I hate downer posts, and I avoid them like the plague. But I don’t have the plague, either bubonic or locusts. I do have emphysema, though, a disease of the lungs that is neither reversible nor curable.
Right now, there are three things keeping me alive:
1. Oxygen 24/7.
2. Prednisone, a nasty corticosteroid that keeps the airway passages open.
3. Determination, stubbornness, and perseverance.
So far, so good. I’ve beaten several longevity milestones because of (1) my relative youth for the disease, (2) my general good health physically (except for my prostate, which pisses me off), (3) no chest colds or influenza, and (4) my refusal to leave Martha on her own. I just KNOW she’ll forget to pay the fucking property taxes on December 30 and end up living at the bingo hall.
Yesterday, however, a new fly committed hara-kiri in my soup—if I could have seen it, that is.
It started slowly, just a mild blurriness when I read very small print. “Dirty eyeglasses,” I thought, and I’d clean them with my dirty shirttail. The blurriness spread to larger small print, and I used my Sherlock Holmes-quality magnifying glass to read. But like the 1958 Steve McQueen movie The Blob, the blur expanded to all close-up print and, finally, mid-range—meaning this computer screen. Time to see the Doc.
After almost two hours of tests, including photographs, I’ve developed glaucoma.
And both the Doc and I instantly knew the cause: the prednisone, the nasty drug that keeps my airways open.
The solution? We don’t know yet. In the meantime, I’m taking an eye drop drug called Xalatan to reduce the “intraocular pressure,” which is double what it should be. Week after next, I’ll be seeing both Dr. Lung and Dr. Eyeball to see what or what not I can see.
*SHORT WHINE* Man, anything but my eyes. Reading and writing are my two main things, and while I can still do them, I’m s-l-o-w and I get killer headaches in the process. In the immortal words of Wandering Coyote on 10/09/09, “Jesus - what a mess! *END OF SHORT WHINE*
Well I’m not giving up, blog friends, but for a while, I’ll miss some of your posts (some of which are too small to read right now). I just don’t want y’all to think I’m ignoring you.
I’ve left commenting on, but PLEASE, no sympathy or mushy stuff.
[Note to Kim Ayres: I’ll email you my address so you can send me a “I’m Sorry You’re Dead” greeting card when the time is appropriate.]