Doctor Number Four

I was dreading the trip to Doctor Number Four, a neuro-ophthalmalogist in Winter Park. Her office - in a mid-rise, older office building, was small and crammed with all kinds of artwork. Her efficient receptionist fixed me a cup of hazelnut coffee from one of those machines that makes it a cup at a time.

The night before, I had Googled "optic nerve atrophy in teen males" and up popped a disease I had never heard of : Leber's Hereditary Optic Neuropathy. I scanned the article, and what I retained was "rare," "permanent blindness," "no cure." Stuff like that. Enough to convince me that I did not want Tanner to have that. And how could he? It was rare and genetic: nobody in my family had such a thing.

I didn't like the doctor. When I went to take notes on what she was saying, she held out her hand and said she would prefer that I listen to her. She said she was going to order an MRI - to rule out tumors and lesions, and then, if that were negative, she would order a spinal tap to rule out multiple sclerosis. But really, she said, she suspected something else. "What, LHON?" I asked. 

The doc asked me how I could possibly know about that and I introduced her to Google. Seriously? Don't all people Google their symptoms? 

I then called my mom and told her about the difficulties Tanner had been having, being careful to say vision problems instead of blindness. I broke down on the phone anyway. 

And of course, after the appointment, Tanner and I went to lunch.