This week I had the impulse to e-mail the One City bloggers and ask someone to take my spot this week since I wouldn’t be able to do my post, leaving out the details of why. About to click send on the group e-mail, I reconsidered. Part of being a writer is reaching out to others and sharing not just the political stuff or the insightful stuff, but the dark stuff. This is difficult to do. Particularly difficult this week, because I am literally not seeing things clearly, and daily activities that require precise vision such as typing, cooking, and reading, are not as easy as they should be.

A part of my life that I haven’t shared with too many people at the ID Project is my historic battle with uveitis, a chronic autoimmune disorder. I like to explain it melodramatically – that the immune system thinks the eyes are foreign invaders and attacks them – because it sounds so much more romantic than the incomprehensible medical jargon. I also like to leave out the fact that uveitis is one of the leading causes of blindness in the United States, because frankly I just don’t even want to think about that.

The reason I’m sharing this is that I’m sad. For the past three years my eyes were in the clear, and I put that part of my life in a little box and locked the box in a safe and put the safe at the back of my closet and forgot all about its existence. It was off of my radar. And then a week ago I woke up with clouds in my bedroom. I knew what it was before I even picked up the phone to call my eye doctor (technical term: ocular immunologist. My ocular immunologist is a genius and I will gladly share him with anyone else who has this disease).

My vision, thank Whoever, is okay. I’ve always caught the inflammation early, and it’s treatable. The meds make the clouds go away. What it means in the short term is weekly visits to the eye doctor, setting an alarm to remind me to do my eye drops once every hour, taking off my glasses in order to read anything up close (one of the drops I’m on causes my pupils to dilate), squinting at the computer screen, wearing sunglasses whenever I go outside, and trying to figure out a way to explain it all – to others and to myself. It’s easier to explain it to others. As for what it all means in the long term…I’ll have to wait to find out. The waiting part is totally crappy, as is the unpredictable nature of uveitis – there’s no way of knowing when I’m going to flare. It can be caused by eye trauma, stress, or nothing. It often feels very random, and I hate feeling like there is an arbitrariness to the events that happen in my life. I am a purposeful person, after all…

I know the drill, I’ve been through it before, and there’s not a whole lot to relearn, except for one big thing. It’s easy to remember how to do my eye drops (I’ll spare you squeamish folks the details). It’s not so easy to know how to let go of the disappointment I feel. How to sit with this disease as the person I am now.

The Emily Who Had Uveitis was a thing of the past. I said goodbye to her, sometime in the last three years, because I thought I was done, and now I have to figure out a way to make space for that girl again. The Emily Who Had Uveitis lived with her mom. She went to school. She liked to watch Hey Arnold! She was a kid. The Emily Who Did Not Have Uveitis was in college, then she graduated. She had a job. She had her own apartment. She paid her rent on time. She didn’t worry about her eyes. This new Emily is now in flux.

I have to find a way to make space for the old Emily in my new life. I have to bring some of my old self into the present. I need to remind myself that that little girl is just as strong as the woman I am now, and that having her here will make me even stronger.

Dear Eight-Year-Old Emily,

You are one awesome kid, do you know that? You are strong and beautiful and brave. I know you’re going to help me get through this.

Love,

Emily

Ps- You should also know a couple of other things: you can’t dig to China from your backyard; if you jump off the swingset you’ll probably sprain your ankle; and you won’t date until you’re in college, but that’s actually a good thing in the long run. Trust me.

For the non-squeamish people, this is what uveitis looks like under a slit lamp.

What you’re looking at – those tiny, sparkling specks that are floating in the blackness – that’s the inflammation. That’s uveitis. Yeah. That’s it. Those little specks. Believe me, I was pissed to find out that that’s all I’m up against. Couldn’t they at least have had scary faces or claws or something? They look like stars. I find myself almost too fascinated by this to be angry. Almost.