SUNDAY, MARCH 8, 2009

Well, here I am, four days after my visit with the third corneal specialist. He pronounced that I have a "really bad case of Fuchs'" and was surprised that I could still see as well as I do, considering there are NO cells left on the back of my corneas. None. Zip. Zilch. Nada. Sometime within the next two weeks, his office will contact me about arrangements for my first corneal transplant. Never thought this day would come, since being diagnosed Oct. 31, 1988, with Fuchs' Corneal Dystrophy. In looking back, the progression was slow, but I hit every one of the stages:

• extreme light sensitivity
• glare and halos from any kind of light, any time of day (especially tricky when driving at night, which I DON'T do any more)
• and, for me, finally, The Fog. I wake up in a fog which never clears.

I feel surprising calm, having made the decision to proceed with a corneal transplant. I've lived with absolute terror of this moment for almost 21 years. A lot of denial, too. Certain that I'd die of old age before any of this transplant business came about, I just carried on like nothing was wrong. Until I totally blew the eye exam at my optometrist's office in January, that is. I could tell he was worried as he told me to find a corneal specialist who could see me through to old age. Geez, can you imagine having to tell a patient that? My hats off to him!