Attempting Fate
by Adam Perry
In ancient Greek playwright Sophocles, The Oedipus Trilogy, the blind prophet Tiresias rocks the worlds of powerful men with visions of the future that warn of the dangers of false pride (what the Greeks called “hubris”). Tiresias’ cameos in the plays of Sophocles are amongst the first instances where the metaphoric connection between blindness and truth was put to paper and allegorized on stage. That metaphor has been explored so often in literature, theatre, film, art, and any number of bad sketch comedy skits throughout history that it deserves its own emoji. Tiresias is also a transgender pioneer of sorts in Greek mythology after spending a few years being transformed into a woman by the Gods for the dastardly deed of whacking a couple of mating snakes with his ancient Greek mobility cane (otherwise known as a stick). I am sure there are any number of deeply researched academic treatises earnestly penned by genders studies experts that interpret what the heck was up with old blind Tiresias going from man to woman and then back to man again after making amends with the amorous snakes. I will spare you my uninformed perspective on that front. As a dude who is going blind, I am naturally more drawn to pontificate on Tiresias’ spot as the “OG” of bad ass blind folks.
In a nutshell, in the trilogy’s first play Oedipus Rex, Oedipus summons Tiresias to prophesize his future. Oedipus is none too happy when Tiresias tells him he will kill his dad, marry his mom, and have children from incest. Ew. Oedipus calls “bullshit” on this unfortunate prediction and flees his home in Corinth for the city of Thebes. Oedipus has no idea that his real dad is Laius, the King of Thebes, who he just so happens to “unalive” in a fit of serious road-rage along the way. After whooping the Sphinx, the mythological beast who is terrorizing the city, Oedipus is kind of a big shot, so he marries the queen, Jocasta, who birthed him when she was married to Laius. They have kids and then, when Oedipus learns the truth, he freaks out again and pokes out his eyes. I have mixed feelings about this decision, which we will get to in a bit.
In the final play of the trilogy, Antigone, old blind Tiresias pops-up to advise autocratic King Creon of Thebes (Oedipus’ uncle and brother-in-law) to take a chill-pill for his anger with Oedipus’ kid Antigone (also Creon’s soon-to-be daughter in-law). She is in hot water with Creon for defying his order not to bury her brother Polynices within the city limits of Thebes. Polyneices fought for the wrong side in the war for the city. Big no-no. This family is clearly dysfunctional. Tiresias, who knows some stuff even though nobody wants to hear it, warns Creon that all hell is going to break loose if he keeps acting like Tony Soprano, including his indirect role in the death of his son Haemon.
I played Haemon in a college production of Antigone. The scene when he goes off on his dad for being a pompous law-and-order asshole while pleading for mercy for his fiancé was so damn cathartic, I can barely capture it in words. Creon, just like Oedipus, thinks he is bigger than the game. He banishes Antigone from Thebes and then bears witness to everything Tiresias told him would happen coming to fruition. Yet again, those who have sight are blind to truth. Sense a theme?
Ultimately, Tiresias represents fate, the notion that life events are predetermined and beyond our control. His blindness is ironic because he can “see” truth and what lies ahead. It is also a metaphor for those who are unwilling to accept the truth and, as far as the Greeks were concerned, flip the middle finger to the power of the Gods.
*
Going slowly blind is a marathon steel-cage match with fate. It begins with revelation. When I was ten years old, I learned my prophecy:
Though you may see right now, you will go blind. It will be gradual and painless. First you will not be able to see in the dark. Then your vision will dissolve from the periphery leaving you with a tiny, shuttered window to remind you of all that you once could see.
I would have much rather preferred something along the lines of:
You are going to play second base for the Cincinnati Reds, have a career batting average of .333, win four World Series and wind up with your face on a plaque in Cooperstown, NY.
But beggars cannot be choosers when it comes to prophecies. The Apostle Mathew tells us, “Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.” I boisterously declared this to enraptured audiences in the Walnut Hills High School auditorium while playing John the Baptist/Judas in Godspell circa 1988. Still waiting for that one to happen. Prophecies move at their own speed apparently. Lord knows the prophecy of my blindness has taken its twists and turns. But it is coming to fruition, nonetheless.
