This year’s eye screening appointment had aspects that were comfortingly familiar, and anxiously new. And I’ve come home with a very different feeling to the way I usual feel.

I’ve been going to the same private eye clinic for twenty years. I usually see the same orthoptist and always see the same ophthalmologist. This year, I saw a (new for me) orthoptist who opened with the clanger ‘Do you check your glucose levels?’ (I wasn’t aware it was a choice…) and followed up with ‘What is your glucose level usually?’. (This is not a question.) The rest of that appointment was comfortingly familiar – no changes in what I can read on the eye chart, excellent eye pressure and no vision changes. She put in drops and sent me to the next waiting room to wait to see my dreamy ophthalmologist.

And he is dreamy. I adore him. I mean, I hate seeing him and I tell him that each year. Then he laughs and thinks I’m neurotic, because I am neurotic, and that is how pretty much each and every year’s appointment starts. Comfortingly familiar. 

This year was no different. He always asks how I am, how my family is, how work is going, what’s going on with my diabetes and other friendly chatter to settle me in and get an idea of what is going on in my world. He asked if I’d had much of a chance to travel and how I was dealing with COVID times, or, as I now think of it, normal life. Comfortingly familiar.

As was the way he shone the Very.Bright.Light in my eyes, made reassuring ‘hmmm’ noises and told me that there was absolutely no hint of any diabetes-related eye stuff going on in my eyes and that was truly great after twenty-four years of diabetes. I always do appreciate the way that he is such a great cheerleader for diabetes longevity and acknowledges what a slog it can be. Comfortingly familiar. 

‘So,’ he said. ‘It’s all great news again from a diabetes perspective. However…’

Huh? ‘However…’? We don’t do ‘However…’. We do me standing up and promising to return the following year. Not ‘However…’ Yet, here we were. The anxiously new part. 

‘…However, I can see really early age-related macular degeneration in one eye. Really early. There’s nothing to worry about at all.’ He looked at me. ‘You don’t need to worry.’

And then I laughed, and he laughed because the idea of me not worrying is hilarious, and I had already jumped beyond worried and landed somewhere near stressed, anxious and ready to burst into tears. (I at least managed to wait until I got home for the last part.) 

I had questions and he patiently answered all of them. We spoke about family history. Apparently if a parent has AMD, their kids have a 50% chance of developing it. (Looking at this as a positive because it means that my sister might be right. Happy to take this one for the team, Toots!) He then spoke to me about things to do at this stage that help. The first is to not smoke. I’ve never been a smoker, so that’s an easy one. Then he asked, ‘Do you eat well?’ My heart sank. Another food-related thing? Turns out that eating leafy greens is protective which is fine because I love vegetables and it’s mandated in the hipster suburb where we live to eat three serves of kale a day. And finally, keeping up with regular appointments. Annual visits are still final.

‘So, Renza, It’s not diabetes. This is because of your age. After all, you’re 50 next year.’

‘Settle down!’ I said and suggested he dial things back a little. ‘I’m not even 49 yet.’ He looked at my chart again and needlessly pointed out that regardless of my current age, I am still turning 50 next year. (I’ll just point out that this was also comfortingly familiar because he frequently mentions that I am getting older.) 

I sighed. And got into the car with my dad and told him my news, opening with the comfortingly familiar and then moving onto the anxiously new. We went for a coffee, and I tried to focus on the positives. And then I got home and had a little cry. 

Because here’s the thing. I expect things to break. I’ve been told that things are going to break thanks to diabetes since the day I was diagnosed. And so, whenever something doesn’t break, it comes as a huge surprise. I’ve been holding my breath all week in anticipation of today’s appointment. I know that this is just a tiny hairline crack at this point, but it still has triggered a lot of stuff in my head right now. Sure, this may not be a catastrophe and sure, there is enough rational thinking to know that it’s early, I’m linked in with great healthcare professionals, and we know what to look for. But still. It’s another thing. Another worry. Another concern. Another part of my body not working completely properly, or at least indicating that it’s not going to work properly in the future. 

And so, I’m home now with a very different feeling to the way I usually feel after my annual eye screening. I’m already turning to the community to see who I can find there who might have some advice and understanding. I’m involved in a European ad board which relates to AMD and DME, so know that there is a whole network there who I can talk to. And I’m writing here to see if anyone out there has an experience to share. Because that’s what I do. Turn to community. I have the HCP stuff sorted. Now I’m looking for my people in the real world…

Waiting with diabetes (after dilating drops are in.)

More about eyes

How having a brilliantly kind ophthalmologist means I never miss an eye screening.

A chance encounter with an optometrist friend.

The comfort of knowing how eye screening appointments go.

The time I had a needle in my eye.

Always a worrier when it comes to eye screening.

All about my first cataract surgery. And after my second surgery.

What my dad has to do with my annual eye screening.