Free Crashing Through by Robert Kurson

May’s response. He had remained calm during the discussion and had even made small jokes between risks. His follow-up questions were brief but on point. He seemed to Goodman well-grounded and realistic.
    May asked the doctor about the required hospital stay and the anesthetics. He still had painful boyhood memories of forced hospital confinements during his failed corneal transplants, and lingering sicknesses from the ether that had been used to put him to sleep. Goodman assured him that anesthesia had come a long way since the early 1960s, and that he probably wouldn’t require overnight hospitalization. He would, however, need to travel frequently to San Francisco for follow-up care.
    “I know that this is a very personal decision,” Goodman said. “You should take all the time you need.”
    “What’s the next step?” May asked.
    “The next step is to book a spot on the calendar for the stem cell transplant. It usually takes about six weeks to get in.”
    May’s mind was awash in the risks Goodman had described. But it seemed a good idea to get on the list. If he decided to pursue the surgery he would have the spot; if he decided against it he could simply cancel. Booking a slot obligated him to nothing.
    “When do you have time?” May asked.
    “Let’s check with the front desk,” Goodman said.
    The calendar opened up around mid-November. May looked for a time that would require the least intrusion into his workdays. He settled on November 22, 1999, the Monday before Thanksgiving, a quiet work week.
    “Thanks, Dan,” May said, extending his hand. “This has really been interesting. A lot to think about.”
    May gathered his things, took hold of Josh’s harness, and walked back into the San Francisco day. Soon he was on the ferry and making his way home. An hour ago he had gone for a simple test result. Now the world had shifted. He wanted to give himself time to digest what he’d heard, but the doctor’s phrases—
50 percent chance; without warning; extent unknown; risk of cancer
—leapt in and out of his thinking. He had much to consider. He had much to sort out. He had to ask himself whether he could face the risk of dying in exchange for the chance to see.

CHAPTER FOUR
    No guitar player was ever more thankful for his ability to pick and strum than was May in the summer of 1971. The state of California had invited him, along with several other blind college-bound students, to the oceanside campus of the University of California–Santa Cruz for a seven-week college training program. The idea was to prepare them for the realities of university life. One of those realities, May figured, was women. He made sure his guitar had fresh strings.
    The program was as laid-back and hippie-vibed as Santa Cruz itself. The students took literature and psych courses, then hung out at the beach and talked about peace. When instructors advised them to hire sighted students to read their classroom assignments aloud, May found one who wore patchouli oil and liked to recite psychology texts on the grass outside his dorm. He drifted off in her scent in a way Freud would have understood.
    In high school, women had been rumors to May. At Santa Cruz, they were as near as his guitar case. One of the program’s students, a quiet woman named Nancy, swooned to his phrasing of Crosby, Stills and Nash songs. He knew she was attractive—he could tell by the shift in direction of men’s voices when she entered a room, and by the easy way she seemed unsurprised when sighted men paid attention to her. He knew she was wonderfully built when he touched the back of her upper arm, a sure indicator of fitness to the attuned blind man. He aimed to sit beside her on the beach in the hope that her long, silky hair would brush against his hand.
    One evening, a few students gathered in May’s dorm room to sing and play guitar. One by one the others left, until only he and Nancy remained. He knew it was the time to make his move, but did