In May 2019, Matt went for a four-month re-evaluation. There was both good news and not-so-good news. First, the optometrist could now run additional tests he couldn’t do previously—albeit modified—as Matt’s evolving cognition and speech enabled him to respond appropriately. Secondly, his eye convergence had strengthened. On the downside, tests identified that his right eye aimed higher than the left, and there had been no further gain in peripheral vision.

Although Dr. Kushner would have liked to resume clinic visits, Matt’s verbal and visual response times remained inadequate for the desired regimen he had in mind. Despite the lack of advancement in peripheral vision, the doctor said Matt’s overall progress had made his day and his week!

Going forward, the doctor added a slight adjustment to his glasses to enhance his visual acuity but did not alter the prism. Prism glasses refract light entering the eye, giving the individual greater awareness of the affected visual field. They are compensatory interventions, not necessarily intended to rebuild lost peripheral vision. All along, the goal of Matt’s vision therapy has been to promote permanent neurological shifts. Since this modification wasn’t essential to his day-to-day routines, we concurred with his opinion to postpone changes.

Much to Matt's chagrin, however, we were to persist in his home exercise program and return in three months for another evaluation. Every which way Matt turned, there were expectations to do this, do that, and on and on it went. If there was any consolation to be had, he knew that Dad or I were roped into these tasks as well. As the saying goes, misery likes company. So, we plodded along.

I used a large corrugated pegboard to stimulate his peripheral vision, flashing a light through random holes. While concentrating on a central dot, Matt was instructed to use his side-view to locate and point to where he saw the flash. However, his right eye had a freaky tendency to track the light to the extreme right instead of staying fixed on the center dot, along with the obedient left eye. Unable to remedy this habit, we decided it wasn’t a good idea to reinforce it and stopped.

Then there was the small rubber ball suspended from the ceiling on a string, swinging between us as we stood fifteen feet apart. To start, he directed it toward me with his left hand until he mastered the direction, timing, and velocity. Next, he attempted the same with his right. The real challenge, however, was alternating hands—sustaining the necessary nuances of force and trajectory to redirect it my way. I sensed it twisting his brain into knots, but his technique gradually sharpened. The unspoken victory—the “behind-the-scenes” perk—was that through this entire sequence, he was standing completely on his own, without support or assistance.

Although Matt’s life was crammed with serious imperatives designed for maximum success, there was always a need for comic relief—a Cheshire Cat smile or a genuine belly laugh to break the monotony. Our days were filled with moments that were simultaneously funny, exasperating, and endearing; I just had to look for them. My directives often sounded like a broken record: “Use your right hand—no, the other right hand—not that one!” or “Alternate hands—the other hand—now change!” Then there was the constant vigilance over his gaze: “Stare straight ahead with both eyes—Matt, your right eye is cheating! Yikes! Don’t do that—we’re not playing that game. We’re done for today.”

For the balance of the year, his vision was checked quarterly. While his right eye still didn’t line up horizontally with the left, his ability to converge on a point in front of him finally tested normal. Unfortunately, his peripheral vision remained a stubborn “boohoo”—no gain despite our best efforts. We refined our home program yet again, refusing to give up on those missing fields of sight. While we pursued that elusive peripheral awareness, we leaned into the successes we had won: his increased convergence and binocular stability now allowed him to read books without eye strain. It was a beacon illuminating in his recovery—a way for the professor to find his way back to the page, even if the world around the edges remained a blur.

© 2026, Sarah Watkins