Wednesday, October 08, 2003
I have a lazy eye. When I was a toddler, my parents had to do eye exercises with me to strengthen it. Of course, I don’t remember any of this. I grew up wholly unaware that I had this problem. But I’ve been strangely aware of it the past couple years, like when my vision doubles late in the day. Or when I first stumble into the master bath early in the morning and look at myself in the mirror . . . my right eye staring straight ahead and my left eye drifting off to the side. Doubling.
And now I’m even more aware of it, because I’ve passed the lazy eye on to Mia.
We’d noticed for a couple months that she didn’t always look straight with both eyes; her left eye was sometimes slow to respond. At her one-year appointment, we were referred to an ophthalmologist. (Actually, because we’re not in a HMO, we could’ve referred ourselves, but no-one told us that.) I took Mia to the ophthalmologist this morning.
I can’t really tell you what’s more terrifying: the thought of her having to possibly undergo surgery to correct the lazy eye (I never had to), or the pregnant trailer-vixen there with her child and her mother . . . wearing flip-flops and a t-shirt that read, “51% nice and 49% bitch . . . Don’t push it!”
Seriously, we’re going to try to avoid the surgery at all costs. I really don’t think we’d consider putting her (and ourselves) through it. So, we have to patch Mia's right eye for an hour a day, and then we’re going to have her re-evaluated in two months.
Keep your fingers (not your eyes) crossed.