Avoidance

Last week Nora had an exam with a pediatric ophthalmologist, Dr. M___. (note: somehow we have lucked into the elite group of pediatric specialists here in town; the ones who, when you mention their names, people say “how did you get in?” or “wow, s/he’s the best”) He diagnosed her ever-diminishing eye flicker, confirmed that her smaller range of focus might indeed be a factor in her late walking leading to late talking blah blah blah, and told us that it was imperative that we determine exactly when the nystagmus (googly eye) had first appeared. Before four months: congenital, not a problem, eventually correctable if it persists or bothers her. After four months: acquired, due to an underlying condition, usually a brain tumor or lesion of the central nervous system.

Then he dilated her eyes and sent us off to wait.

I called her pediatrician; later that day Dr. McM____’s angelic, artistically tattooed nurse Nathan called me back and agreed to go through every single page of her chart to look for the first mention of “wiggly eyes;” both Brian and I could remember it being mentioned practically from the beginning of her life. Practically. Not precisely. Nathan said he could have it by the end of the week.

After that, as we gave her lunch and tried to stay calm, my mind was going into crisis mode, that distant, cold state where all my thoughts become very clear and distinct, flipping through conversations about her eyes, trying to place one in some kind of chronological context. No luck. Words, yes; time, no. Then I remembered something.

Brian has taken probably thousands of pictures of the monkey in her two years; hundreds have made their way to Flickr and Shutterfly. I had a distinct flash of memory – a photo, part of a series of our tiny girl in a hat way too big for her, with that left eye going off to the side. That hat was a newborn gift; the pink onesie was a newborn purchase. She couldn’t have been more than four months old…

When we got home, I started going through photos, and sure enough, in about one out of six, her left eye looked a little screwy. It may be unlikely that a photo would capture something as swift as an eye flicker; but there were hundreds of shots, often taken in quick succession, and there it was. Well before the magic age. Good.

Nathan called me the next day. No mention, ever, of eyes flickering. Great. Everyone sees it; no one writes it down. But we were almost sure.

And still, still, the week until her neurologist appointment on Monday was tense. He would deliver the official verdict on congenital versus acquired. He did, as soon as she did it: congenital. Absolutely. Not a problem. He saw good progress in her movement and language, in spite of her stunningly grouchy teething mood, and wanted to do a cranial MRI anyway. Because of her age; because he’s incredibly conscientious and doesn’t want to miss anything; because there’s the slight chance she could have mild cerebral palsy and an MRI would rule it in or out. We agreed. Completely. It’s scheduled for tomorrow morning; she won’t even be fully anesthetized, she’ll just be asleep. After Christmas we’ll know the results.

After noon tomorrow, Nora will be the exact same child she is today – perhaps even slightly better, because she’ll be sleepy and a little less two years old than she has been the past few days… So why has this state of self-protective withdrawal worsened? Since Monday it’s hard to think of anything else; in a strange way it reminds me of being pregnant. No matter what I was doing or how involved I was with something, there was always a much larger idea at the center of my consciousness, and that idea, like this one, had an irresistible gravitational pull. What idea? What will change?

I’ll know, that’s what. If there’s something wrong, I’ll know. And if there is, Nora won’t be different, but I will, somehow. All my life I’ve wanted the truth, good or bad, right in the face, plain and blunt, so I can get on with coping. Right now I don’t want to know anything else, ever. I want to curl under the blankets and sleep until Monday. My voice sounds strange, and my mom’s concern for me makes me angry… as if there is some finite amount of inexplicably efficacious worrying she can do, and she’s wasting it on me instead of my girl. I am on pause. I am saving up for tomorrow, maybe.

Because tomorrow I’ll see the little face that owns my heart disappear into a cold white machine. Because I can’t let her feel my fear before she goes to sleep. Because her Christmas should be merry and bright, not shadowed with my terror.

So numb is the answer for now. I’ll be back, soon, and I’ll be fine, and so will we all. But this is all I can think about right now. And I don’t want to.