Cedar Rapids, IA – Eight years ago today, my world tilted slightly on its axis. I sat in an examination chair at Millers Family Eye Care and heard a term for the first time: Keratoconus. It was a day of answers that led to more questions, the start of a journey with a constant companion I never asked for. Today marks the anniversary of that initial diagnosis, a milestone that is both a reminder of how far I’ve come and a prelude to what lies ahead. In two weeks, I will walk into Wolfe Eye Clinic, hoping to finally have that initial diagnosis confirmed.

For those unfamiliar, Keratoconus is a progressive eye disease where the cornea, the clear, dome-shaped front surface of the eye, thins and gradually bulges outward into a cone shape. This change in the cornea’s shape can lead to distorted vision, increased sensitivity to light, and a frequent need for new eyeglass prescriptions. In more advanced cases, specialized contact lenses or even surgical procedures like corneal cross-linking become necessary to manage the condition and preserve sight.

Living with a potential Keratoconus diagnosis for eight years has been an exercise in adaptation and uncertainty. It’s the subtle ghosting of text on a screen, the halos around streetlights at night, and the constant fear of a world growing blurrier. It’s the cycle of new glasses, the frustration of never feeling like your vision is quite sharp enough, and the underlying anxiety of what the future might hold for my sight.

Anniversaries of diagnoses are strange things. They aren’t celebrated, but they demand to be acknowledged. They are a marker of time, a point on a map that says, “This is where everything changed.” For me, this eighth anniversary is particularly poignant. It represents nearly a decade of living with the idea of Keratoconus, of navigating its suspected effects without a definitive confirmation from a specialist.

The upcoming appointment at Wolfe Eye Clinic feels like a summit after a long and arduous climb. There’s a nervous energy, a mix of hope and apprehension. Hope for clarity, for a concrete plan, and for the validation that what I’ve been experiencing is real. Apprehension for what that confirmation might mean, for the potential treatments and the lifelong management that will follow.

This two-week waiting period is a moment of reflection. It’s a time to look back at the challenges and triumphs of the past eight years and to look forward with a renewed sense of purpose. It’s a reminder that a diagnosis does not define a person, but it does shape their path.

My journey is far from over. In many ways, with this confirmation on the horizon, it feels like it’s just beginning. But today, on this eighth anniversary, I’m choosing to acknowledge the resilience it has taken to get here. And in two weeks, I will walk into that clinic ready for the next chapter, whatever it may hold.