The game

There’s a game I play every time Nea and I go to a new doctor. How long can I go without telling them she’s mostly non-verbal?

Nea had a piece of metal in her eye this week. She managed to blink it out over time, but she ended up with a “rust ring.” There’s rust in her eye. Obviously, we needed to see a doctor. We went to the pediatric ophthalmologist’s office.

The nurse said, “Does she know her letters?”
I said no.
So we got a big card with V T O H on it. Her good eye was patched. The eye chart had those characters in smaller and smaller versions, as is traditional with an eye chart. Nea pointed at the matching version on her card in her hand. She did a fabulous job until the characters were too small for her to see with her irritated eye.

Pass. Never had to mention her speech problem.

The pediatric ophthalmologist came in and examined her cornea with his magnifying lens and lights. He said we could either sedate and operate, or wait a week and see how she healed on her own. Guess which I chose? Yeah.

Again, she passed. Why mention her limitations in front of her unless I have to? But I feel uneasy every time. Withholding information from the medical profession. I feel like I’m getting away with something. And I guess I am. I’m getting away with Nea’s dignity.