Sunday, January 30, 2011

Snowblind

I can't see a damn thing. Feels that way, anyway.

Honestly, my recent vision issues are a welcome departure from my last medical debacle, which is still going on. I'd love to tell you all about my semen analysis nightmare of the past couple of months, but it's much too complex and painful to write about. Let's just say it involves a Subway sandwich shop on Canal St., a testing center in South Maryland, and more than a few wasted weekends. I thought the whole point of masturbating was to avoid being rejected by other people!



Things started looking all washed out and blurry in my right eye about three weeks ago. Given that things have looked all washed out and blurry in my left eye for about seven years, this concerned me. Even weirder was the droop in my right eyelid, which ranges from about 50% to 15% droopage. Did I have one of those "silent strokes" everyone's talking about, or did I just fall asleep in my ice cream again?

This seemed like a question for Frank Weiner to answer. Dr. Weiner is one of New York City's most respected neuro-opthamologists, and he actually takes my insurance. I had an appointment last Wednesday afternoon, and arrived promptly with a CD of my most recent
brain scans and some scrawled out notes on a piece of paper. It was already starting to snow like the dickens, but I made it.

I was immediately convinced that Dr. Weiner was a stand-up guy and a master of his discipline. Within minutes he had diagnosed my ailment (contact lense fatigue), but he still put me through a battery of neurological and optical exams, probably to eliminate obscure diseases like heterochromia, Horner's Syndrome, and nystagmus (I actually had uveitis, which I guess sounds sort of cool). It's incredible how low-tech most of these tests are. Ratty parchment letter charts and plastic eye-patches are still used by the finest physicians in the world.

Defying description is the "visual field" exam. which measures a patient's peripheral and central vision. Imagine getting bonked on the head with a sledgehammer, taking a hit of acid, and playing Missle Command with a spaghetti strainer over your head. That's what a visual field exam is like.

Weiner sent me off with a script for steroid eyedrops and strict instructions to avoid contact lenses for at least one week. Avoid, as in "don't wear them." Of course, I forgot to bring a pair of glasses with me. [note: I famously forgot my glasses for Mike Mussina's near-perfect game at Fenway in '01...
Charles Simone will bring this up any time he has 5+ beers in him]I staggered out onto First Avenue and into the budding snowstorm. Slush puddles the size of Lake Huron had already formed at every corner. My chances of hailing a cab seemed as scant as Blind Pew finding buried treasure in the island sand. I decided to head west, young men.

Second on my mental list (right under "cab") was finding a drugstore-- not only did I need to fill my script, but I also needed some fancy-ass preservative-free eyedrops to prep my sore eyes for the 'roid-water. I spied a CVS across the street, just beyond what appeared to be a clearing in front of parking garage. That seemed like safe passage, even if I was still seeing flashes and swirls from the visual field exam.

The "clearing" turned out to be a side entrance to the Midtown Tunnel, and yes, it was rush hour. I hotstepped my way across and somehow made it over to CVS. I soon realized I had about as good a chance of locating preservative-free eyedrops as Blind Pew was never going to find what I needed without some major help. A kind strumpet took pity on me grim face and sent me to aisle 5. I grabbed a Snickers and shuffled back out into the cold.



Walking around Manhattan without glasses or contacts (if you're visually impaired) feels liberating at first, and quickly becomes absolutely terrifying. A lot like walking around Manhattan without pants or underwear (which I've only done once). I decided to push the taxi thing even harder.


I finally made it home, and joined my wife in a frantic search for my glasses. I believe I've owned only three pairs of glasses in my life, but I'm not quite sure. What is certain is that one pair was sat on by the Mz. and another pair was dropped in the toilet by me. The third pair was at least four prescriptions old, but easily located (of course). We were unable to find the toilet-glasses, which left me with lenses that actually accentuated my eyes' deficiencies, rather than correcting them (they blurred my left eye and doubled my right eye imaging). I immediately began wearing them.

1 comment:

Charles Simone said...

How was the Super Bowl?