During the stretch of my
childhood and most of my adult life I always had excellent vision. I never once needed corrective lenses. I never had trouble reading signs, large or
small. I used to amaze my mother with my
ability to figure out the wording on a bus marquee, even when it was a block or
more away. I knew before my mother did
and before it rolled to a stop in front of us whether or not it was the one we
needed to catch to take us where we were going.
I never even needed “rest” glasses for school or play. I could see with what I suppose was 20/20
vision, though the extent of my visual acuity was never measured
precisely. And I could read for long
periods without my eyes ever tiring.
All that changed in the
year 2003, the year I turned seventy, one year after I retired. I noticed one day in the spring of that year
that I did not have completely clear sight in my left eye. I had what looked like some kind of grime or
tar-like substance around the bottom edge of the eye window and bunched up on
the far right side. When washing the eye
out and putting in drops did not eliminate it, I ignored it for a few days in
the hopes that it would disappear.
It did not.
I began to suspect that I
had cataracts, something I had never encountered before and I did not worry,
because I knew people who had had cataract surgery and that it was no big
deal. In fact, it is supposed to improve
sight. Of course I knew that I had to
see my ophthalmologist to check it out and be sure, which I did.
What he told me was quite
startling. I did not have any grime or
foreign substance in my eye; I had lost cells.
A part of my eye had been destroyed, and there was no way to restore
what had been lost. Some plaque in the carotid artery below the eye had
compacted, pushed upward and spilled into the eye knocking out the cells. He was quite alarmed at what he found, so
much so that he picked up his phone and called my primary care physician. Then my primary doctor by way of my
ophthalmologist ordered me (not suggested – ordered me) to get myself
right over to the hospital emergency room.
It was the shortest visit I have ever had with any eye care doctor. He said I was in danger of suffering a stroke;
that plaque could have traveled all the way up to my brain and done permanent
damage and still could. I did not even
go home; I called my wife Ruby and informed her of what was going on and she
promised to meet me at the hospital, which she did.
I went to my
ophthalmologist thinking that I was going for eye treatment, but before I knew
it, I was being whisked away into the lap of big medicine, with an assortment
of doctors and examiners around me and soon was occupying an overnight hospital
bed, where I would remain for the next four days.
It was unreal!
I felt as if somebody had
played a trick on me – me with my excellent vision. How could this have happened?
The physician in the ER
checked me out and told me that I was not on the verge of a stroke, but after
consultation it became clear that my visit was not going to be short. The first treatment to which I had to submit
was blood thinning. In the private room
where I was finally taken I was connected to a huge machine that sat on the
floor – the blood thinner. The few times
before in my life that I had been checked into a hospital I had undergone pain
and powerful drugs and general disorientation,
but what was so amazing about this visit was the complete absence of any
discomfort – except for boredom. Over
the next few days I had to lie there listening to this contraption grinding and
murmuring without being able to disengage myself from it and having to do all
my toilet stuff into a bed pan. For
three whole days I was so confined. They
were making sure that I was not going to have a blood clot; I was also in
danger of that. The thinner the blood
the smoother the flow, and the safer I would be.
I do not recall at what
point during my four days I was informed that I would need surgery on that
carotid artery. It had to be opened up
and cleaned out. And during my stay,
even before
being admitted to a bed, I was subjected to something called a Doppler
Test. A flat surfaced device, one that
in my perspective resembles an electric shaver, had been rubbed over both sides
of my neck for the space of approximately a half hour, while an attached
machine made bizarre sounds that put me in mind of some prehistoric animal
repeatedly opening and closing its big, cavernous mouth. I was told that the device was taking more
detailed pictures of my neck. A noisy
and gross way to do it! At least the
blood thinner did not scare up that degree of clamor. I had no way of knowing then that that very
Doppler gadget many years later would become a very complicating factor in my
life. More about that when I get to it!
