Meeting in the Doctor’s Waiting Room

Yesterday I took our eldest for a follow up appointment at our ophthalmologist. I’ve written a little about his story here but yesterday I anticipated a fairly similar outcome to our usual checkup. But the appointment was unusually, and beautifully hopeful. More on that later…

I was running a little late after dropping our youngest at my in-laws and rushed in at 2:02pm (our appointment was for 2 – and I hate being late). As I dashed in, a father snuck in the door behind me holding his young daughter. She was gorgeous, and could not have been older than 2 and a half. I could see immediately (from my limited experience) that she had a squint, even though I think most would probably not notice it. The receptionist looked at us both and requested ‘last name?’ to which I replied ‘Knighton-Fitt’ and so she turned to the gentleman and said, ‘Oh, so this is your first appointment?’ My heart broke as I remembered our first appointment, and I had such sympathy imagining the journey he was about to begin.

As the dad took the clipboard from the receptionist and got ready to recall their medical history on paper, I wanted to throw my arms around them and give them both a huge hug and tell them everything would be okay, but it’s easy to say that looking back.

There were so many perfect moments this afternoon in that doctors room. The fact that Clay couldn’t fit on my (now enormous) lap meant that I had to pop him on the BIG chair alone and watch him interact with our doctor himself. He would never had done that even 6 months ago. He answered the questions politely and watched the red ball, the cotton bud and the torch so obediently. He listened to everything the doctor said, and whispered the correct answers to all eye tests. His eyes had locked into place (NO.MORE.SQUINT), and his eyes were excellent, individually, both in strength and crisp clarity. ‘Proud mama’ doesn’t begin to describe it.

At the time of the 3D test, I held my breath. This was what we had no idea what to expect. While our 2 operations had corrected some mechanical issues, the development of 3D was never a certainty. His last appointment 3 months ago showed he had no 3D vision. (IE: He can kick a ball and do everything any kid with 20/20 vision can do, but give him a set of 3D glasses for a movie and it wouldn’t mean a thing to him. This can have larger consequences later on when it comes to future career choices and sports etc.). If you don’t develop this kind of 3D by age 4, chances are you might never develop it. Clayden has just turned 4.

So as he looked through the 3D glasses into the book and tried to grab the fly’s wings (which should stand up from the page) he grabbed… the… air. Our Dr looked at me with excitement and I knew it was good. If he had grabbed the page it would have indicated that his 3D was still non existent. Watching him digging his chubby innocent little fingers under the ‘wing’ made my heart leap and I had to grit my teeth to stop myself from bursting into tears. It was all such such such good news. After a 2yr long journey with Clay’s acquired esotropia, across 2 countries, with the help of 2 optometrists, 2 ophthalmologists, 2 operations, and a VILLAGE of support, prayer and a lot of money  (and tears) spent, this is what we’ve been waiting for. Our first appointment with ‘everything looks perfect’. (The only thing better is if we were to phase out the glasses completely, but one step at a time – only time will tell – and he is so stinking cute in his glasses, I think I’d miss them).

Eye Operation April 2015. 

As we left (I could have hugged our doc – but it would have been pretty random), I saw the dad and his daughter replace us in his room. One family out, another one in. Just like that. With a heavy camaraderie-like heart, I watched them start the journey we were (praise God) ending.

So many of my latest, more personal blog posts have been about kindness and awareness. This one is no different. To think we are all on our own personal, raw, delicate, challenging, sensitive and day-by-day journeys, needs to be recognised. People need to be SEEN. To that family who are beginning the journey correcting eye issues, to the family who have lost a baby that no one knows about, to the family who is struggling with infertility, or severe anxiety, or self-hate or a scary diagnosis. None of us have our stuff together (maybe on the outside it might look like it), so let’s all just be a little more sensitive and aware.

As our awesome (deeply missed and longed for) church in Vancouver used to say each time we met, “we are a community of Hope and Struggle”… and let’s allow ourselves to be just that.