Chapter 6

Dad holds my hand as Dr. Woolworth gives us the rundown. Dr. Maywood is in the room too, but so far remains silent.

“I reviewed your MRI,” Dr. Woolworth says. “There are indications of optic nerve degeneration. Regretfully, this means your blindness is likely permanent.”

“No,” I say and let out a sob. Dad tightens his grip on my hand.

“Can anything be done?” Dad asks.

“A treatment exists that might restore Allison’s eyesight,” Dr. Woolworth says. “I’ve been working on it for the past five years at the university. It’s experimental and is just entering the clinical trial phase. Allison, if you, with your father’s permission, agree to undergo the treatment, you will be the first patient. There is no guarantee of success.”

“That point is worth reiterating,” Dr. Maywood says, her tone as pedantic as an irate high school principal. “The proposed treatment was only approved for clinical trials three weeks ago. It is meant to treat anophthalmia and severe ocular trauma. You, Allison, do not suffer from either condition.”

If I could see, I would glare at Dr. Maywood. She is snatching away my one lifeline.

“Anophthalmia?” I say, my tongue twisting as I mispronounce the strange word.

“Absence of the eye,” Dr. Woolworth says. “A birth defect.”

“Oh.” I wince at the thought of never having been able to see. Taking pictures while walking the streets and green spaces of Seattle has been an integral part of my life since Dad bought me my first camera, a used digital rangefinder, when I was ten. I took pictures of everything, even the ubiquitous seagull droppings along the waterfront. Within a year, I had worn out the camera’s shutter.

“My colleagues and I believe the MRI is inconclusive,” Dr. Maywood says. “It does not show nerve degeneration.”

“I can’t see. I want to see again.”

“Rest. Be patient,” Dr. Maywood says. “In all likelihood, your eyesight will return.”

“Will it or won’t it?”

“There are no guarantees,” Dr. Maywood says. “But undergoing radical surgery will not restore your eyesight.”

The words radical surgery capture my attention. Radical isn’t a word I like in conjunction with anything involving a scalpel and me.

“It’s true. Your eyesight might return on its own,” Dr. Woolworth says. “Don’t feel like I’m pressuring you to undergo treatment.”

“What does the treatment plan entail?” Dad asks.

“I want to know about this radical surgery,” I say.

“I can walk you through the treatment plan step-by-step so you know exactly what you’re agreeing to,” Dr. Woolworth says. “Would you like that?”

Without hesitation, I say, “Definitely.”

“Okay,” Dad says. “That way we can decide if the treatment is right for Allison.”

“Jane,” Dr. Maywood says. “This is wrong, and you know it.”

“It’s her best chance at having her eyesight restored,” Dr. Woolworth says.

“You are allowing your desire for prestige to cloud your judgment,” Dr. Maywood says, and her high heels click and clack against the floor. The door slides open.

“That’s not true,” Dr. Woolworth says. “It’s Allison’s and Raymond’s choice. Not your choice and not mine.”

“If you insist on going through with this, I will stop you,” Dr. Maywood says, and the door slides shut.

I’m still annoyed that Dr. Maywood is so negative, but the vehemence of her opposition gives me pause. Even the idea of a minor, run-of-the-mill procedure gives me the heebie-jeebies.

“Why is Dr. Maywood opposed to the treatment?” I ask.

“Yes, why?” Dad says. “I didn’t realize there is so much resistance to your work.”

Dr. Woolworth sighs, and casters roll across the floor. “It’s because the surgery is radical. Dr. Maywood is right about that. It involves removing your eyes.”

My stomach clenches, and I tighten my hold on Dad’s hand. “Remove my eyes? How is that going to restore my eyesight?”

“Allow me to explain,” Dr. Woolworth says. “Removal of the oculus uterque is the first step. That is followed by installation of the prosthetic eyes. The prosthetics will function like regular human eyes.”

“Prosthetics?” I ask.

“Yes. This technique has been done on mice with great success,” Dr. Woolworth says. “Not only do the mice have their eyesight restored, their sight is better than before.”

“Mice? That doesn’t fill me with optimism,” I say.

“It shouldn’t,” Dr. Woolworth says. “At the end of the process, you could be left blind with two worthless prosthetics.”

I’m tempted to back out. I don’t want to suffer through surgery for nothing.

“What do you think, Allison?” Dad says. “Do you want to hear more?”

I draw a deep, cleansing breath. I want to see again. I want that more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my life.

“I want to hear more,” I say.

Dr. Woolworth launches into a detailed explanation of the procedure. First, my oculus dexter will be surgically removed. Who knew the medical community had such a lit name for the right eye? Once my eye is removed, the damaged portion of my optical nerve will be carefully snipped away and replaced with an ultrafine filament that connects to my nerve and the prosthetic. I will be injected with the swarm of nanobots that will complete the connection of the filament to my nerve and speed the healing process. After a period of recovery that lasts a few days, I will be fitted with the prosthetic oculus. Once it is proven that I can see, I’ll be scheduled to have my oculus sinister replaced. Oculus sinister. Wicked.

“After surgery, you’ll be closely monitored. Your prosthetics might have to be adjusted for optimal performance. There will certainly be a period of orienting yourself to the prosthetics. I have no idea how long that will take. Perhaps several months,” Dr. Woolworth says.

“Several months,” I say. What would I be doing? Running into walls? If the surgeries were successful. If. If. If. So many unknowns. “What’s the chance of success?”

“In the laboratory with mice, we achieved a success rate of sixty-five percent. That’s from total blindness to eyesight fully restored to normal levels or better. Another twenty percent only had partial restoration of their eyesight. This means that sight was only restored in one eye or the restored vision was less than optimal in one or both orbs. Fifteen percent were total failures. That success rate won’t necessarily translate to clinical trials. Most experimental surgeries are never approved for use on the general population.”

