In what was probably the early 80s, I recall watching an episode of Donahue. The topic was surgery that would correct one's vision. I remember being riveted, swearing that one day, absolutely before I got married, I would have this done. There was no way I was walking down the aisle in glasses.
Always a thinker, I decided in my approximately nine-year-old mind, that by the time I was ready, enough time would have passed to ensure that the procedure was safe.
It would be many years later, but when the opportunity arose, I bought myself some perfect vision. 2003. I beat my self-proclaimed deadline by almost 3 years.
And that's how much I hated my glasses.
I say all of that because, as shallow as it may sound, I really, really didn't want my daughter to have to go through those feelings.
I've stated before that I know what it's like to grow up Black and female. In a lot of ways, that's difficult enough in my mind. But I don't know what it's like to also have developmental delays and a diagnosis that's written all over my face.
I don't know...it's little and common and silly, probably, to even devote this much thought to the issue, but...it's just one more thing to add to the pile of reasons for people to look at/treat her differently.
Today, after three hellish hours in The Most Popular Opthamologist in the World's office, we came out with a prescription.
And I ordered my baby some glasses.
I'm not normally mushy about a lot of milestones, but this one got me. It didn't feel good. I felt like I had let her down. She's not quite four. It's so early. I'm the one who passed this on to her. guiltguiltguilt.
The doctor showed me what her vision is like untreated. Ugh. Why didn't we know sooner?
She didn't want to try the frames on and I didn't blame her.
But we did the right thing and in two weeks or less, her world will be that much clearer.