At first there was a mild freak out. Ever so slight, really. The evidence of said freak show appeared in the subject line of my outbound email: I’M A FUCKING STRESS CASE. Normally, I rely on the fcuk party trick, which packs almost the same punch. But this time, there was no easy way to say it. I’d had it up to rear. And so it began…
Little Miss has a wandering eye, and no, I’m not saying she’s an adulterous harlot. When she’s exhausted, or in the throes of a crying fit, sometimes when she’s just waking up from a nap, or when she occasionally zones out and stares into space, her right eye turns out. I’ve been on top of it since she was an infant, taking her to the eye doctor every six months. Each time the doctor couldn’t get her to recreate it—she couldn’t see it, and said most children outgrow it by the time they’re four. This time, I brought photos with me. This time, the doctor was able to recreate it, so this time, at age 3 ½, she’s been placed on The Pirate Diet.
We press a sticky eye patch over her eye for 3 hours each day; one day it’s over the right eye, the other day on her left, then her right again, etc. If this Captain Hooking doesn’t work to strengthen her eye coordination, she’ll need a few surgeries to correct. Yes, a few. They said so. At least, that’s most often the case with this type of thing. Fucking A. I hate this shit.
I get it. It’s really not that big of a deal. My father, Phil’s mother, both spoke with their eye doctors, said it was really nothing, but when it’s your child who needs surgery, it’s always a big deal. Prepping kids, soothing them, explaining, managing your own nerves, fears, and what ifs, and all you can do, at the end of the day, is what we’re doing. Taking it a day, and eye, at a time.
Then there’s the business of Lucas, which I’ll get into tomorrow. No surgery involved, just brushing, physical therapy, and a pillow pool. More then after I make someone walk the plank.