I was talking to Abby a while back and she was like, “You never talk about your eye surgery. When was that?”
“Three years ago,” I said. “But why would I? How would I even bring it up? ‘This burrito is worse than my eye surgery!’ Like that?”
“I just think it’s interesting that you never talk about it, because you’re normally happy to complain about the most trivial of health problems,” she said, probably.
And she’s right, I never did write about my eye surgery, so buckle up! I’m going to write about my eye surgery. If you’re squeamish about eye things, you should skip this one. But if you have the stomach for it, I promise I’ll make it fun-nish.
I was at a routine eye exam when my optometrist was like, “Oops, you have a hole in your macula.” Which, it turns out, is a problem. The macula is the center of your retina. That’s the important part! “You’ll need to go to a specialist,” he said, “sooner rather than later.”
That was in February of 2020, so thanks to COVID, “sooner” became “later.” Besides, I had no symptoms, or so I thought, so I put it out of my head.
In August of 2020 I visited my parents; my dad was dying and COVID be damned, I was going to spend his last few days with him. While I was there I noticed a grid my mom had taped to her refrigerator. It’s an Amsler grid, she said, to help her track her own macular degeneration. The grid looks like this:
And if you have any macular problems, when you focus on the dot in the center, the grid can look wavy and distorted, come ça:
I covered my right eye so that my left (the one with the hole) was doing the seeing, and I was like, “oops.” The lines, they were all over the place. My mom was alarmed. “This is much worse than anything going on in here right now!” she did not say.. “Go to a specialist ASAP,” she did say.
Then my dad died, and I wasn’t thinking about my eyes, okay?! For about six months.
Finally, in February of 2021 I saw a retinal specialist, who confirmed that I had a macular hole and that it would need to be addressed immediately. “What caused it?” I asked, and he shrugged and said, “Age, usually.”
“And so it begins,” I whispered.
The surgery, he told me, would be routine, but the recovery, well, that would be the tough part. “You’ll have to be face-down,” he told me, “for about two weeks.”
“Excuse?” I said.
The procedure itself is called a vitrectomy. Here’s the Cleveland Cinic’s take:
“During a vitrectomy, your surgeon removes the vitreous. [That’s your eye goo!] They may then do repairs on your retina, which is at the back of your eye. … Your surgeon may replace the vitreous humor with sterile salt water, silicone oil or a gas bubble.” [In my case it was a gas bubble.]
So because the gas bubble floats upward, you have to be face-down so the bubble doesn’t move, while your retina recovers and the gas slowly dissipates and your human-made vitreous starts a-flowin’ back in there, somehow. (Life finds a way!)
But how do you remain face down for two weeks, exactly?
Turns out, you throw money at the problem! You can rent equipment that gently cradles your head parallel to the floor and, at the same time, pins down your vanity like a pro wrestler. There’s no way to get through this process and look even a little cute, so don’t bother. (You’re going to be so uncomfortable you’ll forget all about your appearance, anyway.) Instead, you will look like this:
“How do you go to the bathroom?” you might wonder. The answer: Hunched over, staring at the ground, hoping you don’t walk head-first into a wall.
“How do you shower?”
I mean, the same way, but the real answer is that you pretty much don’t.
“How do you sleep?”
You rent a head cradle that attaches to your bed, and then you lie facedown with your head dangling off the bed and into the cradle, and then you lie there, wide awake, all night long, feeling sorry for yourself. Also because your headboard is attached to the bed, you have to lie with your feet where your head normally lies, so your spouse decides to sleep the same way, in solidarity. Or because he doesn’t want to have your feet in his face. Which, fair.
But before we get to the recovery part, we have to get through the surgery! I wasn’t too worried about this, because I figured I’d be out cold.
“Oh, no,” the retinal specialist assured me. “I want you awake.” He seemed to really enjoy telling me about how awake I would be! “I’ll turn up the anesthesia for a second while we give you the injection” (thanks for that, I guess) “but after that, you’ll be all there.”
“WHHYYYYYY,” I wanted to shriek, preferably while grabbing him by the lapels, but because I’m always aiming to be the Number One Star Patient, I did not ask. Don’t want to be a bother! Will just fret, quietly, at home! And to all my friends, constantly!
What he did not tell me—and really should have—is that when they administer the injection, which is a nerve block, to your eye, you’re rendered sightless in said eye. (Which makes sense, right? I should have known that, I guess?) So it’s not like I was watching instruments coming at me. I saw nothing. And he wasn’t kidding about turning up the anesthesia during the injection: I was lying there, listening to the Beach Boys with the rest of the crew, when the music suddenly went all crazy and then back to normal again, and boom I was blind in that eye. So thanks for that, drugs!
During the surgery itself, it felt less like a delicate, delicate procedure and more like they were doing construction on my face. Nothing hurt, but they were really wacking away at something. Every now and then the doctor would ask if I was okay and I would be like, “Doin’ great, doc! Never better!” like an absolute lunatic. This is as good as it gets, with you punching me in the eye socket, I think!
Speaking of being punched in the eye socket: Oh, my god. My recovery was uncomfortable and lengthy and I would absolutely wish it on my worst enemy (I’m petty!), but I was fascinated by how bad my eye looked.
My mom used to have this habit of, without warning, sending pictures of her or my dad’s injuries. No context, just: here you go, here’s a grotesquely swollen foot. Which was especially fun when I worked in an office, and I was sharing my screen during a meeting and my mom’s stitched-up forehead would suddenly appear and everyone would cry out and run from the room. (I mean, that didn’t happen but it definitely could have.)
But then, when my eye turned all kinds of colors and was swollen shut, I understood. Someone had to see this! Fortunately my mom was into it (of course). And Deanna. Abby turned me down, I think. It’s been a few years. I think I have those pics somewhere, hang on —
Wait, where are you going?
ANYWAY, then I was face-down for two weeks. It was more boring than you’ve imagined. I don’t recommend it. Why am I writing about this, again? Oh right, because ABBY.
Here, let’s look at more people using their rented vitrectomy recovery equipment:
“Gene, we need to talk.”
So restful!
“Left on Montgomery. I said Montgomery!”
I’ve actually never seen this one before, but I’m hoping it comes with a jet pack?
I have another friend who had a similar surgery and described exactly this recovery scenario and oooof indeed it sounds insane/baroque/medieval/Inquisitional.
On a lighter note, the older I get, the more I find myself whispering two phrases in mixed company: "how dare you" and "so it begins." I intend to go out after scaring as many people as possible.
OMG, this is so informative. And it's caused by aging?? What happens if you don't get yourself a surgery?
I love the humor in how you presented an excruciating ordeal.