It all seemed like a game to me — the telephone with oversized buttons, the notebooks adorned inside with multicolored dividers and bright cut-out floral images, the cassette recorder and accompanying pile of tapes whose covers illustrated the story, the round reading light with a wide magnified lens, the handheld TV remote with major on/off tabs indicated in real red or green, the super-sized TV screen. I’d never seen such an eye catching array of entertaining devices as those my mother, at age 80 or so, had at her fingertips. The difference between us was that I could see.

Mother’s sight was failing. By the time she was about 76 (my current age), she realized that she had a problem – she was not able to devour books (novels, plays, poems, mail, cookbooks) with the speed and ease she’d always enjoyed. Mother started to make use of visual aids in addition to thick-lensed glasses. At first, she could continue reading by checking large-print books out of the Chilmark Library. Cathy Thompson, then librarian, was kept busy overtime finding new books to satiate Mother’s voracious appetite for reading. Mother never forgot who/what she’d read and must have kept Cathy on the line almost constantly.

Although she was losing her ability to use her eyes, her memory served her well. She could pretty much take care of herself as far as decision-making and communicating went. She used the telephone unceasingly and only occasionally “dialed” the wrong number. The old, circular-dial table phone had been replaced years earlier, and Mother did not live long enough to enjoy a handheld or cell phone. She was tied to the cord of her telephone and its table near her armchair. Within arm’s reach, Mother had three to five notebooks with alphabetically marked dividers containing every one of the telephone numbers important to her — names and numbers entered in giant, inch and a half print. It became difficult to say whether she was reading the notebook entries or the buttons on the telephone or simply relying on memory. For someone who was basically housebound and needed personal care, she was quite independent. Her driver’s license had been forfeited when she was declared legally blind, but friends and family were happy to chauffer her — she always knew the way, though she could not see everything. Mother had her wits about her.

As Mother’s sight dimmed to a kind of tunnel vision, she could not see much on the TV screen, except by sitting to the side and using some slight remaining peripheral vision. Nonetheless, she could operate the remote control, thereby having the choice of the program she wanted to “see.” She always listened intently. Books on tape replaced the large print editions, and hearing aids became more essential than visual. She was coping and usually with very good humor. Ironically, her ability to cope, not complain, delayed her seeking early treatment.

Mother had a condition known as ARMD, age-related macular degeneration, a medical condition that affects older adults and results in a loss of vision in the center of the visual field – the macula. The macula is the central area of the retina. ARMD occurs when there is damage to the retina. Details of this condition and probable risks can be found by searching the internet.

With what seemed like the first day of spring — Thursday, March 8 — I was enticed outdoors by the beautiful, warm day on Martha’s Vineyard. My fingers itched to dig in my flower garden. I was joined by my three-year-old granddaughter in delicate clearing of organic debris from tender green shoots. As I watched young Maeve taking care not to break the new daffy buds, I thought of my mother, for whom I had originally planted this garden in Chilmark, circa 1991. How she would have loved this scene. I thought — the yellow croci pushing up through weeds and thorny stems, the clear blue sky overhead, the occasional chickadee flitting by, her great-granddaughter (whom she never knew) focusing great energy on clearing my mother’s garden, the warm sunlight making the green shoots seem greener.

But wait — my mother’s loss of vision would have made it difficult, if not impossible, to have seen the details of this scene. She could have heard the voices, the digging and snipping, the shed door, the birds, a car arriving, the cat’s meow, the dog’s bark, footsteps on the deck, and perhaps the distant sound of surf carried by the gentle breeze from the south shore across Chilmark Pond. What would it mean not to see all these familiar things and more?

At my eye exam last week, however, the ophthalmologist told me, “It is not the eye that sees, it is the brain.” And so, my mother was seeing after all.

Sally Cook is the second daughter of the late Peggy and Henry Scott. She lives in Chilmark and Cambridge .