Without his specialized glasses, he could barely make out my face from across the kitchen.
Over the previous year, his vision had deteriorated rapidly because of keratoconus, a progressive condition affecting the structure of his corneas.
We saw doctor after doctor.
General ophthalmologists.
A pediatric specialist.
A corneal surgeon.
There were appointments, appeals, insurance denials, more appeals, and enough paperwork to make me question whether the healthcare system’s real treatment strategy was simply exhausting parents into submission.
Eventually, after six months of fighting, Leo was approved for corneal cross-linking.
The procedure was designed to stop the disease from progressing.
Our portion after insurance was $8,400.
It hurt.
Of course it did.
I had been saving that money for a bathroom renovation.
Nothing extravagant.
I just wanted a shower door that didn’t need a bath towel wedged underneath it to stay closed.
But bathrooms could wait.
Leo’s eyes couldn’t.
We waited six months for the surgeon’s schedule to open.
I rearranged work travel.
Canceled meetings.
Declined a conference.
Bought all the food Leo liked.
Took Thursday and Friday off.
I even bought him a ridiculous plush velociraptor sleep mask because he had specifically requested one.
“Mom, I’m twelve,” he complained when I showed it to him.
“You picked the dinosaur.”
“I picked it ironically.”
Apparently, twelve-year-olds are allowed to like dinosaurs as long as they maintain emotional distance from the decision.
My mother, Evelyn, knew every detail of Leo’s condition.
So did my older brother, Vance.
Evelyn and Vance still lived in the ranch house where my brother and I had grown up.
My father died eight years earlier.
