visual, and it delighted him that shefelt so passionate about sharing it all with him, even about the beautifulwomen.

A few minutes later Mike Carson, the optometrist, greeted Mayand Jennifer and led them to an office. Carson examined Jennifer,recorded some measurements, and told her he would write her anew contact lens prescription. May was glad that things had gone soquickly—this would allow him to get home in time to pick up theirsons from school.

Carson finished making his notes and flipped on the light. Helooked at May for a few seconds, made another note in Jennifer's file,then looked back at May. He asked how long it had been since Mayhad seen an eye doctor.

"At least ten years," May replied.

"How about if I take a look?" Carson asked. "That's a long time togo without seeing a doctor."

"You want to examine me?" May asked.

"Just for a second," said Carson. "Let's just make sure everythingis healthy in there as long as you're here."

May thought about it for a moment, then said, "Sure, why not?"May and Jennifer switched places so that May now was in the examiningchair, the one with the chin holder and instrument thatlooks like the pay-per-view binoculars on top of the Empire StateBuilding.

"I think you're going to find that I'm blind," May joked.

The doctor leaned in and immediately saw that May had a bluecoloredprosthetic left eye. His right eye, his natural eye, was nearlyopaque and all white, evidence of dense corneal scarring. No pupilor color could be seen at all. Some blind people wear dark glasses toconceal such an eye, but May had never felt the need to do so. Hiseyelid drooped a bit, leaving his eye mostly closed, so no one reactedbadly to it.

Carson stepped away and sat on a stool.

"Mike," he said, "I wonder if you'd mind if my partner, Dr. DanGoodman, takes a look at you. He's an ophthalmologist, one of thebest in the country. I think he'd be interested."

May glanced toward Jennifer with just the slightest quizzicallook. Jennifer was already wearing the same expression."I guess it can't hurt," May said.

Carson left the room. For a moment neither May nor Jennifersaid anything. Then each said to the other, "That's interesting."A moment later Carson returned with his partner. Dr. Goodman,age forty-two, introduced himself and asked May how he'd losthis vision.

"It was a chemical explosion when I was three," May replied."Do you have an ophthalmologist?" Goodman asked."He died about ten years ago. He'd been my doctor since the accident,"said May.

"What did he tell you about your vision?" Goodman asked."He tried three or four corneal transplants when I was a kid,"May said. "They all failed. After that, he told me that I would neversee, I'd be blind forever. He was supposed to be a great ophthalmologist.I knew he was right."

"Who was he?" Goodman asked."Dr. Max Fine," May replied.Goodman's eyes lit up."Dr. Fine was a legend," Goodman said. "He was my teacher. Isought him out when I was young and asked to do surgery with himon Wednesday nights. He was one of the great ophthalmologists inthe world."

May and Goodman spent a minute reminiscing about Dr. Fine.Then Goodman asked, "Mind if I take a look?""Not at all," May replied.

Goodman dimmed the lights, stepped forward, and, using thethumb and forefinger on one hand, opened the lid of May's right eye.The stillness of the touch startled May. Goodman's hand stayed motionless, absent the vaguest hint of tremor. May had felt that kind oftouch only once before, from Dr. Fine, who had held his eye open injust the same way.Goodman peered into May's eye. He saw the massive cornealscarring that trademarks a chemical explosion. He shone a penlightinto May's eye, which May could barely detect (most blind peoplehave some vague light perception). But when Goodman waved hishand in front of the eye May could not perceive the movement.Goodman conducted a few more tests, then looked through thesame biomicroscope Carson had used. It took only moments forhim to see that May was totally blind.