3-month anniversary - It's not fair!

Today is February 18, exactly 3 months since my surgery on November 18.   I am home from work today (due to a furlough at City Hall, where I work as a city planner), and the dreary weather today looks just like it did when I was home during my long face-down recovery.  In a strange way, it feels like no time has passed.  Being home today, with the familiar chill in the air and the sound of the rain pouring through the downspouts, brings back a lot of insecurities.  Most days lately, I prefer to dwell on how far I have come, how much my vision has improved, etc.  Today, though, I can't help but indulge that unproductive worry that still nags me.  Will I ever be the same?  Will I ever fully recover?

In a prior post, I explored the "will to be 'normal,'" which is really just a way of accepting change by reframing what "normal" is.  I can't see as well as I used to, but I get by.  It is probably more healthy to dwell on the positive, to appreciate what I can see, what I can do.  Still, some days, I can't help but long for pre-surgery normal.

I want to go back to seeing the world through both eyes.  I have worn glasses and/or contacts since second grade, so I have always had a sense to appreciate my vision.  The older I got, the stronger my prescriptions became.  I knew my eyes were "bad" when they no longer made off-the-shelf, soft contact lenses in a power strong enough to correct me, so when I discovered custom gas permeable contact lenses, I appreciated them immensely.  Contact lenses, whether soft or gas permeable, give you your peripheral vision back in a way that glasses just cannot.  I have always appreciated them for that.  Being able to see the world crisply is a blessing that I think I rarely took for granted, and now, I miss it deeply.

I think the growth of the cataract in my left eye is accelerating, but it's hard to measure.  I try to ignore the haze and rely on my unobscured right eye to sort of make up the difference, and most of the time, that works for me.  Today, I'm just really tired of it.  I want my eyes to be normal again -- normal-normal, not "new normal."  It seems like 3 months should be enough time to recover, but the reality is that my vision will get worse before it gets better.  This cataract will have to grow before it is considered "medically necessary" (i.e. covered by insurance) to remove, and then I will have to accept the risk of side effects (e.g. another retina detachment) to have the cataract surgery.  Hopefully then it will be over.  Hopefully.  Please.  Seriously.

And the issues of vanity just won't disappear.  I am thankful to be wearing eye make up again, but I worry my left pupil will never go back to normal.  It seems permanently dilated now.  It's probably 3 times the size of my right eye, and it never quite contracts in the sunlight.  I hate how it looks in pictures, and I hate the idea of paying a professional photographer to capture it that way for our wedding photos and engagement shoot.  I keep waiting, hoping, praying it will go back to normal, but as more time passes, I have a sinking feeling that it might not.  I have read some people saw improvement in this condition over 6 months, so I guess I can give it another 3 months of waiting and hoping and praying.  Right now though, I just feel defeated about it.

Why did this happen?  Why do I deserve this?  Why did I have to have this heinous surgery?  Why did it have to take away from me the only feature on my face I ever thought was pretty?  Why are grown-ups not allowed to exclaim, "It's not fair!?"  It just isn't.  Debatably, fairness applies to crime and punishment, but it does not apply to health, not always.  People who smoke may get lung cancer, and that might be "fair."  People who perform risky stunts sometimes fail and break bones, and that might be "fair."  But what is fair about congenital heart defects or childhood leukemia?  I know a retina detachment, by comparison, is hardly so dramatic.  No one dies from partial blindness, but it absolutely impacts one's quality of life adversely.  And nothing about it feels "fair."  I am 30 years old, and I fear my vision is forever changed.  It doesn't feel fair.

Maybe tomorrow I'll regain those positive "everything is going to be OK" feelings, but today I am wallowing in self-pity.  I feel entitled to it once in a while, and a dreary winter day feels like just as good a time as any.  Thanks for letting me indulge.

Depression and meeting expectations

I went back to work on Monday, and I made it through my first three days back.  As Murphy's Law would have it, I developed a mild sore throat and the sniffles just in time for my return, so on top of the anxiety about my "weird eye" and how my limited vision would affect my ability to work, I was feeling the usual lethargy and grumpiness that most people I know experience when they have a cold.  It was a bad emotional combination, and I did not have much energy or will to hide it.

Many people asked me how I was doing, and probably most of them were even genuinely interested.  Still, I couldn't help but cringe every time I was asked.  I know what they want to hear.  They want to hear that I'm better and happy to be back, but the truth is I am only a little bit better and would rather be home where I can mope in peace with my dogs.

