As a social worker, I am only too aware that grief never goes away, that the times inbetween the feelings of pain get longer, allowing us to survive. But sometimes, you get pulled up with a start when grief suddenly hits you like a tidal wave out of the blue, reminding you of the loss you’ve had.

I was preparing a talk to a group of chartered accountants a couple of weeks ago, which included the story of how I became totally blind. The telling of this story for me is straightforward: it happened, it was terrible and I suffered incredibly, but I picked myself up afterwards and got on with my life. I can say the words that probably shock my audience without much feeling at all.

But a vivid dream the night before the talk brought me back to reality with a thud, reminding me that the grief is still there and that I am human. In the dream, I was bakc in the days when I could see out of my left eye – I’d lost my right eye as a baby to cancer. But it was the time when I was experiencing a lot of pain and dryness in that eye, which meant having to use a lot of eye ointment and eye drops to maintain the comfort level. In the dream, I was trying to explain to people around me that I was doing everything I could to look after my eye. And then I suddenly broke down, declaring that although I’d done everything I could, I hadn’t been able to save it. I woke up sobbing uncontrollably. I was right back there at the time when I knew the doctors couldn’t do anything to save my eye and that I was going to lose it. The emotional pain was intense.

I’m glad this happened the night before my talk, because I managed to get through the presentation without any feelings again. But this dream really reminded me of how hard it is to lose a part of our bodies, no matter how small. Losing an eye is perhaps harder in some ways because the eye provides us with visual contact with the world around us. This dream has tapped me on the shoulder, reminding me to be gentle with myself at times, because the feelings of loss never leave us entirely.

Last month, I did a presentation to year six and seven students from schools all around Western Australia at the National Young Leaders Day. Right from the start of my talk, I was amazed at the responsiveness of the kids, and their lack of inhibition. I was up front with them about my total blindness, and they were equally up front with me with their reactions to this. On request, they let me know with huge roars where they were all seated – first the left side, then the right, then the top rows – and then without prompting, I heard whispered directions when I was locating my props on the stage.

The kids were not fazed by my blindness, as they showed me again later in question time. They asked me intelligent questions about my life as a blind person, questions that adults are too fearful to ask. And yet the questions were not intrusive or insensitive: instead, they showed a keenness to understand and to learn. What the kids asked were things like: “what do you actually see?”, “what would be the first thing you’d do if you got your sight back?” and “do you still use a pen to write?”. This last question was prompted by the story I had been telling them; the story of my life at the blind school where I’d had to give up pen and paper for braille, despite having some sight at that time, and how I’d vowed to go back to pen and paper when I left the school. Although I have no sight now, the answer is “yes”, because old habits die hard. It’s funny, but I find that recording something like a phone number using pen and paper seems to cement the number in my head. I visualise the numbers as I write them, which helps me to store the number on my computer or other device later on, knowing I’ve got it right.

Being with these kids and their honesty, directness and openness made me realise just how closed off the adult world is, a world where shutters are drawn and things should not be said. Fear seems to take over from a friendly curiosity, which I think is very sad. I came away from that event feeling recharged and reconnected with something that is solid and in a way supportive.