“Would you undergo this surgery?” I ask. “Would you let your child undergo it?”

“Yes, but I wouldn’t sleep at night.”

“What do you think, Dad?”

“Can we have time to think about it?” Dad asks.

“Of course,” Dr. Woolworth says. “Please make the decision soon. The nanobot treatment will halt the nerve degeneration. The more nerve saved, the higher the chance of success.”

“I want the treatment,” I say.

“Are you sure?” Dad asks.

“If I’m having surgery, I want the greatest chance for success. I need to see again.”

“Well, there’s lots of paperwork to fill out,” Dr. Woolworth says. “You should know, due to the nature of the surgery, there may be a few more hoops to jump through. A medical ethicist will likely visit you to discuss the operation.”

Dad and I ask a few questions about the medical ethicist. Dr. Woolworth assures us the ethicist will just make sure we both know what I’m getting myself into by talking us through the procedure.

“Dr. Woolworth, am I making the right choice?” I ask.

“Yes. Yes, you are.”

“You’re certain?”

“I don’t deal in certainties, Allison, only probable outcomes. I believe the treatment plan is the only avenue with a high probability to restore your eyesight. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here.”

I nod, wishing I could see her expression and body language. Being blind makes talking face-to-face as impersonal as speaking over the phone or messaging.

Dr. Woolworth takes her leave, and soon a hospital official shows up with the paperwork. The official, a woman named Pam with a high little-girl voice, launches into an explanation of the various forms. Without being able to see, I can’t follow the conversation. Thank goodness Dad is here.

When Pam leaves, I’m ready to fall asleep. I have a headache, and making the decision to opt for surgery has left me emotionally drained. I tell Dad to fill out the paperwork by himself while I sleep.

“You’re sure? This is your life,” he says, his voice sharp and insistent.

“I’ve made my decision. I’m not going to change my mind.”

Dad wakes me up when the bioethicist drops by in the afternoon. My stomach growls while Dr. Jordan Ellison walks us through the procedure. He speaks in a practiced tone of faux concern that makes me grind my teeth.

“I’m familiar with the treatment plan,” I say, interrupting Dr. Ellison. “Dr. Woolworth already told me all about it.”

“Nevertheless, now we have to discuss it. Thoroughly,” Dr. Ellison says and picks back up in his spiel with hardly missing a beat.

His droning monotone is about as engaging as a grass-growing competition. I start yawning.

Dr. Ellison pauses his speech. When he speaks again, his voice is intense. “You understand your eyes will be removed? It’s a big decision.”

I want to scream that I’ve made my decision and my father supports it and that I’m sixteen, practically an adult, and there is nothing Dr. Ellison or anyone else can say that will change my mind. “Of course, I understand. I want the procedure. I want to see again.”

Dr. Ellison finishes the interview with a few more questions and asks me to sign some paperwork. Dad helps me sign. Finally, the bioethicist excuses himself, and it’s just Dad and me again. I’m starving, but I’m too upset to eat. Dad insists on grabbing me something from the cafeteria anyway.

“Just a salad. Something with meat,” I say.

“Back on meat? I thought I saw some sausage on your breakfast plate. That’s great,” Dad says.

“I have this craving. I don’t know why.”

Dad returns with a Caesar salad. I poke at it with a fork and eventually choke down a few bites with his assistance. Dad plays public radio on his phone. The stories about cataclysmic climate change and endless gun violence and political deadlock aren’t what I want to listen to right now. At my insistence, he tunes in the local classical station. Soon I zone out to the music of Mozart and Mendelssohn and other long-dead fellows.

It’s dinner time when Dr. Woolworth makes an appearance. I’m finishing my salad from earlier in the day, and Dad is eating a slice of pizza.

“Good news,” Dr. Woolworth says. “Your surgery is scheduled in two days.”

“Wow. That’s great.” I set down my fork, my appetite on vacation.

“That’s it? No delays?” Dad says. “Dr. Maywood didn’t gum things up?”

“Dr. Maywood made her concerns known, but Dr. Ellison is satisfied you both understand the risks of undergoing an experimental procedure and greenlighted the surgery,” Dr. Woolworth says. “There is nothing Dr. Maywood can do to prevent the operation from moving forward.”

I barely sleep over the next two days. Anxiety gnaws at me like an insatiable rat. Dad is as restless as I am. He tries to make small talk and read to me and get me to listen to the radio, but I’m unable to relax.

They come for me in the wee hours of the morning since the surgery is at six a.m. Just before orderlies wheel me out of the room, Dad kisses me on the forehead. His BO is as skanky as a teenage boy’s, but I manage to smile instead of grimacing.

“I’ll talk to you in a few hours,” he says. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

When I’m wheeled into the operating room, my mind churns over the possible bad outcomes. What if I wake up in the middle of the surgery? Will I feel Dr. Woolworth pluck my eyeball from my head? What if the surgery is a total failure and I’m left blind for the rest of my life?

“Allison,” Dr. Woolworth says and squeezes my shoulder. “We’re going start in a few minutes. Try to stay relaxed. You’re doing great.”

“Will I see again?” I ask, remembering doing photography and seeing my friends and enjoying all the wondrous colors of everyday life.

“We have a great chance of success, Allison,” Dr. Woolworth says. “I need to step away for some final prep.”

The disembodied voices of the surgical staff hover above me, and I smell their sweat right up until a mask is fitted over my face, and the anesthesiologist tells me to breathe in deeply.