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Maggie and Della Begin Their Search for The Truth
Della and I decided to follow the path of least resistance and visit Maria Carlini’s eye doctor first. Even that part wasn’t easy, though: we had to get Maria’s permission first. Damn real life.
Della, being far bolder than I, initiated the phone call. I spoke briefly with her, too. She sounded nice over the phone. A bit weak – not surprisingly – but nice. Of course we could talk to a doctor, any doctor. Whatever her husband wanted was fine with her. She called him the miracle man, too.
On her recommendation we visited the offices of Dr. Edwin Marakassian, ophthalmologist and Maria Carlini’s new best friend. He was ready for us, and flipped through a consent form, signed by proxy. Dr. Marakassian was an older man, pencil thin with bushy, graying hair. A white lab coat hung on a hook nearby. He had a thick file on his desk, no doubt belonging to Maria. He examined it for a minute or two before looking up at us. “So,” he said, in polite, professional tones, “what can I do for you?”
“We’re going to be designing a computer for Maria Carlini,” Della began. “I work with companies that make computer programs for people who are blind. I need to know more about her condition before we can do that.”
Dr. Marakassian sat back in his chair and pondered this request for a moment. He did not look happy. “I got a call from the emergency room at 2:00 in the morning,” he began. “They needed an eye surgeon. She went right through the windshield. No seatbelts. I was picking glass shards out of her eyes for hours. Eyelid reconstruction and a prosthetic for the left eye socket. The right eye is still healing. I don’t know if she’ll recover any sight. If she does, it won’t be much. Light and dark contrasts, maybe.” Then he looked at Della. “And what’s your story?” he asked, without embarrassment or discomfort.
“RP,” she replied, with a similar lack of affect. Della had been going blind as a result of retinitis pigmentosa most of her adult life. The disease slowly shut down the retina, rods and cones dying and sloughing off until nothing was left to get light back to the brain. She was in the end stages of that process.
“Any peripheral vision?” he asked.
“Just central,” she replied, “and not much of that left.”
“Well, you certainly picked an appropriate profession,” the good doctor remarked. “Good for you.”
“The hardest part of what I do is getting people to use the software,” Della replied. “They don’t want to change what they’re used to, even when it’s no longer possible. It’s part rehabilitation, part psychotherapy.”
Dr. Marakassian nodded, looking even sadder now. “I know the feeling.” He checked his watch and closed the folder. “Do you have enough information to make a choice?” he asked. “I’m afraid I have another appointment. I’m very sorry.”
We stood up to go. “Yes,” Della replied. “Thank you.”
I extended a hand to the ophthalmologist and we shook. “I’ll be choosing a computer and installing the software,” I explained. “Thank you for your time.” I couldn’t imagine doing what he did all day. The thought of removing an eye sent more than chills up my spine. “No offense, but I’m glad I’m not you.”
His face twisted into a sour grimace. “Drunks.” He almost spat. “We spent hours on her. Then he gets off, scot-free.”
“So it was drinking?” I asked.
“You tell me,” he retorted. “The car was wrapped around a tree, 10 or 15 feet off the road. Why that guy isn’t in jail is beyond me. If I had a nickel for every surgery I did that was alcohol-related I’d be a rich man.”
Della raised her hand. “No one here is a police investigator,” she reminded us.
“Just a doctor,” Dr. Marakossian replied. “Who knows?” He continued, wistfully. “With any luck justice may yet be served.” He looked at us both. “With any luck,” he repeated.
