ADVENTURES WITH EYEBALLS Part 1: Acting Through Uncertainty
- May 5
- 3 min read
A Childhood of Drops and Diagnosis
I am very nearsighted. I can't drive without my contacts. My prescription reads minus eight diopters in both eyes with one diopter of astigmatism. When I wear glasses, I don't see as well because the distance between my eyeball and the lens creates a slight distortion.
When I was little, my father, who was an eye surgeon, had a theory that a certain drop could slow the progress of nearsightedness. I don't remember the name but I vividly recall the nightly torture when my poor sister, chosen as the designated enforcer, would come at me with that little red-and-white bottle. I did everything I could to avoid her—begging, bargaining, running laps around the room. Sometimes, Dad would step in and administer the drops with surgical precision. Over the years, as my myopia increased, I thought I was defective because I hadn’t let my sister administer the drops. One day my father explained that my eye shape—more football than basketball—was the reason I had become a high myope.
Decades later, I am at Costco eye center to get my contact lenses. The prerequisite is an eye exam. For an extra 50 bucks, they'll take a picture of the retina. I usually say no to this but today I figure it can't hurt. It's been a few years since I've seen an eye specialist: I had laser surgery years ago to fix a retinal tear in Miami. Dr. Carroll, the optometrist, wrinkles his nose when he sees the pic. "You should see an ophthalmologist. There's something going on with your optic nerve." Uh oh. He gives me a name and I promptly make an appointment.
Three weeks later, I’m at the eye doctor's office—vision test, pictures, visual field. The technician can’t get a good reading and asks me to remove my contacts. I can't see at all without them so of course I can’t see any of those ridiculous blinking lights. He gives me a sideways, pitying look, like I’m failing a midterm. I used to give this test myself to my dad's patients back when I worked as a contact lens technician. I say nothing and let him have his moment.
The Day Everything Changed at the Eye Exam
A tall, handsome man—Dr. Bright Eyes—walks in smiling and talking without ever quite looking at me. He has the unmistakable confidence of someone who thinks he knows exactly how he comes across. He takes my intraocular pressure. “Hmm,” he murmurs. “Right eye 14, left eye 17. Let’s dilate your pupils, shall we?” Drops go in, he exits, and I’m sent down the hall for retinal photos. The machine is blurry. They can’t get a clear image and somehow the technician makes me feel like it's my fault. Back to the exam room, then out again for another try. Finally, Dr. Bright Eyes returns, shines a blinding beam into my eyes and directs me—look to the left, to the right, up, look down, shake it all around—and then, for the first time, actually looks at me.
“You have glaucoma.”
What?
I sit there, acting calm while my mind races as he casually explains drops and a six-month follow-up. I walk out in a daze, skip the waiting room, and sit in my car while my pupils slowly return to normal. How is this possible? What is wrong with my body? Why me? I look up at the blurry sky and ask my father for help.
Acting Calm While Fear Takes Over
Six months later, I’m back. Another visual field test, another pressure check—normal this time. Another six months pass. More dilation. More measurements called out to an assistant. Then he turns to me.
“Pilar, we need to do a trabeculoplasty. It’s a laser procedure that will lower the pressure in your eye.”
"But my pressure is normal, isn't it?"
"It's better to do it now."
“Is it dangerous? How long does it last?” I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
“It’s very quick. You’ll stay in the office for a bit so we can monitor you. Sometimes the pressure goes up wildly.”
Wildly?
He gives me his practiced smile—the one that says he’s already moved on—and leaves the room. At the front desk, I schedule the procedure like a compliant actor hitting her mark. I nod. I agree. I walk out.
This is how my eyesight ends. Open-angle glaucoma—and somehow it doesn’t even show up on their machines.
To be continued...