The Vision Thing

The eyeball is mending. The attachment of the retina is successful. Vision in my right myopic/post surgery eye is pretty good--can see light, shapes, colors--just much blurrier than the left myopic eye still. If reading from that eye, things up close look wavy. and my worst case scenario fantasy was that my chin down position hadn't been perfect and the gas bubble hadn't given the proper pressure on my retina and that I had permanent wrinkles. But as I sat waiting (interminably) for the doctor and reading an article for work, I could see that the wavy words were not really wavy, but that I have little pale pale deposits--not floaters--in the way. Like I'm reading through a thin pane of antique class or through water droplets, so that little magnifications are distorting the words, to the point that a line of writing is uneven. bizarre. The doctor said it was unusual. Didn't like that piece of information.

In another 5 weeks I will return to the surgeon and then go back to the eye doctor to see what adjustments need to be made in my glasses and lenses. Supposedly my vision will continue to improve. Amazing, huh?

Every time I have something go wrong with my body: my thyroid condition, the uterine freakout that resulted in my hysterectomy, and now my detached retina--I'd think, What if I'd been living in the 1800's in Illinois or the 1600s in Salem like my father's people, or in the 1700's in Scotland or forever in Wales like my mother's people? Would I have lived long and heartily like so many of them? Probably the thyroid disease would have killed me off in my 30s. Or I would have bled to death in my early 50s. Or I'd be half blind and then fully blind in my 60s, and then have fallen off a cliff or been eaten by a very quiet bear.

But, lucky me, the wonders of modern medicine have saved me, once again.

From Kyle's Notebook

If you saw Kyle's notebooks, you'd think they were filled with scribbling. Actually he was practicing his "writing" style for tagging. Occasionally there are phrases which he may have read somewhere, heard as lyrics, or were his own. And on rare occasion, you find something like below. Since Kyle was so into music, I'm thinking this was in his head like a blues song.


The bus is comin
I've been waitin
....*
I've been paintin

Ain't got no money
Can't pay no fare
Got to get to the door
by the back stair**

The bus is crowded
Can't get no seat
Women look at me with scorn
Then they step on my feet

Been working since mornin
From nine to five
No food in the cupboard
No herb to get high

Got my check last Friday
You know it's already spent
For food and herb
For debt and rent

Trying to live right
But you know it's so hard
Boss man, police man,
and Mister Landlord



*Illegible
**Ky was so tall that he would have to stand in the door well of the bus in order to have room for his head

Optimism, Don't Fail Me Now

I've been talking a lot about how helpful all of the spring events and rituals have been. How I've been feeling calmer and more at peace and more accepting of Kyle's being gone. But, of course, the moment one gets complacent or gives words to thoughts without knocking on wood, you know what happens. Things change again.

I did so well during my post-eye-op period. Surprisingly, I didn't have so much time on my hands that my mind was filled with painful thoughts of Kyle. I did a lot of mindless stuff, like sleeping a lot, reading a lot, and doing email. I spent hours on my Welsh genealogy--better than solitaire--but a real time swallower. And, not being able to drive and being at home with not a scrap of food in the cupboard other than my UCLA eating program food I lost more weight (48 pounds to date) so that was great.

I found myself thinking about the role of optimism in the grief process. I am a ridiculously optimistic person. The X-man used to call me "Pollyanna on Speed" and that fit. I wake up feeling good and I respond to the world positively, even in times of trouble. Lose my keys? I say to myself, "Wait; don't despair until you've really looked everywhere and waited and pretended you don't need them--they'll turn up!" I truly believe it is a waste of time to distress about something until all hope is lost. I'm like Scarlett O'Hara saying, "I'll think about that tomorrow." But it's not about procrastination or avoidance, it's about why worry before you have to.

For several months, I experienced Kyle being gone as Kyle being up north in college. I was waiting for him to take the shuttle bus down the coast. I had the expectation he'd arrive during the next long holiday weekend. And while it sank in eventually that this wasn't going to happen, my natural optimism hasn't jumped ship. I have an expectation of something good happening. About Kyle. Yeah. Really.

This isn't about banking on meeting up with Ky in an afterlife--as much as I would love to believe in that. It's about the belief that I have always carried with me: I will find it, I will solve it, where there is a will there is a way. And this optimism keeps me from feeling that all is lost--even about Kyle. In spite of all evidence to the contrary.

So, as I started out saying, I'd been feeling well. But, as I recovered from my May 28th surgery, I became aware that it had become June. And after June comes July. And it was in July, a year ago, that I lost Kyle. On the phone with my friend Mary Lou, telling her how well I was handling things, suddenly I was crying again.

I'm thinking about the 4th, 5th, 6th, and 7th of July. And the 13th of July. And I'm thinking about what I will do on those days. And I feel myself building a wall inside, to shore myself up against the inevitable. Against what has already come to pass. How is your optimism gonna help you on this one, kiddo?

Barack Obama: "It's Our Time"

One of the perks of signing up at Barack Obama's website or of contributing to his campaign a bunch of times is that you get emails from the Senator himself. Yeah, I know he didn't actually hit the return button and send it out to me, but that's okay. He's got a few other things to do. I like getting "his" emails anyway (even though, like a kid, he asks for money every time). The one that arrived late Tuesday had the subject line: It's Our Time.

Yes.
It is.
It is OUR time.

