I held her in the recovery room as she thrashed and screamed—and this time, finally, tears gushed from both eyes. A flood of saline and fury. I sobbed with her, equal parts relief and revulsion. I did this to you, I thought. I paid a man to push a wire into your face.
The specialist talked us through the next step. Probing. A thin, metal wire inserted into the pinpoint opening of her tear duct, guided down into her nasal cavity to pop the membrane that hadn’t dissolved at birth. “Simple procedure,” he said. “In and out.” how do you unblock a tear duct
By month six, the blockage had a name: nasolacrimal duct obstruction. I called it the dam. I spent hours in the rocking chair, following the specialist’s instructions. My thumb would find the bony bridge of her nose, just beside that weeping, matted eye, and I would press. Firm. Precise. A rolling motion downward, as if coaxing a marble through a straw. The Crigler massage. Every morning, every nap, every night. I held her in the recovery room as
Not the left eye. The left eye was still crusted, still sealed. But the right eye was streaming. A single, perfect, unassisted tear rolled down her right cheek. I did this to you, I thought
I didn’t fix her. I just stopped breaking her long enough for her to fix herself.
The tears lasted a week. Then the crust returned. Thicker than before. The duct had scarred closed, more stubborn than ever.
“No reason,” I say. “They’re just very beautiful.”