Three-Two-One... Contacts

“Mom, I really want to get contacts,” Abby said. We had had this conversation about eight months prior. She was on the fence then, and had heard about the challenges of how contacts fit on eyes with a stigmatism, and putting them in and taking them out, made her shy away from them entirely. Honestly, I cannot imagine sticking my finger in my eye and living to tell about it.

Then, at her recent eye appointment, we happily learned that although her nearsighted eyes haven’t entirely stabilized, they are getting worse at a slower rate. She asked the doctor, “Can I get contacts?” He said, “That is really up to you and your parents.”

Abby looked at me. “Mom, I really want to get contacts.” She proceeded to barrage the doctor with many questions. I know my daughter. When she has her heart set on doing something, she will do it.

She could get away without a new eyeglass prescription, and it was an even better time to consider a slightly upgraded prescription with contacts. That was it: Abby was determined to make this happen. She was tired of wearing glasses, although they look stunning on her. She could wear everyday sunglasses; she wouldn’t have to worry about cleaning her glasses anymore, which she really didn’t do in the first place. She would be free of four eyes.

So, we made the appointment to get fitted for contacts. During the first appointment, the doctor checked out her eyes and determined they were fine for contacts. He put them in and took them out for her. She found them to be comfortable and we realized there was no turning back. During the second appointment, Abby learned how to put them in and take them out on her own. She was a natural. She had no qualms about sticking her finger into her eye. The one challenge she had was pushing her long lashes away enough to get the discs in.

We bought the dailies, which we decided were not only more hygienic but easier to track and take care of, at least for this first round. She would wear a pair a day and throw them out. No hassle of cleaning them or finding them.

The next morning, it took her about 45 minutes to get them in. She was frustrated and cranky. She yelled at anyone who came within two feet of her bedroom. Both Brad and I offered to help, but she would have no part of that. Finally, with the help of my mother cheering her on by phone, she popped them in.

For the first few days, Abby was relegated to wearing them for up to five hours. Then she could keep them in for up to seven hours, and eventually, a full day. We went shopping on that first day, and she felt so grown up. I felt grown up for her. This was a big decision, and she pulled through. Just over a week later, Abby can pop them in as quickly as she can put on her glasses.

Last Tuesday, Abby turned 13. That’s thir-TEEN. She has always been her own person and, even a bit more mature than her age. We can see, this trend will continue. Wearing contacts is only the first step of many more in this next phase of her life. She will continue to make us crazy with the teen ‘tude, and she will continue to make us exceptionally proud. We’ll yell and we’ll hug. As she grows up, so will we. It gets harder to hold on to the past because the present and future bring rich and wonderful challenges and adventures to embrace. Welcome to the teen years! Buckle up and (hopefully) enjoy the ride.

The Glimmer of Hope Continues

I took Dad to an eye doc appointment today. He was nervous, but I could sense a little less depressed. His eye didn’t look as sore and swollen.

First, a nurse examined his eye and put some drops in to dilate the pupil. He asked the same question he asks every nurse, “Will it get better?” The nurse was patient and positive, saying she’s seen cases like this, and they have resulted in the patient being able to see. They don’t have all of the results back from the lab test, so they still aren’t 100% certain which type of bacteria it is. For now, he’s taking an antibiotic that will zap just about everything.

The doctor came in, and he too was very patient. My father had several questions ready, which the doctor answered as thoroughly as he could. One key element in all of this is that my father has diabetes. Although his blood flow is fine, the blood quality can have an impact on how the eye will heal. This is why he must be very careful to keep his blood sugar at the regulated level. Thanks to my Mom, my Dad has been religious about putting in all of his drops.

The doctor did an ultrasound on the eye. I said, “ooo, the heartbeat… oh, wrong ultrasound.” That got a little chuckle from my Dad anyway.

The infection is clearing and the eye looks better. My Dad still sees only light, but that’s a good sign. He doesn’t have to wear his patch during the day. But he needs to be careful when turning to the right. Still no tennis or driving, of course.

Right now, there is a chance that my Dad will regain the sight in his eye. It could take months, but there is a chance.

After we made the follow-up appointment and were walking to the car, I said, “Dad, if this were me, what would you say?” He said, “I would tell you that the eye is healing and that you should be patient. You should keep a positive attitude.” I said, “Back at you.” He smiled.

He didn’t sigh as much during the ride home. I could sense a glimmer of hope in his being. I am going to do all I can to keep that glimmer of hope alive.

Seeing Fear, Part II - A Ray of Hope

I took my parents to my dad’s follow up appointment today. The place felt like a factory. First, we sat in the waiting room for what seemed like an eternity. Then, they called him in. I waited while my mother went in with him. The nurse removed the bandage. He can see light but he still cannot see shapes. My mother called me to sit with them in the hallway while they waited to speak with the doctor. We waited for what seemed like another eternity (although I did thumb through a good article in this month’s New Yorker about the similarities between the government’s role in helping the farming industry and what it might be able to do for healthcare.. but I digress).

