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I did not start out my 2020 with 20/20. I woke up a few days
before Christmas with my right eye crossed, which caused me to see double, technically
called diplopia. That fun occurrence was wildly random. In case I needed a
reminder from the universe that life is fragile and precarious, and that all
that I have, all that I am, can disappear in a heartbeat, so I should remember
to cherish it, just in case all that, I received this stern reminder to keep me
vigilant. To keep me grateful. Sheesh, even Job didn’t lose his eyesight. But
he did lose his children. I’ll stick with the lost eyesight. I think I have
accepted this absurd circumstance with admirable humor, if not outright courageous
amusement. Sometimes one has to throw one’s hands in the air and say “oh well.”
Other times the ridiculously high level of anxiety caused by a bizarre
situation requires one to call Moscow Mitch’s office in DC every night after
hours and leave desperate screaming voice messages that conclude with letting
him know that every enlightened member of the species living in the USA is
voting him off the planet. As Jane Fonda says, I hope I don’t outlive the
planet. We’ll see, or, in my case, half-see.
After waking to diplopia, I had to cover my right eye with a
patch. Double vision is way too confusing and leads to stubbing of toes,
falling down, and pouring liquids next to instead of inside of the glass. I went
to the eye doctor, of course, only to learn that this problem is relatively
common and generally benign in adults. Some muscles in my right eye have taken
a hike for a while, probably because of a temporary inflammation around the
optic nerve or some such peculiarity. The good news from the doc is that this
condition usually resolves itself. The bad news is that it usually takes two or
three months to do so. (Months?! Seriously?) There’s nothing to be done for it
other than to wait until the eye returns to normal, as randomly as it became
abnormal. In the meantime, I have to keep my right eye covered or I can’t see.
My depth perception is off, of course, because of it and I have to wear my
reading glasses to see my computer screen unless I magnify the words to the
size of chocolate-covered almonds (is anyone else hungry?).
Ron got me an impressive black eye patch and when I wear it
I look pretty badass. I only wear it to go out. It’s my formal eye patch. At
home I tape a piece of fabric over the eye, which is far more comfortable. In
addition to wearing an eye patch, I’m grouchy because I can’t see very well, so
I’m well on my way to becoming a pirate, although I haven’t hijacked any ships
yet. Yar. I could get a parrot and perhaps a peg leg, but pistols are out of
the question. Who ever heard of a pacifist pirate? (Give me your ship or I’ll
throw this gluten-free pancake at you.)
On the morning that my eye crapped out, I thought perhaps my
eye was dry and that wetting it would improve my vision. I didn’t have any
Visine. I asked Ron if he had any eye drops and he said he did but wasn’t sure
where they were. His vision is generally not so hot because of ongoing changes
in his eyes throughout the day caused by his diabetes. I’m sure there’s a good
joke in here about the blind leading the blind but I’m not finding it right now
because I’m grouchy. Ron proceeded to rummage through his side of the medicine
cabinet looking for eye drops. I want to point out at this juncture that my
side is about one-fourth of the cabinet and his side is about three-fourths. He
keeps every damn health and beauty aid he ever acquires and hollers if I try to
throw something out. Hence, we have foot powder purchased during the Eisenhower
Administration, hair grease from companies that went out of business around the
time that the original version of Shaft came
out, and painkillers prescribed even before the opioid epidemic. God help me if
I throw out an expired medication. After some rootling about, Ron passed me
some drops. Luckily I read the bottle to the best of my ability before using because
it said “ear drops.” Needless to say I didn’t put them in my eye. I thanked him
for trying to help but declined further assistance in fear that with our
combined vision impairments, I might wind up with a homeopathic elderberry cold
remedy in my eye. Or worse.
I have had to think about what to tell people when they see
the patch and ask me what happened. I tell children that my eye crossed, it
doesn’t hurt me, and it doesn’t look bad, because I don’t want them to have
nightmares imagining what is under the patch. (A devil doll? Alien lifeform?) Under
the patch is a clown show wreaking havoc with my life while I do my best to
take it in stride with a combination of stoic humor and Zen recognition that I
am lucky nothing more serious has befallen me when so many other people must
grapple with horrible health issues. (I have told a few close friends that Ron
f---ed me blind, because I think that’s a hilarious explanation, but it’s also
lewd, inappropriate, and quite possibly embarrassing. The fact that I even
mention it here shows just how desperate I am to keep laughing.) My preferred
explanation is that I pulled a muscle in my eye admiring my new grandson (born
a few weeks ago).
The lesson for me is once again that we never know what we
will wake up to in the morning, especially as we age. Weird quirks of the body.
Mind blips. A friend recently regaled us with his story about wanting to ask a
question of his new voice-activated AI home device and forgetting its name.
(It’s Alexa. Duh.) Hey Google. Hey Siri. Hey you. Hey technological wonder. Hey
Hal – open the pod bay doors. If I had Alexa, would it take away my car keys
until my eye goes back to normal? If it’s any consolation to me, at least I can
still get out of bed in the morning. So far. I’m not sure if I’m consoled or
not. (Alexa, am I consoled?) After the 2016 election, I had great difficulty
finding anything funny and stopped trying to write humorous blog posts. Perhaps
my light-hearted reflections here about going half-blind are indicative. Could
it be that my sense of humor is returning with the new decade? I hope I’m still
laughing in November.
How many fingers am I holding up?
