On January 29, 2017, I stared at myself in the mirror in my bedroom, the one that hangs on the wall to the right of the bed. I stood in my underwear, a foot away from the glass, opening and closing my left eye. My optometrist appointment was the next day, and I had decided to do a final experiment before going to sleep that night – after all, I’d probably made the whole thing up, hypochondriac that I was, and I wanted to be sure the problem was even worth bringing up to a physician.
Left eyelid open: I can see my whole face. Left eyelid closed: I’m missing a nose. Open: all there. Closed: blank in the middle.
My husband looked up from the comic book he’d been reading and studied me.
“Part of my face disappears when I do this,” I said.
“Hm,” he said, turning back to his book.
“I’m not making it up – it looks like a little cloud settled in the center of my vision, and it follows me wherever I’m focusing,” I said.
He looked up as I continued, “And I can’t see any light through it. Seriously, if I shut my left eye, I can’t see the words in a book – I can only see what’s around them. And today, I was testing it while driving…” he raises his eyebrows at me… “and I couldn’t read the street signs at all – I couldn’t even see the traffic lights through the cloud in that eye.”
He continued staring at me, quiet.
“Well, what do you think?” I said.
He said, “I just feel sad for you if that’s what you can see. And kind of scared.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Me too.”
This post is part of my “Through A Mirror Dimly” series about a health issue I’ve been experiencing. Read the first post in the series.