All we saw were doctors and nurses walking up and down and hallway, not making eye contact, which made even my father chuckle. My father was nervous. My mother was driving him crazy with a ton of questions. I just kept flipping through the magazine trying to focus on one article at a time. At last, we heard, “Leon Sherman.”

We all piled into the very small examination room where the doctor looked into his eye again and then made his next assessment. He used a model, which was helpful. He said that my father’s eye was filled with pus. The doctor was able to remove about 95% of it. The other 5% is sitting too close to the retina, and there was too much of a risk to try to go there. It’s a matter of blasting it out with antibiotics and letting the retina heal. This happens one in every 1,000 cases (sorry, I said 10,000 in my prior post).

The bad news is that he cannot see out of that eye now. The good news is that there is a chance he will be able to see should the infection clear and the retina heal. That might take another two weeks. In the meantime, my father must take three different kinds of drops several times per day to help fight this. He must also wear an eye shield at night and sun glasses that practically wrap around his head when he goes out during the day. He hates these glasses. He says they make him look old.
To answer the question of whether or not he will play tennis again? I am betting on yes. Should he lose sight in that eye, he will also be able to drive. But let’s take it one step at a time.

He has another appointment next Tuesday. As long as the eye doesn’t get worse or hurt, he very well might be on the road to recovery.

Stay tuned… and thank you for your well wishes. They mean a lot.

Seeing Fear - Part I

I drove my parents to an appointment in Boston today. My father was going in for eye surgery. It was surreal. It was one trip that never should have happened. This eye surgery was meant to remove an infection he contracted as a result of a supposedly quick and simple cataract procedure.

Last Monday, he walked out of the cataract procedure feeling great. A few days later, he was driving. The following Saturday he was back on the tennis court. Life was good. Saturday afternoon, his eye started to hurt and swell up. On Sunday, it worsened. Sunday afternoon, he called the doctor, who agreed to see him first thing the next morning. My mother asked me to drive him as it was too early for her to get out of the house. On Sunday night, the eye hurt so badly, he didn’t sleep.. at all… pulled an all-nighter, as they say in college. I picked him up on Monday morning, and his eye looked red and swollen. He was exhausted.

The doctor looked at him and decided it was an infection. She said this happened once in maybe 10,000 cases. This was not the time to win the lottery. She then sent him to a retina specialist, who agreed it was an infection, took out fluid for further study and made an appointment for him today to have the infection removed.
If the surgery works, he will have the sight back in his eye, and we’ll breathe a sigh of relief. If the surgery doesn’t work, he will lose the sight in that eye. I agree, there are a lot of worse things that can happen. I don’t have to list them. But everything is relative. I waited… and waited… and waited.. until I finally heard the question out of my father’s mouth, “What if I can’t play tennis anymore?”

My father is 87 years young. He retired only a few years ago from his dental lab practice. He doesn’t shake. He still has his sense of humor. He plays doubles 2 – 3 times per week. He drives my mother to her doctor’s appointments. He drives my daughter to Hebrew School every Tuesday afternoon. He loves to spend time with my kids. He and my mother go out for dinner. They don’t live elaborate lives, but they still own their house and live their own lives.

“What if I can’t play tennis anymore?” There are a few things in this world that mean a lot to my father. I believe the top three are: family, dentistry and tennis. Each topic comes with its own set of people, memories and communities. Tennis is an outlet. On the way home from the surgery, the conversation focused mainly on dental topics – people he knows or knew and his work with dental students at BU and Tufts.

Honestly, he would play better tennis with one decent eye than most men his age with two good eyes, but that’s not the point. Despite having to take meds to keep his heart pumping right and maintain his cholesterol, he is in no way ready to be idle. He has already given up his dental practice, he is not ready to give up tennis. Will he be able to drive?

My father worked hard his whole life. He doesn’t ask for much. He doesn’t complain. He would never pity himself. Having experienced the tragedies and grime of WWII, not much compares to him on the “awful” scale. He has suffered two heart attacks and ulcer attacks. He has had a shoulder problem and tennis elbow. He contracted diabetes later in life. Yet, not once have I ever heard him express concern that he wouldn’t be back on the court after a reasonable period of time. At least not out loud.

I think my father is afraid. This is rare. He was afraid when he went in for his first heart surgery in 1989. And although he knows a bum eye isn't a matter of life or death, literally, it grazes the surface at figuratively. Usually, when there is a serious matter at hand, he'll joke. It can be annoying, but that's his way of dealing with it. This is no joke.

To be continued…