I went to see Dr. H (retina) for a checkup. You will recall he’s in the same office, although a different side of the office, as Dr. H (glaucoma). I take turns seeing them. The visits, unlike my scans, never sync up. Their computer systems aren’t on speaking terms. I don’t even know if Dr. H and Dr. H ever speak to each other. I prefer the staff of Dr. H (retina) to the staff of Dr. H (glaucoma), not only because I’ve known them longer but because they are, on balance, just nicer people. (OK, there was that one medical assistant who once whacked me in the head hard with a piece of machinery she was adjusting. But I have not seen her in the office in a very long time.)
The good news is that Dr. H (retina) feels my left eye is doing better and since the intraocular pressure seems to have gone up, I can reduce the pink drops from two times a day to once a day, but now he also wants me to use the blue pressure-reducing drops that I use for my right eye in my left eye. To try to bring down the pressure with one drop which is being caused by the other drop, thereby making my left eye into a chemical battleground.
All of this is pretty taxing on my brain and on the app I use to keep track of which of the four drops I need to instill in my eyes go where, and when. Perhaps I should just dispense with the drug names? That would leave me with the following schedule:
Morning: Right eye: blue, hold for 90 seconds, wait for 3:30, purple, hold for 90 seconds. Left eye: pink. Wipe out residue, then blue, hold for 90 seconds.
Evening: Right eye: white (fridge), walk upstairs holding for 90 seconds, wait for 3:30, blue, hold for 90 seconds, wait for 3:30, purple, hold for 90 seconds. Left eye: blue, hold for 90 seconds.
Is this any easier? I forgot to mention that for the glaucoma drops, you have to sort of press them into your eye for 90 seconds. Then wait before administering the next drop. Which means this entire regimen takes ages. And that’s if I don’t lose track of where I was in the process.
Dr. H (retina) also chose to inform me on the progress of my cataracts, which have developed from an overuse of steroid eye drops. They are definitely there. No need for surgery yet, just that sinking feeling of cascading medical conditions and the inevitable interventions to deal with them which will in turn cause their own problems.
Next week I see Dr. C (rheumatologist) and a couple weeks later, Dr. C (gastroenterologist). In between, I’ll see Dr. L for a video checkup, but before I do, I will head to the hospital in person for my first ctDNA blood test, a very new means for looking for evidence of disease. I’m excited and nervous to get the results, which — who knows? — might show no disease in my bloodstream. Wouldn’t that be something?
All of this thinking about life, death, and my eyes has, naturally, brought to mind a poem inspired by a headless torso. It’s just the right time of year to read it (I think), so here you go:
Archaic Torso of Apollo
Rainer Maria Rilke, translated by Stephen Mitchell
We cannot know his legendary head
with eyes like ripening fruit. And yet his torso
is still suffused with brilliance from inside,
like a lamp, in which his gaze, now turned to low,
gleams in all its power. Otherwise
the curved breast could not dazzle you so, nor could
a smile run through the placid hips and thighs
to that dark center where procreation flared.
Otherwise this stone would seem defaced
beneath the translucent cascade of the shoulders
and would not glisten like a wild beast’s fur:
would not, from all the borders of itself,
burst like a star: for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.