Two years and I've lost count of how many times my eye has been operated on, either beating the fuck out of the tumor, or reattaching that slippery eel of a retina of mine.
Maybe 8? 9? times? A lot of needles in the eye, way too often to make my mother cry.
The last surgery in March was supposed to be the last surgery, but the bottom quarter of my retina decided to go wandering, not unlike the way doctors thought a woman's uterus would wander around her body and make her hysterical, and have to be brought back under control with the use of bad smells, thus smelling salts.
So the doc fixed it yesterday, and here I am. Abiding by the grim northern version of machismo, I suffered in silence without having to, but hey, I don't know, can you call it brave? At this point no, just endurance. Patient plodding andjust keep going.
I was supposed to stay home today, but I got bored and went into teach at the college. Apparently that made me a badass. Giving demos like a patch eye pirate. Well, I am a Viking. I know that because when I brag, its always about stealing something.
All vision is gone now in the right eye. The doc was diappointed and I consoled him. Hey you saved the eye. Again. Can't win em all.
Not feeling sorry for myself. My stage of grief for my beloved right eye is now at acceptance. Acceptance, as in surrenduring to pain, the joy of life shines through. If this is a biological adaptation, beyond mere pleasure or pain,, then nice. Makes sense that enjoying a universe is of evolutionary advantage. I'll call it joy. The joy of being fucking great to be alive.
And keeping the eye.
