"nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands"
- ee cummings
They took my daughter's bifocals away. Doctors did. They said she doesn't need them anymore. They were happy to give us good news after a string of mostly bad news.
I'm afraid her condition is permanent.
She's going to need surgery.
She's going to need more surgery.
No, 20/50 is about as good as we can get.
The test shows that she has no depth perception at all.
I should have been thrilled at the news, and I was. Sort of.
A very good part of me loved her bifocals. It's one of the best parts of me, in fact. I loved the way she tilted her head with bifocals, like an old woman. So cute in a six-year-old. She would tilt back to read and forward when looking at me across the table.
I'm stunned to find the seed of Munchausen in me. I'd like to keep the bifocals for my own sake. I would. This kind of evil is always lurking very close to the best in us. It's okay. I see it. I've named it. It has no power over me.
But yes, I'm a little sad for some reason.
Let me ask you something. Do you think she'll keep tilting for a while, out of habit? That would be nice. It would be nice if I could watch the tilt fade away. Maybe some vestigial bit of tilt will remain with her forever, lurking deep in her muscle memory. Maybe it will show itself when she's really focused. The head will tilt back, and it will be mine to know that she loves what she is doing.
I'm telling you right now, if I see her head tilting back on the day a man slides a ring on her finger, I'm going to have to be carried out of the church.
I tried to get her ready on the way to the optometrist. “You know, you won't have bifocals anymore. That little lens on the bottom; it won't be there.”
She tilted her head down, gazing at me through the top lens. She gave me a long look, trying to decide if what I was saying had any meaning for her. It didn't, so she went back to looking out the window. She doesn't even know what bifocals are. She's not aware that she has two lenses because that's all she's ever known.
It didn't take long. I handed the guy her glasses. He popped out the old lenses and put in the new ones. There was an adjustment or two, and we were out the door.
When she looked down at her feet, she froze in terror.
“Daddy, something's wrong. I can't see. Everything is funny and not the right way.”
We went back inside, and the Optometrist explained it to me. The lower lens was a magnifying glass. She only knows a world where things get big when they get close. Tilt your head and the Pop-Tart supersizes. Now her feet are miles away, and everything up close seems teeny-tiny.
When we first got in the car, she turned her head to the door and wept for what she had lost.
My little girl lost her worldview, her way of seeing things, and that always hurts. This is good pain, leading to new ways of seeing, so I put my hand on her leg and kept driving. I let her cry. And I was proud of her. Proud that she is so little and bravely shedding her old way of looking at the world. Bravely she takes up this new way of seeing.
I want this to be my gift to her. I want to be the one that helps her see things in new ways. I would like to always rest my hand on her knee while she gets used to the view.
Later, she stared at her hands, fascinated. She'd never seen hands that small before.
“You know, that's the way your hands really look, sweetie. Your old glasses made them look big, but now you see them the way they really are.
She thought about this for a moment, then said, “Yeah, but they even feel smaller now.”
“Yes,” I said. “ I know they do.”
rlp
nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals
the power of your intense fragility: whose texture
compels me with the color of its countries,
rendering death and forever with each breathing
(i do not know what it is about you that closes
and opens; only something in me understands
the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses)
nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands
ee cummings