Unlike Oedipus and Creon, I respect fate. How could I not? I was born with a silent genetic mutation that determined my path from the first slap on my ass at St. Rita’s Hospital in Lima, OH. Saint Rita is the patron saint of impossible cases. Hmm. I have come to realize that there are plenty of possibilities within the limits of impossibility. That is my response to my prophecy. A lifetime of tempering expectations but doing my best to live to the fullest with knowledge that the darkness is always creeping, always there, has given me a pass on the fatal flaw of hubris.
My prophecy is my companion. It has its own voice inside me. Sometimes it feels counterintuitive. But it always guides me home. My Tiresias sounds like a sotto voce Jeff Bridges synesthetically channeling the color midnight purple. The last time it called, the voice calmly told me to run through the darkness to help someone in distress. With my adrenaline rushing, I took the bait. I lifted my cane and ran down an empty unlit road, completely blind. I managed three or four strides and flipped over a fence. I flew like Superman, crashing wildly into a lawn. When I landed, I heard and felt my upper right arm and shoulder crack and break into a million tiny shards and splinters. I lay on the ground, dizzy, the wind knocked out of my lungs, struggling to breathe, wondering if I was dead. When the shock wore off, the voice of Ferris Bueller cajoling his psychosomatic pal Cameron to get out of bed randomly cut through the fog. “You’re not dying, you just don’t have anything better to do.” Gen Xers always pull from the eighties when times get tough. My severely busted wing locked into place against my chest, I eventually realized the rest of me was relatively intact. I carefully rolled to my knees, somehow got to my feet, and walked right into the low fence that had just damn near killed me. No shit. I went down again but, in some sort of basic survival mode, fell on my left side. All I cared about was helping a person in dire distress. I willed myself back to standing, unable to find my cane, my phone, or flashlight. I slowly found the eerily quiet road, centered myself, and marched like a Walking Dead zombie still hoping that there was something I could do for him.
As fate would have it, there was not. The local fire Marshall came upon me as I stumbled up the street. He got me into his Jeep. I wound up at a small hospital receiving treatment for my injuries while the person I wanted to help died in the room next to me. Heavy shit, right? And, what in the fuck was purple Jeff Bridges doing telling me to run? He literally said, “It will be okay.” Why did I listen? I trusted the prophet and look at what happened. I was furious with the gods. I was even madder at myself. I had listened to a voice inside my head and ignored the golden rule of going blind: NEVER FORGET THAT YOU ARE BLIND. The millisecond you decide to try and be somebody else generally launches eminent disaster. Break the golden rule and the gods of impossible cases will smack you right in the chops. Hard and with purpose.
*
In the painful months of recovery that followed this awful night, I searched my soul to find answers. There had to be a reason for the way these events unfolded. I struggled to sleep sitting up with my throbbing arm in a sling. I am not a fan of prescription painkillers. I spent a lot of time alone, awake and lost in PTSD flashbacks. I could not get the sound of my bones breaking out of my ears. Normally, I would pick up my guitar and let my fingers coax me into meditative reflection. That was not an option. So, I reached out to friends and family. I needed their support. Long conversations with lifelong buddies helped me find my way through the haze. I managed to come to terms with some sobering truths that kept me from falling off the cliff.
First, this all happened because my instinct to help another human being was so strong that I was willing to put myself at risk. It did not turn out well, but I am glad to know that my response was pure and selfless. Second, there was nothing I could do to change the course of events even if I had been able to arrive on scene faster and more intact. He was terribly ill and there were medical professionals already tending to him. He died because it was his time to pass. Seeing him from our adjoining hospital rooms, I will never forget the smile he gifted the world as he entered his final rest. It was so peaceful and serene, just like the look on my mom’s face in the soft moonlight that called her home. Yet I was still here. I could easily have broken my neck, hit my head, or suffered any number of fatal complications from my fall. I could heal from sadness, a bruised ego, and a busted arm. Thank you, Saint Rita.
