I first noticed it on our flight to San Antonio. Abigail was sitting on my lap, and we were reading a story together, and then she glanced up at me through her lashes and I saw the smallest, faintest little pale grey patches on the white part of her right eye. Upon closer examination, I spotted a smaller patch in her left eye. They were barely a shade or two darker than the white, but still clearly visible, and I wondered how long they had been there and how I had missed them before.
I pointed them out to Dan, and we exchanged worried looks, and as soon as we got home from San Antonio I made an appointment with one of the doctors at our family care practice (Abby’s usual doctor is out on maternity leave). The doctor said her eyes looked fine, and she wasn’t worried, but she referred us to the pediatric eye specialists just to be sure.
That appointment was two days ago. We were seen by several doctors and a couple of medical students in training, and Abby was asked to identify animals and shapes and colors on a screen across the room — like an adult eye exam, but with pictures instead of letters. Then they dilated her pupils and the “big doctor” came in to examine her.
She used some big long scary words but essentially told us that right now, it’s not problematic at all; the tiny grey patches aren’t interfering with her vision, and they are basically like freckles. We’ll watch them to make sure they don’t change or grow or darken or gain texture, and she wants to see Abigail every six months for this reason. She explained that this condition is not at all common in children of white parents — and if Dan and I were both white, she might be more concerned — but apparently it is occasionally seen in ethnic or mixed-race kids. Then she added (hilariously), “That’s not a racist comment,” as if either of us thought it was. I was just grateful to have some kind of explanation — oh, okay, pigment, good to know. Although Dan did see fit to joke as we left, “See, our interracial marriage resulted in freckles on Abby’s eyes. And that’s why miscegenation is of the Satan.”
So Abigail is fine and her eyes are fine, and we are relieved that we had it checked out. Of course, we’re not thrilled that she has the grey spots at all, and they aren’t likely to go away. If they get worse — the doctor says there is a very slim chance of that ever happening, but it may — she might have to have them removed at some point. That is very scary to think about. She’s just so pretty, and she has such beautiful eyes, and I hate to think of something being really wrong with them, now or ever (apart from the obvious bad vision she will have someday — Dan and I both have terrible vision, so odds are good she will need glasses, too).
Of all the many changes in my life that motherhood has wrought, the constant, heightened sense of worry is one with which I struggle most. Let’s face it, I was already a horrible worrywart; I didn’t really need to become even more neurotic and obsessive about it. And yet I have, somehow. I was glad to receive the doctor’s assurances that Abby’s eyes are alright, but I still can’t stop fretting over what could happen. And if I wasn’t worrying about that, I know I’d worry about something else. Since becoming her mama, I know my heart doesn’t really reside in my own body anymore, and that vulnerability is something to which I am still adjusting.