For the first time in my
earthly existence I was told that I was
about to undergo a frankly dangerous and delicate operation. That opening up of my carotid could
conceivably cause the very stroke its cleaning was designed to prevent. So inevitably came the hour when I had to
sign the form absolving the hospital of any blame in the event that the surgery
produced any undesirable results, stroke or whatever. This was a new dilemma for me. I had had
doctors treating me all my life and I was accustomed to them giving me
assurances as to how long I would have to suffer from the flu or mumps or any
number of other infections. I was used
to being given positive report. This new
type of warning seemed not far away from being told that I had only six months
to live. Danger! Danger!
I had the option of cancelling the surgery, checking out and taking my
chances. But what is the point of having
physicians, ones who have completed med school after years of study and become
qualified in their specialty, if we are not going to be guided by their
advice? If they do not know what
treatment is required for healing, who would?
So I scratched my little John Hancock at the bottom of the document,
knowing that in so doing I was casting my fate to the wind.
What haunted me in the
hours that followed was the question of what an “undesirable” result from the
surgery would be. What would it look
like? Would I be rendered a mute or a
mental defective? Would I become a
vegetable, completely helpless and have to be fed and clothed and maybe
carried? Would I end up in a wheelchair? I suppose I could have asked the question,
but I preferred at that point not to know.
What my imagination could do with just a little input from the doctors
might be worse than waiting until it was over and seeing if any of my nightmare
fear has become a reality.
So I used what time I had
left in my room to do all I could to keep my mind off the issue. Two of my three children came to visit me
(the other one was in California) and I enjoyed their stay. They did a good job of keeping me focused
elsewhere. And Ruby was a great help
that way also. I knew that she was
deeply concerned; after all, if the worst scenario played out she would have
quite a load to carry, but she kept her cool.
I also had visits from friends and KC people. What would I have done without my fellow
believers?
Came the morning of the
operation and I knew I was as prepared as I would ever be. One thing that boosted my spirit a bit that
day was a comment by my surgeon that he was not worried about me pulling
through it. He based his remark on his
study of me since my entering the hospital.
He thought I had the right attitude and the right spirit of trust in him
and in God. As is the case now with
modern medicine the anesthesia took effect immediately and I mercifully lost
any sense of where I was and enjoyed a painless and dreamless sleep.
When I came out of the
anesthesia I found myself on a gurney being rolled down a corridor. There was a group of medics walking alongside
me. I heard one of them say “He’s
awake!” At once the gurney ceased to
move and suddenly all their eyes were upon me.
My surgeon, one of the group, asked me to make a fist with my right
hand, which I did, and all at once the group let out a big cheer. I realized from their reaction that a lot had
been riding on whether or not I would be able to make that fist. They were shouting praise and victory and I
was congratulated on making it through.
The bothersome item was the presence of a large patch attached to the
left side of my head covering the incision.
I took all this in without
feeling much like celebrating, though I was pleased with the result. It was not until a while later that I
shuddered under the realization that I had had a close call. That cheer did not cheer me for long. I knew that I had kept everyone in
suspense. It could have been a case of
“the operation. . . a success but the patient died” or “came out a basket
case”. I was so glad that I had been out
of consciousness when that was still a pending question. One little fist to tell me that I was still
among the living and healthy! What I was
not allowed to forget was the existence of the right side carotid artery. It too had some plaque in it, but the doctors
did not want to tempt fate and try to clean out both at one time. They did not feel that the amount that was in
the right one merited surgery just yet.
That surgery would not take place until 2011, eight years later and did
so again without any adverse results. I
was told to keep submitting to the Doppler Tests on a regular basis, which I
did faithfully – until quite recently.
Here is the real rub: I
walked away from both operations knowing that I had only one really good eye,
my right one. But since this handicap
had not interfered with my mobility in any way, since I could see the space in
front of me in its widest aspect and since I could read with proper corrective
lenses, I no longer gave my visual limitation much thought.
But at last came September
2017, and the eyes once again entered the picture and my life and in a much
more restrictive and frightening way.
It was on the first day of
that month that I faithfully took myself once more to the lab and submitted to
a Doppler. Up to this point I had never
had any trouble going through that extended rubbing against the sides of my
neck or listening to that ghastly “prehistoric” sound; it had never taken more
than twenty or thirty minutes. No pain
or complication was involved in it, and I had no reason to suppose that this
time would be any different.