I can't seem to shake this depression.  Absolutely nothing is as good as it used to be.  Everything I do is harder now - or at least different.  Nothing looks the same.  Writing out Christmas cards was a challenge, but I sucked it up and got it done, despite my new, sloppier handwriting that accompanied this vision loss.  Grocery shopping is embarrassing because I either have to wear my eye patch or endure the headaches of the overhead fluorescent lights, but I have to do it because we need food.  I can't drive yet, so I am a constant passenger, beholden to the generosity (and I am sincerely appreciative of it!) and schedules of those who are willing to help me.  Of course I am thankful to have the help, but I can't shake the bitterness that I need the help.  I hate having to ask for a ride somewhere.  I haven't had to ask for a ride since I was 15, before I had a driver's license.  Now, I am dependent, and while no one wants to admit it, I am also a burden.  I hate these feelings most of all.

I feel like I owe it to people to try to be cheerful.  No one wants to be around someone who is down all the time.  I just really don't know how to shake the constant fear and anger and disappointment I am feeling.  I am still angry that all this is happening.  I know it is nobody's fault that my extremely myopic eye finally gave out, but that doesn't matter because it still makes me angry.  I am angry my optometrist did not catch any early warning signs in my fairly recent eye exam.  I am angry I chose the Kaiser plan with a deductible because now the medical bills are starting to pile up.  I am angry that my vision is still so impaired a whole month after my surgery.  I am angry I had to have surgery in the first place!  I just can't believe there was not a way to prevent this!  If I could have seen a retinal specialist sooner, maybe this whole ordeal could have been avoided, but how was I to know I should seek the attention of a retinal ophthalmologist?

While easier said than done, the anger is something I know I really need to let go, but the fear is what grips me the most.  I fear that my vision may never fully restore in my surgery eye.  I fear that my surgery was not fully successful or that I suffer another retina detachment because I fear going through another 10 days with my face down.  I fear my good eye will suffer the same retinal detachment.  I fear going blind and becoming a permanent burden.  These are not dramatic fears.  These are real fears.  Real people suffer in all these ways, and I know that I am fundamentally no better than they are.  No one deserves to live this way, but it happens. What makes me immune?  Sadly, nothing.

When I was younger, I never really understood suffering.  I remember going to church with my parents, and the elderly folks would talk about "leaving this body behind."  At the time, I could not imagine why one would want to, but now I understand how your body can become a burden.  I am trying to remember that I am more than my body.  I am more than my limitations.  I want to be myself again - happy, funny, hopeful, and maybe just a bit naive.  I want to not have to worry about something so simple as my sight, but I think I may never again have that luxury.

I have a follow up appointment with my surgeon tomorrow.  I hope and pray for good news.  I need to hear good news.  Really, some good news is all I want for Christmas.  I don't need fancy electronics or shiny things.  I just need some reassurance that maybe things really will be OK again.  I need some news that will calm some of my fears and extinguish this anger.  As much as I need this, my family needs this because my family needs me to be me again.  As emotional as this is and has been for me, I know it continues to take its toll on them.  They share my fears, and I know they miss the less touchy, less mopey version of myself that I used to be before all this happened.  For their sake, as much as mine, I am praying tonight for a good outcome.

18 days post surgery

Well, I didn't see (no pun intended) this coming. I knew there was something wrong with my left eye when I requested a referral to an ophthalmologist, and despite all my "googling" in advance of my appointment, I never thought the problem would be a retinal detachment. No, that would be too awful, I thought. Turns out, that was precisely the problem.

My first appointment with the ophthalmologist was on the morning of November 17, 2010, and by 5:30am on November 18, I was checking into the Kaiser Hospital in Roseville for surgery. If I had started this blog sooner, I probably would have gone into detail on the shock and fear and denial and anger and onslaught of sometimes conflicting emotions I felt on the day of my diagnosis, but here I am 18 days post surgery.

The shock is past. The fear has mostly subsided, and when it bubbles to the surface, its appearance is fleeting now. Denial is mostly impossible now because my left eye is too impaired to see anything normally. Anger comes and goes and is usually coupled with the frustration that comes from my new limitations. Suffice it to say, for now, that my retinal detachment, surgery, and recovery have been riddled with emotion.

Part of my purpose for starting this blog is, frankly, self help: basically sorting through these emotions, hopefully without further burdening my amazing support team. More than that, I hope this blog will reach others who are facing similar challenges. I hope by reaching out in this way, I will meet others and find hope in their stories - or should I say "your" stories.

Thank you for visiting my blog.