Every year I tiptoe around it.
When I was a kid, I would play that game: "what's the worst that could ever happen?" Though I think of all the consequences, the only one that makes me grit my teeth and shy away from the results is the eye factor. Blindness, people, is my big, secret fear.
Blindness is the worst thing that could possibly ever happen to me.
I don't want to imagine the thought of not having the sight to combine with the tactile sensation of Miz Moo's coat. Of not being able to read a book. Or drive myself to work. Not being able to read a book...or see the mountains of Banff. Or read a book.
I am partially deaf and have a condition called tremors (a precursor to Parkinson's, which runs in my family, but I am NOT getting Parkinson's. No way no how. Mind over matter, thank you very much). I am no stranger to "maybes", but every year I visit the Ophthalmologist with a fist squeezing tightly around my heart; palms sweaty and the very possibility just hanging over my head.
Is it just me, or do we all have some "maybe" that just secretly freaks the hell out of us?
I very recently had the yearly eye test, this one marking my upcoming 16th year of Diabetes. I've always passed the tests with flying colours; no microvascular abnormalities, no cotton spots or floaters or leakers or anything that sounds like a sinking ship. My eyes make a mockery of my Diabetes, showing nothing of the uncontrollable, rebellious teenager that I was. Instead - and I admit this with pride, and a great amount of relief - they are shining, perfect examples of my strict control.
This years appointment had its share of drama; my old Ophthalmologist, whom I've been seeing for years, moved practices, resulting in my having to see a new doctor. I can't even pronounce his name; he's foreign, and deaf. But a very nice gentleman, though I could hardly understand him.
I made arrangements to have someone pick me up at this appointment in case the new Ophthalmo wanted to dilate my eyes. I have never needed dilation due to very large pupils; my old doctor could see every corner without ever needing drops. The new doctor insisted on them, however, and prior to the drops I called my ride to make sure that she was on her way. She wasn't. And she wouldn't be (ever unreliable is my sister), so I called down the list in my head. Nobody could help. So we went without the drops. The new Doc seemed very thorough, but was sure to place limitations on his liability.
"I'm 99% sure that your eyes are perfect," he said (I think). "Without the dilation I cannot be 100% sure but you understand I follow guidelines and guidelines say I am only 100% sure if your eyes are dilated."
I nodded, smiled, and thanked him loudly. 99% was OK by me, and I resolved to myself that next year I would make a special trip out to my old Ophthalmologist so that I could have that 1% back.
Because that 1% has been slowly building up in my head. That 1% has given me just enough margin to worry about my one secret fear. What if that 1% is big enough for imperfection? What if that 1/100th is really where that uncaring teenager took up residence and left her mark?
My clinical, nurse-oriented side tells me to stop being so ridiculous but that emotional, fear-driven side doesn't want to listen.
Is 99% really enough?
Every year I tiptoe around it.
When I was a kid, I would play that game: "what's the worst that could ever happen?" Though I think of all the consequences, the only one that makes me grit my teeth and shy away from the results is the eye factor. Blindness, people, is my big, secret fear.
Blindness is the worst thing that could possibly ever happen to me.
I don't want to imagine the thought of not having the sight to combine with the tactile sensation of Miz Moo's coat. Of not being able to read a book. Or drive myself to work. Not being able to read a book...or see the mountains of Banff. Or read a book.
I am partially deaf and have a condition called tremors (a precursor to Parkinson's, which runs in my family, but I am NOT getting Parkinson's. No way no how. Mind over matter, thank you very much). I am no stranger to "maybes", but every year I visit the Ophthalmologist with a fist squeezing tightly around my heart; palms sweaty and the very possibility just hanging over my head.
Is it just me, or do we all have some "maybe" that just secretly freaks the hell out of us?
I very recently had the yearly eye test, this one marking my upcoming 16th year of Diabetes. I've always passed the tests with flying colours; no microvascular abnormalities, no cotton spots or floaters or leakers or anything that sounds like a sinking ship. My eyes make a mockery of my Diabetes, showing nothing of the uncontrollable, rebellious teenager that I was. Instead - and I admit this with pride, and a great amount of relief - they are shining, perfect examples of my strict control.
This years appointment had its share of drama; my old Ophthalmologist, whom I've been seeing for years, moved practices, resulting in my having to see a new doctor. I can't even pronounce his name; he's foreign, and deaf. But a very nice gentleman, though I could hardly understand him.
"I'm 99% sure that your eyes are perfect," he said (I think). "Without the dilation I cannot be 100% sure but you understand I follow guidelines and guidelines say I am only 100% sure if your eyes are dilated."
I nodded, smiled, and thanked him loudly. 99% was OK by me, and I resolved to myself that next year I would make a special trip out to my old Ophthalmologist so that I could have that 1% back.
Because that 1% has been slowly building up in my head. That 1% has given me just enough margin to worry about my one secret fear. What if that 1% is big enough for imperfection? What if that 1/100th is really where that uncaring teenager took up residence and left her mark?
My clinical, nurse-oriented side tells me to stop being so ridiculous but that emotional, fear-driven side doesn't want to listen.
Is 99% really enough?