Now some may think this means it's Black folks' time. And yes, it does. It is Black folks' time. Long overdue, yet sooner than most of us dared to hope. But it is also our time, my time.

As a little girl who was raised to believe that the Democrats were "the closest thing to Communists," it is my time. As an 11 year old who quaked at her bedroom window praying that Kennedy and Khrushchev wouldn't blow up the world, it is my time. As a 13 year old who read every book about utopias she could find, it is my time. As a hippie, demonstrator, and political theatre activist, it is my time. As a Massachusetts native who voted for McGovern, it is my time. As a voter, precinct walker, petition signer, donator, do-gooder, it is my time. As a social worker, it is my time. As a mother, it is my time. As a white woman who has been wishin' and hopin' and thinkin' and prayin' about President Obama since he announced, it is my time.

Will President Obama do all that I want? No. Will he do stuff that will make me email and call and want to give him a piece of my mind? Oh, yes. Will he be enough like Dennis Kucinich or Paul Wellstone or John Edwards? I doubt it. But, will I be able to watch his press conferences and listen to his rhetoric? You betcha. Will I know there is an intelligent, mentally healthy person in the White House? Yes, indeed. Will I feel I have a leader who will be interested in my opinion? I believe so.

Is this race about race? Of course it is. It is about a brilliant, charismatic, wise and savvy, down-to-earth, caring, idealistic man (who can pronounce nuclear)--who also happens to be Black. And, as the mother of African-American children, I am thrilled that my Miranda and the children of her generation are witnessing this. And as a member of an African-American family, I am moved beyond words for Great Aunt Gloria and those of her generation, after all that they have witnessed.

Of course, my excitement is dampened by Kyle not being among us. I wrote Who Would Kyle Vote For? in January, when I barely dared to hope that Senator Obama would be the Democratic Party's candidate. I so wish Kyle were here to challenge me and enlighten me and pull me down to earth if I float too high, but mostly I wish he were here because it is our time and he should be here to enjoy it.

(sorry for the crude phone photo of my poster; does capture my restricted vision, however . . .)

Los Angelean Earns 9.8 in Chin-to-Chest Event

So I returned to the doctor yesterday, this time well-armored (successfully) against motion-sickness (from riding face down in car) with dramamine. Eyes dilated and head bowed, I sat in the dimly lit waiting room of the Retina Vitreous Associates Medical Group, tightly packed with patients. Now that I have spent a half dozen or so appointments in the North Hollywood and Beverly Hills offices, I am quite familiar with the several hour wait and complaining waiters.

Although everyone in the waiting room has had their pupils dilated, not everyone has to be in the chin-to-chest position. That depends upon one's diagnosis and the waiting folks may have diabetic eye disease, vitreous hemorrhage, macular degeneration, retinal detachments, uveitis, or ocular tumors. Only the post ops from surgery for retinal detachment and a messed up macula have the gas bubble, which requires a head down position so that the bubble floats up and pushes the retina/macula gently into place. It is an odd thing, sitting with one's head down in a darkened room with strangers. A point my friend Linda, also a clinical social worker, made captured the experience: Having one's head down is the ultimate position of passivity. She demonstrates with her clients the difference between feeling assertive and feeling passive by having them assume a head up position and a head down position. With my chin to my chest, I do feel vulnerable--only gingerly do I insert myself in a conversation. Not being able to make eye contact makes me feel like an intruder, like a not enthusiastically welcomed guest.

However, sitting among the complainers, vulnerable or not, I eventually become indignant and announce kindly--but firmly--that the office is understaffed because of the recent death of one of the doctors in the medical group. On other occasions, I have offered, "Well, I am here for an emergency and I am grateful to be seen at all." My points made and seconded by others, I resume silence.

There are other things which keep patients apart. We span many decades for one. As well as cultures. One office visit very late in the workday, where I was about the last patient, I could tell that the only other person in the room was a man and possibly an older man, from his fairly formal coffee colored leather shoes. Not able to look up, I ventured, "Excuse me, sir, do you know what's happening with the Celtic game tonight?" He didn't respond. Soon, someone came in and spoke to him in Spanish and then led him away. I realized that he didn't understand my question, nor did he have the sight to know I was addressing him.

In an interesting bridging of culture and age among the sitters yesterday, a young Chinese American man, sounding in his late 20s, was engaged in conversation by a woman in her 80s with mid 20th century slightly Boston Brahmin accent. After complimenting him on how well he spoke English (he clarified that, while being Chinese, he was born here), the woman--out of the blue--began to boast about having had a very good return of serve in her day and of having played an exhibition tennis match tennis with Pancho Gonzales. While the young man had not heard of Pancho Gonzales, I remembered him from watching tennis matches with my dad on television in the 1960s. After listening to her anecdote and perhaps wondering about the origin of her accent, the young man asked, "Was that in England?" The woman explained that it had been in Santa Monica. I learned no more because--at that point--I was called into the one of the treatment offices. Alone, I sat wondering how many other conversations in these offices similarly span a variety of US generations and cultures.

The doctor was very pleased with my condition and remarked that he could tell I must be following the head down protocol very well. He told me I could look up at a higher angle now and that I didn't need to use the neck brace in bed. So, just as cousin Wanda has written in her comments, following directions exactly leads to promising results.

I can't leave the Eye Doctor Office saga without thanking my dear friends, Linda and Marylou, for driving me to and fro and providing the best company a somewhat-sightless gal could wish for. You are the best.