Your Eyes Are Just Like Mine.
I don’t want you to come with me, but you must.
“This kind of thing is hard with a four year-old,” I say to the other significant grown-up in your life. But we adjust, because we must, and the gloss of the wintery Friday morning with its promise of evening leisure and slowing tempo makes the errand in question seem theoretically less complicated. Besides, “I’m 98% sure there is nothing to worry about,” the first doctor said. So off we go, you and I.
You, my little bird, are fleet-footed and infatuated with the new snow. You chirp when you slip and I squeeze your woolen hand and even as you tumble under the sudden betrayal of your foot upon the earth, I notice for the millionth time how perfectly your hand fits into mine. We walk through an eternity, thick with winter. Eighteen thousand specks of micro-debris float in the landscape in front of me. The snow is a blank canvas for them.
You talk to me and you sing your song of letting go, and I hear you and I smile. I sing with you. Or maybe I don’t. I can’t tell. You don’t know where we are going and you couldn’t care less because there is snow and we are together. As for me, I have divided myself in two. One sleepwalks, holds your hand and leads you through the jangly door with the gold lettering. The other stands, leaning against a bus stop in the snow. He takes a picture of us. He loves the way you hop through the door. He loves what your voice does to the snow. I don’t know what he thinks of me.
We wait in there for what must be a year, surrounded by wheelchairs and walking sticks. I read to you and the words tumble out and they are empty circuitry. Your eyes are so wide, all bubble and light. They consume the world around you. They are syrup brown, just like mine.
Just like mine. My heart darkens. Outside the window, the other one taps on the glass. He puts his finger to his lips. Shhh, he implores. I ignore him. You just go on loving your book and making old ladies smile.
Somehow we teleport to a room full of machines that will attach to my head and shoot lines of deep light into my field of vision. There are charts of lines and color for me to squint at. There are drops that sting my eyes. I do all this, and as I do, you are there with your universal friendliness and your fearless curiosity and as the doctor sits wordlessly hour after hour, year after year blasting light into me and making notations and saying nothing, you calm this disorienting laboratory of distress with your easy chatter, with the pictures you draw for the nurses, with the way you flash those clear, healthy brown eyes in the crooked light of the room and tell me jokes. You hand me a scribble on a post-it note at the very same time the wordless doctor hands me a diagnosis, neither of which I can read. I take yours first. I can see nothing but a dim outline of a circle. “I made it for you, Daddy.” It is the most wondrous thing I have ever held in my hand.
The doctor says she wishes that she didn’t find anything. I don’t comprehend the words. They are strange and I am test-blind.
I hold the diagnosis in one hand and your picture in the other, light blazing from both.
Trembling.
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Ah, I want to know! I want to know! 🙂 I loved the imagery and descriptions you used. Very nicely done and so lovely.
Thank you!
Wow. This is so rich with imagery and feeling. I’m frightened about the diagnosis, which I suppose I’m meant to be…
Thank you so much. The diagnosis is multifocal choroidritis, which is a very rare and chronic eye disease. There is precious little information about it on the net, so I’m still a little in the dark about what exactly lies ahead. After my initial diagnosis, I honestly felt “well, it could be worse.” But now I’m back to worrying an awful lot. But my girl … I’m not sure what I’d have done without her that day.
Damn. I am sort of breathless from this. Of course you are worrying….Glad you have a lovely little one in your life. Keep us posted.
I have two lovely little ones. ❤ It's just that the other one was in school. 🙂
oh man! chills!!
Thank you …
Loved so much about this. “You, my little bird…” Such a loving piece. Grateful, even. Nicely done.
Thank you so much Samantha.
Beautiful beautiful writing. I’m sorry about your diagnosis and wish you well!
Thank you, on both counts.
I, personally, am counting on it just not being… a minor, temporary glitch. But, regardless, we will all get through it. You, strong son, will.
Thank you, strong father. 🙂
Beautifully written with so much depth and ironically so much imagery.
Thank you very much. The details of the day are still in pretty stark relief, for sure.
Wow this is a powerful read and a horribly wrenching experience.
Thanks very much, Joe.
Beautifully written, but very concerned. Sending love to all of you…
aww this was really good, bless your heart!
Thank you, Jen. And thank you stopping by!
… FOR stopping by…
Beautifully written. Everything about your daughter is sweet and I picture the two of you together. And then…it is a bit devastating. I like the last line. I wish you all the best.
Thank you, Robin.
You have my best wishes. Thank you so much for sharing this beautifully written narrative of your experience.