For years, my husband believed my poor eyesight was a closely guarded secret; then I came home from my laser eye surgery, looked in the garage, and shouted, “This can’t be happening!”

Instead, he changed the subject and started talking about leftovers, and I let him because arguing with Brian had never been my strong point.

A few days later, he left again for another week-long business trip.

He kissed me on the forehead and promised to call me every night.

The house became silent around me.

Thanks to Marissa, I decided to go ahead with the operation anyway.
The following afternoon, she arrived with a letter from the clinic.

I had been accepted to participate in the clinical trial.

That evening, I thought back to who I was before the diagnosis. The woman who had argued with a contractor until he rebuilt the entire porch. The woman who had chosen her own paint colors and driven all the way to Asheville just to admire the fall colors.

Little by little, I gave these parts of myself to Brian until the addiction became a habit, and the habit became my identity.

For the first time in years, I was making my own decisions.

 

You will find the rest on the next page.