Your interview is scheduled for ten onThursday.
Me
Pen. I can’t do this.
Pen
Sure, you can. See you tomorrow at 6 for outfits. Love you.
Me
No. There is no love here right now
Pen
Think of the money, then. One million dollars! And the sex. Xo.
Ugh.
The ophthalmologist wound the dial on his machine after instructing Caitlin to place her chin on the indented rest and forehead at the bar of his expensive-looking scope with the fancy lenses. This, he explained, will help him get a clearer picture of what is happening in the back of the eye. He dims the consulting room’s main light before asking Caitlin to look straight ahead, up, up to the right, and so forth around in a circle before looking back at some blinking dot in the center. Only Caitlin can’t see any blinking red dot. She can’t see… anything. The “jellyfish” are so bad she can’t differentiate one from the other.
The lights flick back on and starkly illuminate this clinical little room, dwarfed by a reclining medical chair, a bulky scope machine on a swinging arm, and three other chairs. The ophthalmologist on a rolling, backless stool, and Mom and I huddled together in the corner on standard-issue waiting room chairs.
“Thank you, Caitlin, you can sit back and relax now,” the gentleman with receding hair and horn-rimmed glasses said, his face pained. The soft crinkling around his eyes is visible behind the arm of his own glasses, and Mom grabs hold of my hand in search of comfort I’m not sure I can provide. “Bubble, I’m worried,” she whispers in a hushed tone that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
“Mrs. Broe, can we talk freely here? With your daughters present?”
“Yes, Doctor,” Mom says, her faded lilt a shadow of its usual tone and candor.
“As I stated at Caitlin’s last visit, the retina has partially detached in her left eye because of the leaking blood vessels there. Too much fluid built up, and the retina was compromised.”
“She didn’t complain of any pain, only more jellyfish.”
“I see,” he says. Not a brilliant line to deliver when your present patient can’t, Doctor. You need to revisit your conversational skills.
“Can that be fixed?” Mom asks, desperate for some positive news.
“It’s unlikely, even with surgery, that she would regain usable vision in that eye. My colleagues and I have discussed her case at length, and she needs to be under the care of a retinal specialist. We suspect uveitis, or perhaps Coats’ disease.”
Mom’s grip on my fingers becomes painfully tight. My sister, the bright and beautiful baby of the Broe family, was losing her vision?
“Uveitis or Coats’ disease. I’ve never heard of them,” Mom stammers, eyeing me for confirmation. I’ve never heard of them either. When Cait first started having vision problems in elementary school, she was prescribed glasses that, in her own words, sharpened the edges of some close things. They didn’t allow her to read signs across the rink when we went to watch the boys play hockey, nor certain things on the board in the classroom. She described a series of brown, jellyfish-like floaters drifting across her vision. The first doctor stated that these floaters were leaking blood from vessels in the eye as a result of hitting her head and would go away on their own. Only shehadn’t hit her head or suffered any bodily trauma whatsoever, and the floaters didn’t go away. If anything, they increased in viscosity and frequency. On the last visit, the one I didn’t attend because I was employed and blissfully ignorant, the optician had confirmed a series of leaking blood vessels. These vessels were growing abnormally and were not supposed to be there, and further investigation was warranted.
“My office has brochures on glaucoma and macular degeneration, conditions that can be treated with laser correction. Caitlin needs to see a specialist.”
My gaze oscillates between the doctor tapping away at his keyboard and my sister squirming in the chair, trapped there by the swinging table and scope machine.
“Oh, I apologize,” he says, releasing the locked tray and swinging the whole thing to the side. “Caitlin, do you understand what is happening to you?”
Caitlin nods. It’s a gentle, economical movement. For one so young, she has a maturity beyond her age and the ability to understand complex concepts most adults can’t grasp. “That I’m blind in one eye?”
My throat is constricted with panic and fear for my sister. No, no, no, no. She’s so young, with so many bright dreams and aspirations ahead of her creative soul. If she can’t see, how will she work and live?
The doctor nods, and Mom breaks down into heaving sobs, the hand not entwining mine holding a crumpled tissue to her face.
“Yes. But the disease is present in your other eye, which is unusual. A specialist is the best option to preserve the vision you have, but it is unlikely you will regain any you have already lost.”
My jaw hinges open. I can’t decide if hismethod of delivering bad newsis horrid or blisteringly efficient.
