It started innocently with a pair of Christian Dior sunglasses in the window of a Madison Avenue boutique.
I pulled out my credit card.
Two weeks later, my fiance, Peter, and I lazed on a North Carolina beach.
Everything was wonderful, except the Diors didn’t fit; my eyelashes kept hitting the right lens.
Otherwise, the trip was fabulous, especially at night, when I didn’t need the glasses.
On the drive back, my right eye began to itch.
I rubbed it through Maryland, Delaware and New Jersey, all the way home to Manhattan.
Soon after, I saw my ophthalmologist.
He took one look and called in his assistant, which I knew couldn’t be good.
They stood close together and spoke in hushed tones.
“What’s going on?”
I asked, panicked.
“We’ll need to do an MRI,” my doctor said.
“There’s a problem with your optic nerve.
It’s not quite right.”
“It could be a thyroid condition or something else, maybe a tumor.”
My heart started racing as I pulled the sunglasses out of my bag.
“No, it’s these new glasses, see?”
I said, holding them up.
“It’s not the glasses,” he replied, shaking his head.
In my defense, I was focused on planning my upcoming New Year’s Eve wedding.
How long could it take?
The mantra worked for me.
Instead, I thought about dress fittings and the apartment we were renovating.
How long could it take?
One day later, Peter and I waited for Dr. Robert Della Rocca, a reconstructive eye surgeon.
Suddenly, we were plunged into semidarkness, then a nurse called my name and ushered us in.
For now, I’ll read your MRI this way."
He held the films to the window, the sun his only tool.
I stared at the black and gray shadows, a Rorschach inkblot of my head.
Then the doctor startled me with his diagnosis.
“It’s a tumor,” he said.
“What kind of tumor?”
Peter asked, braver than I.
“It’s a meningioma, a benign tumor that’s irreparably damaged the vision in your right eye.
You’ll need surgery ASAP.”
“Wait, if it’s benign, why race into surgery?”
“Look,” the doctor said.
“you’re free to see that her right eye is jutting out.
The tumor is pushing it forward.
While the technical definition may be benign, there’s nothing benign about it.”
I asked, not sure I’d heard right.
How could we not have noticed my eye bulging out of my head?
“Yes, surgery,” said the doctor.
But don’t worry.
Your hair will grow back."
“But our wedding is in four months!”
I flashed forward to an image of me in a wedding gown with a shaved head.
Just what every groom wants, I thought.
The doctor scribbled a name, saying, “Go see him.
He’s the best with these cases.”
Then we were back on the sidewalk, me clutching my MRI films.
Everywhere, people spilled out onto the street.
“Great,” I said to Peter.
“Isn’t a tumor enough?”
I squeezed his hand, thinking that by now he must have no circulation left.
We walked uptown as everyone scrambled for home before dark.
I was grateful for the distraction.
I didn’t want to think about my own possible vision loss and the darkness it could bring.
In real life, he looked like he did online, with black hair and a mustache.
Smoothly, he put up my films for review.
“Diane, like come here,” he said.
I stood and walked over to the light box.
“Your meningioma is quite large and in a very precarious position, I’m sorry to say.
It’s wrapped around your optic nerve and pushing back into your brain.
Not the usual place for this kind of tumor.
In 20 years of practice, I’ve only done about 25 surgeries like this.”
“So what do we do now?”
“But…we’re getting married in four months!
Will you have to shave my head?”
I asked, weakly.
“No,” he answered, smiling for the first time.
“I can keep your hairno shaving necessary.”
Then Dr. Sen pointed to the films.
Information can be a dangerous thing.
My ex had worn Acqua, which suddenly made for some very negative connotations.
But what the doctor did next reassured me.
“Every surgery is potentially life-threatening.
This one could result in blindness, partial paralysis, a stroke or even death.
With that, he pulled me in close and hugged me, something no other doctor had done.
Suddenly, Acqua smelled different, better.
Dr. Sen booked my surgery for the following Mondayfive days away.
But I couldn’t do much talking, nor was I able to feel much of anything at all.
For the moment, my optimism had been immobilized.
Maybe that’s why Peter and I made a silent pact to embrace denial for a few days.
For the first time, I doubted my mantra.
Everything felt too hard; everything was taking too long.
“It will be fine,” he said reassuringly.
But I woke up in recovery 11 hours later far from my ordinary self.
A nurse handed me a cane and told me to practice.
I did, hanging on tightly to Peter with my other hand.
But I’ve kept my mantra (How hard could it be?
How long could it take?)
The honeymoon was magical, seven sunny days in St. Bart’s.
My Diors fit perfectly.
Photo Credit: Courtesy of subject
