Seeing the Way
By Matthew Hawley
"Dr. Scintiazo will be here in a few minutes."
"Thanks." Go take your three-hour break, honey.
I hate people. I really do. I know it's not the Christian way or whatever, but when you schedule an appointment for 7:30 a.m. on a school day, and you get up early enough to take the awkward 45-minute drive into Boston with your dad, it'd be nice if you didn't have to wait another 45 minutes once you get there.
The whole room reeks of Purell, and I can still hear the coughing outside in the lobby. What's with that? I mean, I understand it's the middle of flu season, but this is an eye doctor. Not a real doctor. Plus I'm pretty sure most of those people were just homeless people trying to heat up in the lobby. Clearly this office needs a bouncer.
I guess I'm also just pissed that I'm going to be late for school, and I'll have to walk into the Headmaster's office to sign myself in. I've already used up my allotted number of excused lates so I'll have to make up something.
"Hello. Matthew?"
"Yes. Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you too. I'm Dr. Scintiazo and this is my assistant Emily. You must be Mr. Hawley." Oh god, could we just get to the point? I feel like I'm at an audition. His assistant is totally judging me right now.
"Yes, sir. Nice to meet you."
"So, Matthew. What brings you here today?"
Okay, press play on tearful monologue: "Well, it was three years ago at the end of 8th grade. I...had a freak accident and—"
"Yes, I know all about your condition. I've read your file. But why have you come to me? I mean, you could have gone to your primary doctor....Dr. Raizman, right?"
Okay, so that's how it's going to be? No time for the waterworks. Just straight business. Well, I guess I'll applaud him for that, but I'm going to have to be more persuasive somehow.
"Well, over the past few years since the incident, I have gradually had more difficulties with schoolwork, and it takes me longer to do stuff, particularly reading. Now, I'm not failing or anything. I'm still on the honor roll and stuff. But there is a significant difference in my grades. I came to see if you would write to my teachers to say that I should be allotted extra time on my tests."
Awkward pause. Thoughtful pose. Then opening mouth.
"Well, I'm very impressed. You seem like a very mature young man to just come out and ask me yourself and not ask your father to do it for you."
This is good. I feel like I'm just waiting for the punchline though.
"But..."
There it is. Uh you suck, whatever your name is, I've already forgotten.
"...I am not going to be writing any notes. Blindness really shouldn't affect studying. But I would like to take a look at your eye, if you don't mind."
Umm yes, I do mind actually. I just wanna leave. But nothing comes out. He puts the cold, metallic eye-exam machine up against my face. Here we go again.
I know I have to be here, but that doesn't make it any easier. I guess I have never had to ask someone for help to such an extent before. And to be rejected was not exactly what I was hoping for. If only my teachers Mr. Brennan and Mr. Frank were more accommodating in the first place, I wouldn't be put in this uncomfortable position. Or if Dr. Raizman weren't so much like my stickler brother. Either way.
You see, it's been a problem for a while now, but I knew I had to do something three weeks ago when I got back my SAT scores. They were fine, but not nearly what I was capable of doing. Having taken them twice now, I was irritated with myself because I could never finish the reading or writing portion. So I asked my friend Russell if his mom, who worked at Harvard, knew any eye doctors. She knew two, but this Scintiazo was the only one who had an appointment open anytime in the next two months.
After the corneal ulcer, which is basically an infection-induced hole in my eye, reading and writing gradually became more exhausting and time-consuming. It required more energy to do the same amount of work using only one eye. That's how Dr. Stetson explained it to me, and he graciously wrote a letter to my teachers and to the College Board.
But Dr. Raizman, my primary doctor since 2006, like my older brother, does not believe on an ideological level in giving special treatment to people with disabilities. For them, the argument is that the purpose of a test is for a student to complete it in a specific amount of time. If that were not the purpose, everybody should be able to take as long as they need. To be honest, I think I agree with them.
But that doesn't make it any easier when your grades begin to drop. So that's why I am here today, because in order to get more time for the SATs, or even for regular tests, I need at least two doctor's notes—and the deadline to send letters into Collegeboard is next week.
"Well, this is pretty interesting." No, really? "Emily, do you wanna take a look at this?"
Why don't we just have everyone take a look. I can't believe this.
This was my last chance. Dad doesn't even care: Sudoku or defending my son? Choice made. Aside from Dr. Stetson, it seems like everybody else just thinks I'm faking. Mr Brennan, Mr. Frank, Dr. Raizman, and this guy. So now I'm going to look like a pathetic liar who's desperate to try to take advantage of his situation to get help on tests because I made a claim, they asked for verification, and now I have no evidence to support it. This sucks.
The three-week period where my cornea was painfully eaten away by an infection, plus the three months where I had to take medication on an hourly basis, including at night, combined with the six months where I had to wear sunglasses and was ridiculed for it does not add up to this. None of that is worse than the feeling of people thinking you're a fake, a liar who's just trying to take advantage of his situation. At least back then doctors, nurses, my friends, and my teachers helped me. Now it's like they're all claiming that I'm making it up. I'm either consciously lying or insane. Perhaps the worst is now I believe that. Maybe I am making it all up.
Why do I feel really hot all of a sudden? What is this ringing in my ears? Does nobody else hear that? I think Dr. What's-his-face is talking to me, but I don't know what he's saying. They're looking at me funny. Okay, I need some air.
I run out of the office and shove open the door like a madman, but that's as far as I got. I collapse in the chair right outside of the room. I don't think I am out long. Maybe a few seconds, but certainly not more than a minute. Dad's here and he gets me some water, which feels so good because it's really cold. He tells me I have just fainted, which has never happened before. When the ringing stops, Dr. Killjoy asks if I want to come back into examination room.
I look at him, then my dad. I'm never going to see this guy or his assistant again. What do I care about being polite?
"No, I'm good, thanks. We're going to go. I appreciate your time."
I pick up my coat and walk down the hallway, leaving them with their shock plastered on their faces. All four of us know how hard it was to get an appointment with a Harvard doctor. People don't usually just leave. I presume Dad shook their hands, thanked them, maybe even apologized, but a few seconds later he is right by my side. I don't actually know because I don't look back. I mean it. I really don't look back. Two years later, six appointments scheduled, yet I have not seen an eye doctor since then. I just haven't been ready to prostrate myself at someone else's feet. For anything.
We don't talk about it on the drive back, but then again what do we ever talk about. Regardless, I am grateful he doesn't ask me to stay. What would you call that exactly? Even though Dad tells me I fainted, I'd like to think of it as somewhere between a panic attack and Russell Crowe's reaction to his realization that half of his world is made up in A Beautiful Mind.
When we get back to school, I am completely settled down. I nervously walk into the Headmaster's office, but no one's there. I sign myself in under "Unexcused Lates" and wander into my second class.
"Hey, you're later than I was this morning...what's up with that?" Jack asks.
Jack lives five minutes away, but somehow manages to never get to school on time. And when he does, he still hasn't eaten breakfast. I can still see cream cheese from the bagel he must've just finished stuck in his braces.
I should be able to tell my best friend about where I was, but the possibility of him siding with the enemy is not a risk I am willing to take.
"I...got stuck in some traffic."
"An hour of traffic?"
"Yeah. Stupid construction."
