More than a Headache
Sometimes a headache is just a headache. Other times, it is a warning signal. Heeding the warning does not always bring quick answers or immediate relief.
Headaches, sinus issues, and migraines are not new to me. In the week before Christmas and into the new year, I experienced something new. Sinus pressure settled in behind my face and eyes, more pressure than pain. A dull headache followed and stayed for days. Medication, water, caffeine, and even migraine treatments did nothing to help. Auras appeared without the pain I normally associate with them.
What began as pressure behind my eyes and a persistent, dull ache slowly turned into something harder to explain. I developed a blurry spot in one eye, prompting an emergency room visit. A CT revealed a sinus infection. I followed up with my eye doctor, who ruled out any retinal issues, noting only dry eyes and some surface issues. The relief of that appointment was short-lived. Within days, the same blurry vision appeared in the other eye, then things started going dark.
I sat on the couch with every light turned on, yet it felt like I was wearing sunglasses at night. No light entered. Color and shape disappeared, and fear took a seat.
We returned to the emergency room, were transferred to a more equipped facility, and spent several hours undergoing more tests without answers. I was told an ophthalmologist would call me, but that call did not come. Again, the relief of ruling things out did not change the symptoms.
My own eye doctor called me back, reevaluated the situation, and noticed extreme pressure in my eye. Back to the ER we went. This time, I was admitted. With my sight nearly gone, I was completely dependent on others to read messages, feed me, guide me to the bathroom, and tell me the time. Daily life narrowed in ways I never anticipated.
Hospitalization finally brought answers after more MRIs, CTs, and a lumbar puncture, including a diagnosis of optic neuritis. This inflammation of the optic nerve interrupts the signal between the eyes and the brain. Treatment includes IV steroids for several days, followed by an oral steroid taper for weeks or months. While the steroids stop the damage and begin the healing process, recovery takes time.
That explanation helped me understand what was happening physically, but it did not answer the deeper questions. What do you do when sight disappears faster than certainty? How do you wait when answers come slowly and outcomes remain unclear?
During my hospital stay, my room was in Hope Tower, a name that carried more meaning with each passing day. I spent many hours praying, asking not just for the return of my sight, but also for clear vision. Each person, situation, or thought that crossed my mind, I turned to prayer. My room had a constant flow of visitors.
Recovery has not been linear. Darkness gave way to shapes. Light sometimes feels too bright or distorted, as though it bends the wrong way inside my eyes. Clarity is improving, but definition is still forming.
A familiar verse says, “I once was blind, but now I see.” Those words carry a deeper meaning now. The space between blindness and sight can be long, quiet, and deeply refining. I fought overwhelming fears and clung tightly to faith.
This season has required stillness and patience that do not come naturally to me. In the quiet, clarity has taken shape in unexpected ways. Lessons have surfaced about what needs to be released and what truly matters moving forward.
Prayer has carried me in ways I cannot fully describe. Friends stepped in without being asked. My children rose to the challenge, though not without growing pains. My husband continues to meet me with equal parts service and silliness.
Some days are better than others. I must remind myself to go slower and be patient. I continue to manage the side effects of steroids. Even as energy and stamina improve, limitations remain. As vision improves, discomfort is part of the process. Light feels intense, varying between too much and not enough. Contrast feels exaggerated. My eyes work harder to make sense of what they see.
I am humbled by God’s provision as I wait in expectation. Patience is a process, and obedience is a practice. I remain grounded in my faith. I believe in the Great Physician and trust that His plan and purpose are greater than anything I could ask or imagine. At the same time, I acknowledge that some days in this journey are hard. I continue walking forward in faith, held by His hand, trusting that even the difficult days remain under His care.