Any time a person goes through a big change in life, a seminal event usually occurs to make that individual recognize that the change is becoming a normal part of life — permanent even. The seminal event in my right eye detached retina saga occurred a few days ago at a regular appointment with my retina surgeon.
After my fifth vitrectomy I continued to be the “cockeyed optimist,” as Nellie Forbush, the dedicated South Pacific nurse, sang while World War II raged around her. You see, I kept thinking that if I just hoped enough or continued to wish for better sight to return in my right eye, it would eventually come back. After my appointment, however, I realized that this isn’t going to happen. My eye will improve, but it will not return to the condition that it was in after the first vitrectomy and cataract surgeries nearly a year ago when my sight was better than 20-20.
I can now see shapes and large letters, but even if I stare at labels or big signs, I cannot make out much of the smaller characters, at least not yet. The silicon oil in my eye will probably remain there for foreseeable future. My retina surgeon explains that the silicon oil makes my right eye extremely far-sighted, so he recommends that I visit my optometrist, getting a refraction to see if we can correct the farsightedness as much a possible. He worries that if we take out the oil that my retina will simply detach again, despite the scleral buckle and all the surgical laser hits (there must have been thousands by now).
It comes down to a risk and benefits analysis — perhaps a topic to explore in a later post for this blog’s Epidemiology 101 page. But not now.
“Hope and reality lie in inverse proportions,” author Jodi Picoult writes in her book, Lone Wolf, interestingly about a family dealing with a hospitalized and dying family member. I understand this quote now. Our minds — right now my mind — do not want to give up hope for what could be, what seems possible, no matter how unattainable the reality. It’s hard to let go of the idea that my wonderful amazing sight — literally the view of the world that I had for three months in both eyes — will not return in my right.
I need some time to come to come to terms with my other anxiety — that the detached retina in my left eye, well repaired 20 months ago and providing me with 20-20 vision, will also not work at some point, and that I will become sight-disabled in that eye, too. It’s so difficult to let go of fear, even for something that is completely beyond my control.
So right now, despite having a great support team around me — my husband, my physician-daughter, the skilled and concerned ophthalmologists — the responsibility to modulate my hope and wrestle with my fear is mine alone. I am not feeling sorry for myself, but I am feeling frustrated I’ll need to figure out how to jump over this hill that life has placed in my path and get on with things. As life and aging problems go, this is not an especially high hill to scale.
But right now it feel more like a mountain.