LOOKING AHEAD

It's been a busy week. Lots of chores and running around to various stores. Minor repairs on the ol' green pickup to fumble my way through. Appointments to keep. Work projects to get out. And every so often, whenever I had an hour or two, time afield to make some photos and check the progress of the seasonal transformation.   

Yesterday I spent about three hours at the optometrist's, getting my annual, and quite thorough, eye examine. The bad news is I need new contact lenses—nearly four hundred bucks. The good news is that my glaucoma status hasn't changed. 

For the past few years, my intraocular pressures have been on the high end of the average range. Alone, this wouldn't be much to worry about. But I also have thin corneas, a fair degree of myopia, and some "cupping" of the optic disc—three additional risk factors that point to the probability of glaucoma in the future. Plus my mother had glaucoma, as did at least one of her aunts—a fifth and significant risk, which increases my chances of developing glaucoma sevenfold over the general population. 

At the least, I'm currently a "glaucoma suspect." The reality, however, is that I likely already have glaucoma. The optic disc cupping is probably indicative, and sufficient for an early-stage diagnosis—even though my visual field tests are still excellent, above normal for my age and show no loss of vision, my intraocular pressures remain within the normal range, and the amount optic disc cupping hasn't changed over the last few years. 

Still, I watched my mother go slowly blind—in spite of all the eye drops and surgeries and top-notch specialists who tried everything to halt the disease's relentless destruction of her eyesight. Science and medicine doesn't always have the answer—though I absolutely sure the excellent care Mom received did help slow the disease's progression. 

But the fact was, during the final years of her life, Mom could see only "shadows." Not colors, not details; light and dark…and shadows. 

It was awful to witness. This kind and gentle and wonderful lady who so loved looking at flowers and watching birds and animals, loved taking rides in the country, seeing the landscape and tracking the seasons; the woman whose quick brown eyes were always filled with laughter and no small bit of wild mischief, who loved her family and friends with all her heart, loved to cook and feed anyone who sat at her table; who hand-stitched exquisite quilts, crocheted gorgeous afghans, and could sew up anything—from a dress to a patchwork handbag—on her ancient treadle machine; this person who enjoyed reading and had taught me to read before I started kindergarten, who nursed me though serious illnesses and kept me alive for so many years when the doctors said there was no hope—the mother whom I loved and admired and cherished, who shaped and influenced me in so many ways and helped instill a sense of wonder in my appreciation of nature. I watched helplessly as glaucoma narrowed Mom's vision and dimmed her sight. Until finally, she could no longer do any of those things she loved, could not make out the details of my face, though I turned every lamp in the room to high, knelt at eye-level, and leaned within inches.

Watching that happen to her was beyond heartbreaking. And frightening. I want to do whatever I can to avoid such a fate—though in spite of some advances in treatment, glaucoma still can't always be controlled. As I too well know. Nevertheless, after talking with my eye doc, as a possible prophylactic measure, to do what I can before any damage occurs, and to give myself the best vision possible for a long as possible, I've decided to start an every-other-day régime of eye drops to help lower my intraocular pressures. Lower pressures don't necessarily prevent glaucoma, but they may slow the progress. 

I hope so, because I don't think I have Mom's grace or courage.