Floaters

SOMEWHERE IN SARASOTA: Tuesday, March 2 – The mounting pressure from the ice pick in my left eye and intense brain freeze was a hundred times worse than the $4 “Pain in the Ass” headache we had gotten at the Daiquiri Deck on Bridge Street the week before.

That’s a drink, by the way, “guaranteed to change your attitude.” It’s their hybrid Pina Colada/Rum Runner mixed with 151 proof rum. I could use one. 

For now, however, I’ll stick with two Extra Strength Tylenol every 6 hours and an ice pack.

Let’s just say my Tuesday wasn’t fun. I’m ready to go home now. I actually want my mom.

If you’ve ever had eye floaters – black spots, worm-like squiggles or cobwebby forms of gelatinous debris – along with blurred vision, you know you should see a doctor. These could all indicate an injury at the back of your eye, namely the retina, often leading to permanent visual impairment. As in, blindness.

You don’t mess around with floaters, especially if they’re accompanied by bright flashes of light, and you haven’t had any cocktails.

Although it happens more often in those of us with nearsightedness, floaters are yet another part of the aging process. As one handsome YouTube doctor said in his informative video, “We’re all going to get them sometime, folks.”

Of course, we are. You just hope it’s not on your last week of vacation in another state 1,200 miles from home.

Last Sunday, I woke up seeing floating cobwebs in my left eye, and it wasn’t dust bunnies on the ceiling. On Monday, I called my ophthalmologist, got a recommendation of someone nearby and snagged an appointment for Tuesday afternoon.

Longish but interesting aside: You should know that on this five-week winter respite to southwest Florida, Rebecca and I have each had toothaches. Yes, both of us. What are the odds of that? More importantly, what’s in the water down here? The recommended Bradenton dentist she saw last week was (a) from our home city of Troy, Michigan, (b) graduated from Troy High and the University of Detroit Mercy School of Dentistry, and (c) has parents who live about a few miles from us. Small world. Way too small.

Back to me because, after all, this is my blog.

After numerous vision tests, eye drops, dilation and sitting patiently in a socially-distanced waiting room with other visually-challenged snowbirds, I was able to see a specialist who diagnosed me with retinal tears. Three to be exact.

“No more pickleball for you,” said the youngish guy with an Italian-sounding “M” last name in teal scrubs and matching mask. His tone reminded me of the 1995 “Seinfeld” Soup Nazi episode where Elaine doesn’t know what to order: “No soup for you. Come back one year!”

Sigh. No pickleball. And I was just getting the hang of how to keep score and stay out of the Kitchen. (See February 20 post, “Pickleball partners.”)

To keep from losing readers like yourself, here’s the short version of what happened next, minus the steady stream of curse words in my head:

He put numbing drops in my left eye and leaned me back in the chair.

Looking up through my blurry, partially numbed eye, I saw a latex-gloved hand holding a gigantic syringe inject something right into my eyeball.

My mind went blank, except for a flashback to Ralphie in “A Christmas Story,” whose dream of getting a Red Ryder Carbine Action Range Model air rifle from Santa was soundly rejected: “You’ll shoot your eye out, kid.”

Here’s the thing. Unlike giving blood or receiving a flu shot, you can’t look away from an injection of anesthetic in your eye. I wanted to vomit, but I managed to compose myself and think about beach, blankets and bingo, and how I always preferred Annette Funicello to Frankie Avalon. 

It got better. This masked stranger, whom I’ll dub “Dr. Mengele’s son” and had known all of 30 minutes, stuck an icy probe into my now-deadened eye and played hockey. Swear. To. God.

Then, he said I might feel pressure (too late) and possibly some serious brain freeze. Possibly? No doubt the Angel of Death’s spawn was voted doctor most likely to understate pain.

He repeated the process. Insert ice pick, play hockey, freeze brain. The point of this “cryopexy” treatment was to freeze tiny holes in my retina so they would heal and prevent further damage.

Why he chose this over simply shooting a laser beam through my pupil is beyond me. That’s what my retinal doc did two years ago for a right retinal tear. Moral: If you believe things could always be worse, you’d be right.

My mind wandered. As a recovering Catholic, I assumed I was guilty of something and being punished for it. Maybe for eating a burger last Friday during Lent. Or because I enjoyed slamming the pickle ball at Rebecca’s feet just a tad too much that morning.

I’ll burn in Hell for that one. In fact, I believe I’m already there, and it has frozen over.

“You’re doing great, you’re awesome, just a few more,” the doctor said.

Go reproduce yourself and your mother, too, I thought. But more concise since I’m a trained journalist and strive to omit needless words.

Then, naturally, I thought of my own mother.

How she endured so much in her 88 years: breast cancer and a radical mastectomy, two corneal transplants, a heart bypass, my father’s stinky cigars.

And how her three exasperated daughters sometimes blamed her for being a hypochondriac. Wonder how many needles were stuck in her eyes?

At last, it was over, and Dr. Joshua Mali (his actual name) propped me up and explained I should expect some discomfort, swelling and to avoid heavy lifting and lying down for the next two weeks. And to follow up with my retinal specialist at home.

Listening with my one good ear, I suddenly felt clammy, and it wasn’t a hot flash. I got queasy and was on the verge of passing out.

“When’s the last time you ate anything?” the nurse asked.

I don’t recall, I thought … BECAUSE I’M BLIND NOW!

She left the room for what seemed like an eternity and brought me a teensy-weensy Dixie cup of lukewarm Florida swamp water.

“Sorry, you know, COVID,” she said. “Just breathe in through your nose and out through your mouth. You’ll be fine.”

Right. And if I were a reptile, I’d breathe through my one good myopic eye and bite off your pretty little head, Heather.

It was already after 5. I donned my sunglasses and walked to the car, where Rebecca and Maddie had been waiting since 1 p.m. I got in.

“How was it?” Reb asked, holding onto my cold hand.

“Let’s go home,” I said, tears suddenly streaming down my face, a release of the Tuesday afternoon from hell. “I mean it. Let’s go home.”