Little did I know!
I slowly became aware
during the procedure that I was feeling quite hot; the room felt tight; I
started to evidence sweat. I was
thinking that that Doppler was taking longer than any of the others had lasted,
though I later learned that that was not so; it consumed only the usual twenty to
thirty minutes. When I was finally told
that it was over, I was not sure I would be able to get up off the table. I had to struggle to get myself into an
upright sitting position; I required help from the lady who administered the
treatment. When I finally got to my
feet, I was feeling not only hot but rather lightheaded. I recall that I was asked if I was okay. I guess I replied in the affirmative, but as
I look back on the moment it impresses me that I was making an assumption. Of course I’m all right, haven’t I always
been at this point? I prided
myself on being able to knock off these Dopplers as a simple matter of
course. All I thought I was feeling was
that heat and a simple desire to get somewhere where the air was cooler and
take a deep breath. I blamed the hot flash on the room.
I had parked my rollator
(which I have come to need to provide mobility and balance to get around with a
Lumbar Stenosis condition, another long and complicated scenario of development
that I will not go into here) just outside the door of the room. I grabbed it up and started to find my way
out of the building. Exactly how long it
took me to arrive at the street outside I cannot say; I just know that I had
trouble figuring out exactly where I was.
I had been in this building many times before for various purposes; I
knew the building, but for a short spell I was not sure I knew it after
all. I took the elevator, but somehow I
landed on the wrong floor. Though I
thought I had punched for the first floor, somehow I was back on the second
floor and had to ask help from a stranger, who walked me back to the elevator
and made sure I punched the right button to descend.
The strangest thing about
this indoor journey was the difficulty I had steering the rollator. I kept drifting to the left side of each
aisle; I even rubbed against a few walls en route. When at last I reached the curbing at the
front of the building, I was not sure of the best way to get off the
sidewalk. Just as I started to lift the rollator
over the curbing’s edge, a lady pedestrian called my attention to the presence
of a ramp just a few feet from where I was standing. Just a few feet away, and I had not seen it! Fortunately I remembered where I had parked
my car and it was just a few yards away from that ramp. Thankfully I did not have far to walk to it.
Then one of life’s most
embarrassing moments! I opened the trunk
to deposit my rollator into it, something I had been doing on a regular basis
for close to a year, but found I did not have the strength to lift it off the
ground. Again, my pride kicked in and I
tried to summon the strength anyhow. I
strained every back and arm muscle to make it rise, but all I succeeded in
doing was losing my balance and falling backward onto the pavement, right on my
butt. Again, a stranger came to the
rescue. I asked him as humbly as I knew
to pick up the rollator and put it in, which he did. Then he was kind enough to help me to my
feet, something I knew I would not be able to do on my own. I thanked him and got into the car and drove
home, still feeling like I was in the middle of a hot flash and as if I might
faint at the wheel. Perhaps with some divine intervention I made it home
without calamity. I will spare you the
dizzy details.
To make a long story short,
I learned three miserable days later upon a belated medical examination that I
had had a stroke during the Doppler Test, two very small ones in fact. I suppose the reason I had not realized what
had happened to me until that clinic visit is the fact that I had not noticed
any symptom such as I ordinarily associate with stroke. No slurred speech! No palsied behavior! No numbness in my arms or legs! No awkwardness in my walking other than what
my Lumbar condition had already inflicted upon me in the preceding few
years! This is what I noticed. Ruby, on the other hand, reports that I was
very discombobulated that whole following Labor Day weekend. I could not sleep. I could not dress myself without assistance
or tie a shoe or carry on an entirely coherent conversation. And yes, I did slur speech and had trouble
walking a straight line. To this very
moment I have no recollection of these things.
So she got me to the clinic on Labor Day Monday morning. Once again under doctors’ orders I had to
submit to extended confinement, this time in a rehab center for two weeks.
