At last night’s dinner party a mother was talking about her son’s inability to gauge depth. At two years old it was discovered that he had amblyopia (a condition my son has fought since 5 months of age) and the doctors recommended patching.
She couldn’t bear to hear him cry.
She didn’t want to deal with the fits.
Her toddler didn’t like the glasses.
She decided against the patching and the glasses because it was too difficult and her son would be teased.
And as she spoke I slowly nodded my head and said, “I understand, it’s difficult.” And I let her ramble on as she detailed the story of her son’s blindness.
I didn’t tell her about the moment where I shook and vomited as I handed my infant son to the surgeon
Or how I passed out when they gave him back and he was crying blood.
I never told her how I learned to leave a gap for the tears when I’d put the patch on my boy.
Or how I’d hold his hands by his side, restraining him each and every day.
I didn’t disclose the tips and tricks to patch removal, so you don’t tear away the precious baby skin.
I didn’t tell her that all these years later my son sees out of two eyes, can hit a baseball and will likely outgrow his glasses. I didn’t tell her that time heals many wounds but may only amplify our failures.
I never stood straight up at the table and said, “Asshole, you did this to him.”