My right eye (continued)

I separated the adventures of my right eye into two posts because I made a strategic decision that I will come across as less of a Whiny Bitch™ by posting two smaller servings of whiny instead of a single big one. Last week I whined about surgery, this week it's the recovery. Last week's full post is here.  The short version goes something like this: I’m not a Whiny Bitch™ just because my wife says so; several years ago a spider crawled deep into my inner ear as I slept and it hurt when it started biting; six months ago I started seeing floaters and blots in my vision while at work and then became aware of a blind spot in the corner of my eye after stumbling over a display in a liquor store; as a result, I underwent emergency surgery to repair a detached retina to prevent permanent vision loss.

Compared to recovery, surgery was efficient and effortless. One moment I was in examination room at a doctor's office and the next I was at the hospital in surgery. Done. Then I was sent home with a prescription for Percocet and an assortment of drops for my eye. Also an unimpressive protective eye guard.  I thought it looked like a miniature pasta strainer. My cousin Joel suggested it looked like a urinal cake taped to my head. My cousin Joel, like many, many members of my family, is an ass. Still, he was right (this once). In my post-op meeting with Dr. Simpson immediately after surgery as I emerged from my anesthetized haze, I asked where I could get a nice leather eye patch, like Rooster Cogburn’s in True Grit. He said try a costume shop. I swallowed my vanity and put on my urinal cake/mini pasta strainer.

I learned some other things at the post-op meeting. To be fair, perhaps these things had been mentioned to me a few hours earlier when I learned that my retina was torn and that I needed immediate surgery or risk permanent vision loss. My brain went into some weird place as it tried to process what it had just learned. While my brain was doing its own thing, Dr. Simpson continued speaking, likely dispensing some important and valuable information. But this important and valuable information all sounded as if it was coming from the teacher talking to Charlie Brown in those old Peanuts television specials. I did my best to appear cogent: I tried to maintain eye contact while nodding and grunting out affirmative humming noises at what I trusted to be appropriate times:

Dr. Simpson: Whaa-whaa wa whaa-wa.

Me (nodding): Hmm hm.

Dr. Simpson (pointing to a chart): Wa whaa-whaa waa.

Me (nodding):  Hmmm huh. Hmmm.

This is what I remembered from that meeting: during surgery the vitreous fluid in my right eye would be drained, the lining surgically attached to my inner eye, and then the space would be filled with a gas to create pressure to help secure the lining to the inner eye. I would lose all vision for several weeks and when it returned it would be cloudy because the surgery would cause a cataract in my natural lens. When the retinal surgery healed, I would need a relatively simple cataract surgery to replace the cloudy lens. Also, because of the gas in my eye, I would not be able to travel in an aircraft for several weeks because the high altitude would cause the gas in my eye to expand which would cause my head to violently explode. Or something like that.

This is what I didn’t know would happen until my post-surgery meeting:

• Travel: Not only was I restricted from travel by air, but from any travel that involved a change of elevation greater than two thousand feet. When you live in a city located in a valley at the base of the foothills of the Rocky Mountains, this is essential house arrest.  Or rather city arrest because you can’t travel far from Boise in any direction without climbing a couple of thousand feet. You could go to Twin Falls, Dr. Simpson pointed out. 

• Running ban: Over the years, I have developed a coping strategy to prevent insanity and growing a big fat gut. Run. A lot. I have no Plan B. One of my first questions to Dr. Simpson was when could I start running again. I expected a week, maybe two. Instead, he put me on the bench for two months. Then he quit renewing my Percocet prescription, taking away my plan B too. 

•  Length of recovery: I knew it would take some time (a few months, tops, probably) until my vision would be back to normal, or at least as normal as it would be. That was pretty naive. The cataract surgery required coordinating between Dr. Simpson, my optometrist, and the cataract surgeon. This meant not only attempting to overcome scheduling challenges among three doctors, but also delays while waiting for clearances that would allowing me to pursue the next round of scheduling and coordination challenges. Things that could have happened in weeks have taken months.  And it’s still not over. The retinal surgery was March 10 and I finally had cataract surgery in August. But that resulted in a "secondary cataract" that requires an additional surgery. The latest estimate is that sometime next month I may (after laser surgery and one or more appointments with three different doctors for three different reasons) be back to having functional vision in me right eye. Or maybe not.

A few other things I learned following my surgery. My retinal detachment was likely the result of my severe near-sightedness. The lifetime risk for individuals with otherwise normal eyes to develop a detachment is one in three hundred. In nearsighted individuals like me, the lifetime risk is closer to one in twenty, and those typically occur at a younger age than the average. Finally, detachment usually occurs in just one eye, but (foreshadowing alert) there is a fifteen percent chance of it developing in the other eye as well.

Alas, I am one of the chosen. On the day Dr. Simpson discovered the detachments in my right eye, he also found a smaller tear in the retina in my left eye. The plan is to restore the right eye and then start over on the left eye. So far the left eye has presented no symptoms, and I check for blind spots and floaters and blots every day. Multiple times.

The good news for all of you is that I promise not to write about the left eye. The good news for me is that chances are good that when all is done, my vision will be restored to normal, or at least to almost normal. The bad news is that pursuant to Nevada boxing commission regulations, I am no longer eligible for a license to fight in the state of Nevada, and likely most other venues in the world. Chances of a thumb to the eye causing retinal detachment are significantly greater when you're already had one (or two). So my dreams of becoming The Baddest Man on the Planet most likely will remain mere dreams.