I was born with premature tear ducts, so it was impossible for me to cry. When I woke each morning, my eyes were sealed shut, gooey and filled with pus. My mother would wipe them with a warm cloth so I was able to pry them open and see again. I cannot speak to the moments of blindness, but I remember the absence of something.
I was six months old when the doctor told my parents I would need surgery to open the ducts.
“It will be simple and quick,” the doctor stated, matter-of-factly. He had seen this many times, and to him, it was routine. “We just probe the duct to enlarge it.”
The doctor couldn’t possibly fathom the anxiety my parents felt. Their daughter, the perfect one, the one who had survived, how could she be sick?
We arrived at the hospital on the day circled on the calendar. The walls of the waiting room were painted neon green, covered with images of exotic animals. Zebras, elephants, tigers, lions, and giraffes loomed over rows of interconnected vinyl chairs that linked the expectant children. We were all there for the same reason: we were suffering. Some kids were bald from cancer treatment, others coughed weakly as their parents wiped their runny noses. The corner of the room contained a small plastic table with matching chairs, a bookcase filled with colourful storybooks, and scattered toys as if a child had been ripped away mid-play.
I was sitting quietly in my mother’s arms. I had not yet learned to walk or even stand. Had I been free, perhaps I would have crawled around the hospital floor, fitting items into my mouth. My mother gripped me tight.
The nurse, wearing baby-pink scrubs, entered from behind a closed door. “Grace?” she called. Her face was kind, free of lines and wrinkles, as though she were new to the job.
My parents stood, my mother propping me against her left hip, and headed toward the nurse. She held the door open, and I saw an empty hallway ahead. At that moment, lingering on the threshold between sickness and health, my tear ducts opened and I began to cry.