It’s never fun when an eye doctor looks deeply into my eyes and makes a quiet groaning sound.
I have heard some semblance of this sound many times since April 2020, after I mysteriously lost my vision in my left eye while struggling with many Covid-19 symptoms.
In the beginning of my Long Covid eye care journey, I was simply basking in the comfort of finally being seen and acknowledged by an ophthalmologist so much that I mistook additional observations—with sound effects—as approval. During the height of the pandemic, being rejected by emergency room physicians and other medical staff was so routine to me that I was often shocked when any of them showed signs of compassion. So I learned how to be a good patient, pretending to ignore the sights and sounds of these masked professionals who I believed knew more about my eyes—and entire body—than they ever admitted.
I didn’t want to be the Black woman who rocked the boat. I couldn’t risk some of the most prestigious doctors in the country sending me home—again—with no diagnosis, or blind, as I feared Covid’s effect on my life.
One day, in the emergency room, I was being observed by an eye doctor who spent 10 minutes too long pricking my left eye with his gloved finger as he viewed it through the slit lamp. He widened my lazy left lid with his gloved fingers and kept whispering things my brain could not then understand.
I was determined to tag my bravery in to balance my fear. I would not let another doctor observe me and make noises about me in front of me without my curiosity—a personality trait I’ve had since I was 5—taking the lead as I took control over my medical care.