Now here is where the eyes
come back into the picture. When someone suffers a stroke of any magnitude in
the state of Maryland, that person is required by law to report its occurrence
to the Motor Vehicle Administration, whereupon one’s driver’s license is
suspended. This I did upon my primary
care doctor’s advice. After being
discharged from the rehab, I was required to undergo what is called Home Care
with some occupational therapists for what turned out to be three weeks. These visits were quite helpful and
reinvigorating. During all these weeks
naturally I looked forward to getting my driver’s license revalidated and for
this to happen I was required to be tested in various areas. What I thought would be the most crucial
testing was for cognition. I had some
fear that my cognitive test would show that I had some mental deficiency
resulting from the strokes and that these would become a barrier to getting
back behind the steering wheel. It
turned out that I was cleared for this.
In fact, I am supposed to be unusually sharp mentally for my 80-plus
years. This the lady examiner told
me! So I was breathing excitedly as the
rest of the testing was applied. I was
like a school kid getting vetted for the first time. I thought I was at last home safe.
But finally I was given the
eye test, and that was the one that sank me!
Yes, that visual impairment I suffered back in 2003 finally caught up
with me. She could not recommend me for
the road test with only one proficient eye.
After fourteen years of driving safely with it I was denied readmission
to the roadway. I am now grounded for
life, dependent upon Ruby and others for transportation. I am back again confronting the subversive
workings of that carotid artery. I feel
as if some demon villain somewhere in the back of my mind is having the last
laugh on me. After fourteen years I
learned that during that whole period I had been driving illegally and did not
know it. After that first surgery on
that first artery no one including my eye doctor had cautioned me about driving
a car. I was never tested until the
aftermath of a stroke made it necessary.
If only that were all to
disturb me! I have been increasingly
aware over these months of just how weak and deficient my eyesight has
become. Of course I use reading glasses,
but I also I cannot read anymore without the use of a magnifying glass. I require large print on all the books I
read, and newsprint has become a real challenge. I have had to enlarge the font on my word
processor far beyond what it was in the beginning, the very one I am using at
this moment to write this essay. I
experience a great deal of eye fatigue.
Reading is still a joy, but it has never been such a challenge.
Maybe upon learning this
some of you are thinking that the answer to my reading stress would be
audiobooks. But what would interfere
with my use of one of those is another handicap I have been nursing for over
forty years – hearing impairment. There are not many voices on those audio
transmissions that I can follow. I have
lived with hearing loss for so long that I sometimes forget that not everybody
I do business with knows about it. I use
hearing aids, but their reliability is greatly limited. I usually have difficulty talking over the
telephone. Without access to a person’s
face and lips I miss important words.
Whenever I put through a call I have to have Ruby nearby to take over in
case I get stuck with someone I cannot understand. My hearing loss comes into play in the use of
television also. I am better off with
hearing aids, but they do not cover all occasions.
The one fear I have lived
with since 2003 and still do is that of the right eye suffering the same fate
as the left one did. How long can this
one good eye go on doing double duty?
And the worst conceivable possibility is that of having to live in a
world of nothing but shadows. I depend
upon my eyes for so many things. I
envision having to give up watching, and writing about, movies, something I
have been doing for most of my adult life and from which I derive so much
pleasure. Becoming blind, at least
legally! I find myself trying to imagine
what that kind of existence would be like.
But I am not a chronic
depressant. My faith in God is stronger
than ever; I belong to a solid and supportive spiritual community without which
I know I could not begin to survive. I
am satisfied that I have used my life and my learning to the maximum to shape
this world into the likeness of the Kingdom of Heaven and Eternal Love. I am married to a wonderful woman and have
brought forth kids and grandkids of whom I have every reason to be proud. My life story has undergone drastic changes
in the past, ones that led me to feel that I had to back up and start the
creative process all over again, and I succeeded each and every time. There is no reason to believe that such a
beginning over cannot take place again, whatever it looks like. I pray it will not come, but I will pour
myself into it, when or if it does. The
peace of God in my heart will make that possible!
To read other entries in my
blog, please consult its website:
enspiritus.blogspot.com. To know
about me, consult the autobiographical entry on the website for Dec. 5, 2016.
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