My hands shake uncontrollably as I write this and a lack of coordination with my keystrokes means a frustrating effort to complete every thought without making constant corrections. Writing these was once fun but now really more of a challenging chore as the perfectionist in me tries to construct proper sentence accuracy. I’m also trying to write with just one eye, the other bandaged after yesterday’s trip to the cornea specialist, Dr. Kane. 

A Covid Booster, multiple blood tests, several IVs, prescription drugs, catheterizations, probes in all possible bodily cavities, electrodes, urine samples, eye tests, doctor consults, heart monitors, cornea polishing, and x-rays sum up my week of medical hell. Naturally, they found more than originally expected, including a badly calcified aortic valve that needs to be replaced. Nothing like getting a lifetime of surgical procedures in a few short weeks. 

I’ll be bionic, even trionic, and currently thoroughly saturated with numerous pain-numbing tonics. Any personal privacy that I may have once enjoyed has be exposed and violated. Body parts have been shaved, cameras inserted, measurements taken, vitals recorded, and insurance reports filed. I visited with at least seven different physicians this week, not to mention their support staff that measured weight, height, temperature, medication usage, blood pressure, iron levels, heart rate, drinking or smoking habits, allergies, toilet habits, frequency of sex, and family history, to mention just a few of the endless questions that they ask of us. Who knows what they did to me while I was out cold? 

I do get the weekend to recover, but my right eyelid is taped shut and an embryonic membrane covers my eye, leaving me with depth perception difficulties, light sensitivity, a watery discharge, and limited visibility. Xanax and eyedrops somewhat relieve the stinging and itching, but discomfort is the norm, like a severe cornea abrasion or a needle in my eye. At least, they only had to smooth the surface of one eye, not both as I originally anticipated. Getting my extremities to move to run this morning was daunting and maintaining a straight line forward on unstable legs took a great deal of focus. Nonetheless, I completed my minimum mile in just under a cautious 16-minutes and added a few more tenths for good measure. Tomorrow should be easier, but all the tests and early morning appointments that have limited my mileage will put me at only about 30 total miles halfway through October and 765 for the year. 

My wife was covering for me last night at a neighborhood meet-and-greet that we organized before we got wind of this unexpected ocular procedure. She also found another acquaintance to go with her for tomorrow night’s theatre fundraiser. I’ll take one more pain pill to knock myself out for the night before attempting to fulfill another groggy morning’s run obligation. Right now, I feel sluggish and a bit depressed, but certainly not due to missing the party or theater. Instead, I watched the Beckham documentary on Netflix out of my good eye. 

The Braves, Orioles, Dodgers, and Twins are already out of the playoffs. The hated Bryce Harper has led  the Phillies into the NLCS, while my favorite player, Kyle Schwarber, has yet to contribute to the historical Philadelphia home run barrage.

While I wait for the Phils to move on, baseball will keep me entertained this healing weekend, along with college/NFL football, and potential I.U. basketball recruit announcements.  However, as my right eye continues to burn, I find myself reflecting on a story and poem that I wrote many years ago.

My poor mom, worried about a note, written in an unreadable scribble from a visiting eye doctor and relayed to me from school nurse to take home. Mom could only make out the words, “Morso in the right eye,” thinking it sounded like some uncurable disease. She spent most of the weekend at the library worried and trying to research what this mysterious malady was before Monday finally came and she was able to get ahold of the nurse. We all had to laugh!

MORSO

“Moreso” The Doctor’s report,
Made Mom cry.
Morso detected,
In her son’s right eye.

What went wrong,
With my son’s eye?
If he has Morso,
Can he die?

It must be bad,
If I read it right.
Will it affect,
His precious sight?

I’ve never heard,
Of this disease.
I beg of you,
Help him please.

In a panic,
Need explanation.
What is Morso?
Give Clarification.

There’s no such thing,
“I didn’t write Morso.”
Said the doctor,
Who should know.

It reads “more so,”
Didn’t mean to scare,
One eye’s weaker,
When you compare. 

My silly mistake,
I now concede.
Doctor’s handwriting,
Hard to read.

Just needs glasses,
To improve his sight.
Both eyes tested poorly,
But “more so” in right.

Copyright 2011 johnstonwrites.com 

I found it ironic that the cornea polishing that I just endured was performed solely on my right eye. Once again, its damage was “more so” than that in my left. Despite this chuckle, I’m still reminded of my torturous fraternity initiations during Hell Week. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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