Eyeballs

My eyeballs are letting me down.

The fact is, they've never been much to write home about. They've never been functioning at maximum capacity. For me, it's a way of life.

When I was a little kid, I tried to take piano lessons. I was SO excited about learning the piano. But the teacher told my parents I just didn't have musical talent. (This was said with certainty about an individual who grew up to sing, play drums, guitar, some keys and a little banjo to boot, not to mention playing in several bands and writing hundreds of songs.)

Turns out, the real issue was my eyeballs. They couldn't see like they should if the music was too far from my face, which it was, and no one knew about it until after I was expelled from the world of the Piano-Forte. What did I know? I thought that's what the world looked like. And my physical limitation had me branded as a "no talent."

I have lived with this eye thing my whole life and I am not really sore about it. At this point, it would be like being sore because you have brown hair or green eyes. It's just the way it is.

And now my eyeballs have started a new journey of instability and insufficiency. They call it "Vitreous Detachment." The inside of my eyes are sort of falling apart. People don't seem to realize, in general, how gooey and gross the inside of an eye is. But when it starts coming apart in there and blocking your vision, well, it's hard to ignore. It's like looking through a veil of snot floating in salt water. And it's stubborn. It won't move out of the way

I'm told I will probably not go blind. Probably. And I have to admit that I like seeing things. But I will still have to adjust to the pseudosnot inside my eyes, clouding the sunniest of days. I also have to watch diligently for other signs of trouble.

Your body, it seems to me, is supposed to be your friend. It carries around your taste buds, which makes eating enjoyable. I'm thankful for that. It carries around your brain, which is certainly helpful. But as time goes by, this good friend starts letting you down a little bit at a time. You start losing your trust in this old buddy ol'pal. But what can you do?

In this case, it's the only friend you've got.




Peace to you.

© LW Publishing 2015

Knives In My Future

Right now, typing this, my hands are falling asleep.

Because of this phenomenon, at the end of the month, I have to get my left hand sliced open, my muscles spliced apart, my nerves moved around, then have it all sewn back together. And a few weeks later, I get to go through it all over again with my other hand.

I will have Frankenstein hands. Which is the only part of the whole thing I have any excitement about.

Here’s the problem with medical problems: Most of the time you don’t really know what to expect. How long will it take to heal? Will I be able to get my work done? Will the doctor secretly implant remote control devices in my body so that I can be manipulated into some evil scheme?

The doctor laughed at me at the consult. He said I had not asked “the question.” I had no idea what he was talking about. Finally, he told me. The question I had not asked was this:

“Will it hurt?”

Never crossed my mind. Until he brought it up.

Health problems force you into troubling questions and situations. You have to take advice, you’re kind of forced into making quick decisions about crazy things. “Yes sir. Please slice open my hands and move things around in there.” Who in their right mind would say such things? And it’s kind of like having a baby. Everyone has an opinion on it. Pros and cons. Dos and don’ts. Which is kind of fun as long as people don’t get all righteous about their opinions.

I have this pair of great friends (the marvelous C&J) who have been trying to help. I have to admit I love being loved. They bought me some cod liver oil, which I think really works to reduce symptoms, and the wife of the pair made special tea out of some scary stuff in a jar (it sort of looks like a placenta from an off world creature to me) that I am now drinking. You have a little of it each day and see what happens. It may be implanting off world creatures within my body, but it tastes kind of like apple cider, so what the hey.

I still have to go under the knife.

And I don’t want to.

But I’m going to.



Peace to you.


© LW Publishing 2011