During the initial phases of my recovery, a radiologist noted cause for concern in my x-rays. An orthopedic specialist said that the way my arm had broken was “atypical and consistent with being caused by a tumor.” When the orthopedic used the word “oncologist,” my heart dropped through the floor. My mom had lost a grueling battle with cancer only a few years before.. Yet, and this is where it gets weird, my Tiresias voice whispered that I was fine and that it was not my time. I just knew. After a series of scans and blood tests, my feelings were validated. “No bone marrow intrusion and no evidence of myeloma.”
As it turns out, I had been taking a large daily dosage of Vitamin A for years at the direction of my eye doctors and this, combined with a previously unnoticed Vitamin D deficiency, had severely compromised my bone density. That was all fixable. I wobbled in a haze of anxious uncertainty waiting for test results and analysis. When I got the “all clear,” purple Jeff Bridges put his arm around my shoulder and chortled: “Told you, buddy.” Then he scratched his beard, grabbed a cold one and went fly-fishing. I haven’t heard from him since.
Confronting my own mortality vividly clarified profound existential lessons learned in the wake of my fall. There was a purpose, many purposes, for the events that transpired that fateful summer night. My prophet told me to run. I listened. I ran to help. All that ensued, as challenging as it was, turned out to be a basketful of blessings. I found new appreciation for my relationships with people that I love. I survived. I made peace with the gods of impossible cases. I learned I had a worsening medical condition that may have proven much more disastrous had it not been detected. All of this happened because I broke the golden rule of blindness. I wrestled fate, but I kicked out before it pinned me for the three-count. I found grace in living my prophecy.
The most vexing part of the Oedipus allegory to me is that Oedipus pokes his own eyes out because he cannot handle truth. I mean, Tiresias got it all right. Oedipus willfully ignored him because he did not like what he had to say. Fine. But, choosing blindness as punishment seems a bit redundant or at the very least, misdirected, does it not? I understand what Sophocles was going for in hammering the metaphor of blindness representing the ignorance of false pride. But the notion that blindness is proper punishment for defying the gods is a bit antiquated for my taste. If Tiresias’ prophecy for Oedipus would have been “You will kill your dad, marry your mom, have incest babies AND blind yourself because you can’t handle it,” that would have been one thing. But having Oedipus blind himself of his own volition like it is a fate worse than death is bunk. I mean, isn’t it the blind guy who knows the truth in the first place? Just sayin’.
Retinitis pigmentosa is a prophecy. It is a fateful diagnosis. Fateful. Not fatal. It portends unavoidable consequential change. Most folks with RP learn of their affliction as young adults or older. RP is a clarification of something they already know is happening but do not understand why. A painful truth crashes into their lives. It is a tough pill to swallow when your fate gets an unwanted edit. I was blessed. And yes, I choose that word carefully, for my prophecy was delivered when my brain was just beginning to absorb truth and meaning and my life had yet to truly take shape. The blessing of always knowing my fate is that it allowed me to set about making a life even as my eyes failed. Blindness has never been about denial or ignorance for me. It is the only truth I know. Each chunk of dying photoreceptors narrows the tunnel. I go on living, making my way. The prophecy becomes less ominous in its validation.
I do not curse the gods of impossible cases. I know Saint Rita has watched over me from the day I was born. I am not bummed out because I never played for my beloved Cincinnati Reds or made it to the Baseball Hall of Fame. That was Joe Morgan’s fate. He kicked ass at it. I am not Oedipus (that would be gross) or Creon (though I was his kid for a moment). I am not Tiresias. There is only one OG. I am Adam, willing acceptor of his prophecy, tuning out hubris, seeking the truth inside.
Adam Perry spent over twenty-five years crafting a globe-trotting career in the creative sector from Broadway stages to Hollywood film sets and beyond. During his tenure as Vice President for Strategy and Programs at Arts Midwest, he led major cultural engagement initiatives and arts diplomacy programs across six continents and every state in the U.S. He grew up in Cincinnati, OH and resides in Minneapolis, MN. Adam has a BA in Political Science and Theatre from Wittenberg University and an MA in Theatre History, Literature, Theory and Criticism from The Ohio State University. His writing is forthcoming in the January 2026 edition of Kaleidoscope Magazine and in Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine. “Attempting Fate” is an excerpt from The Fuzz Diary, a collection of personal essays and creative nonfiction exploring his blindness journey as an alternative life experience filled with challenge and reward in the search for grace and purpose.
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