I want you to imagine something. I know you’re busy. So I’ll make this short.

Imagine that you are blind. Your vision has been deteriorating for years now. A little bit each day. It happens slowly, but quickly. If that makes sense.

One day, just when you’ve adjusted to your new low-vision, your little window of sight narrows. All of a sudden, you’re looking at the world through a pinhole. Then one day, you wake up blind.

Now imagine that you’re in your 40s. You are a single female named Jesmine. You’re not exactly a spring chick. You’re not old per se. But age is like cheap underwear; it creeps up on you.

Which means you’re a little long in the tooth to be learning new tricks.

But see, that’s just the thing. Now you HAVE to learn some new skills to survive. Never mind the shipload of emotional baggage you’re now working through.

About three quarters of those who go blind experience hardcore depression.

The first symptoms are bone-crushing fatigue. You don’t have the energy to get dressed. Or eat. So at first you sleep excessively. But then, even though you’re exhausted, suddenly you’re an insomniac. You go 36 hours without rest.

Your appetite goes away. Now you’re dropping weight. Then comes the lack of hope. Feelings of worthlessness. “What’s the point?”

And yet, here’s the weird part. Even though you feel isolated and alone, you have lost your independence. So you can’t let yourself be alone. You need people now more than ever.

Which means you have people around you constantly. They are helping you do everything from feed yourself to using the bathroom.

Your helpers are always giving you rides. They’re guiding you in public. Because—here’s something else you’re learning—almost NOTHING in our civilization is accessible to the blind. And if you don’t believe me, try going to the supermarket with a blindfold on.

There is no fun left in your life. Namely, because you can’t entertain yourself. You can’t access your phone anymore, because the voiceover system is pretty hard to learn. You can’t watch YouTube, or scroll Facebook, or flip TV channels. You can’t read a book because learning Braille at 40 is about as difficult as an giraffe learning to read Japanese.

So you have no confidence. You’re frustrated. You’re lost.

And—here’s the kicker—nobody can relate to you. Oh, they try. They say, “Stay positive,” or worse: “This too shall pass.” But they don’t get it. They just don’t.

Are you with me now?

Good.

Now let’s imagine that someone tells you about guide dogs. For a brief moment, you’re excited about this. For the first time in a LONG time you’re seeing the light at the end of the tunnel. Not metaphorically. Literally.

Because with a guide dog, your prospects improve greatly. You could actually do stuff. You could go into town. You could find your way around a supermarket. A restaurant. A church.

For cripes sake, you could even travel if you wanted. Or go to a concert. Or a movie. Or whatever.

Plus, you’d have this companion who wouldn’t spout off clichés about how you’re going to get through this, about how you just have to “Let go and let God.” You’d have a creature who understands you. Who was bred and trained to help you through life. Who loves you unconditionally.

This partner would sleep at the foot of your bed, and help you go pee in the middle of the night. Or alert you to tripping hazards.

The dog would be intelligently disobedient, when needed. The dog would ignore commands that could jeopardize your safety. In short, this dog will be a true godsend.

So you contact a guide dog agency. The agency assesses your situation. You fill out an application. They come and interview you, to see what your daily life is like.

The agency people tell you, up front, that there are a lot of people who need guide dogs, and these dogs cost a shipton of money, so they have to be sure you really, really need it.

Thus, you go through The Process. You’re trying to stay positive. Trying to remain upbeat. Meantime, you’re also trying not to get your hopes up too much because you’ve been disappointed too many times.

Finally, the response comes. The agency’s reasons don’t matter. They’re not bad people. They’re just trying to help as many people as they can.

Maybe they tell you you’re too old. Or maybe they say you live in an area too rural, they only train dogs for urban environments. Whatever the reasons, you’re just not qualified. Their answer is no.

Now let’s pause.

Because I want to know how this makes you feel? Depressed? Yes. Hopeless? Check. Angry? Of course.

Do you feel like giving up? Feel like quitting? Like curling up into a ball and never waking up? Yes. Yes. Yes.

Which leads me to my main question. The whole point of this column. My question is not “What do you do now?” Because you’ve already done all you can do. My question is this:

What can I do to help Jesmine?

You tell me.