After weeks of waiting, a woman from the financial company handling my long-term disability claim calls. I answer her questions and explain my current predicament. She sounds as bored as I would if I worked for a financial company, but by the end of an hour I have her laughing. She says if my claim is approved, I won’t get any checks until next month -the same time my treatments are scheduled to end. I haven’t received a paycheck for two and a half months, and am surviving on my small savings, plus my tax return and some help from friends. I try not to worry but I have moments when it feels like my head is going to explode from the stress.
It does not help that my eyesight has grown substantially worse. I can only see clearly for about two feet in front of me, everything else is fuzzy blobs. I like impressionist paintings but it’s scary being trapped in one. The nurses say that what I’m going through is common, and that my vision will return to normal once the treatments are over, but when they have me read the eye chart this week, they seem concerned. The only thing I can read with any certainty is the top E, and even that is blurry. They have me sign a form promising I won’t drive a car or operate heavy machinery. The doctor says she wants me to see an eye specialist as soon as possible. I feel crushed with fear, and leave the office without the usual friendly farewells.
The sun is mild and bright as I wait for the bus. My mind feels scrambled and I decide to get something to eat before going home. Unable to focus or make a decision, I wander aimlessly until finally calling the ophthalmologist. They say they can squeeze me in this afternoon. I grab a quick sandwich but don’t have time to eat it before I make my way to the eye doctors, which is right up the street from where I’ve just come.
I have to walk a long ways to get to the nearest bus stop, and when I get there, a grizzled man is sitting in the bus shelter with an open pizza box sitting on the bench beside him. The pizza looks untouched. I ask if I can have a seat. He glares at me like I’ve just insulted his mother, and slowly closes the lid and carries it off with his bags and a skateboard to a patch of grass behind the shelter.
The eye clinic is in an old bank building. It still looks like a bank inside. The lobby is crammed with people. I wait for a long time, and am starting to nod off when they call me back. The assistant runs a full eye exam on me. When she puts the lens machine in front of me and adjusts it, the letters on the chart are sharp and clear. It’s like a drink of cool water. Then she numbs and dilates my eyes and I can see even less than I could before.
When the doctor comes in, he seems impatient. He shines a light into my eyes and says he doesn’t see any damage but that I do have cataracts. He says I can have them removed in a year or two, and in the meantime I should come back in a few weeks to get my new glasses. I remind him what I’ve already told them four times, that my treatment doesn’t end until the middle of April, and that the doctor said to wait ten weeks after that before getting new glasses. For some reason this seems to irritate him and he abruptly stands up and says he’ll see me in June.
They give me a slip of dark plastic to slip behind my glasses to protect my eyes from the dazzling sunlight. I’m so blind I can’t see the bus coming until it’s right there. Everything’s a fuzzy haze punctuated with golden bursts of sunlight. It like a low-budget dream sequence, Vaseline smeared on the lens.
Once I’m home, I feel like I’ve been hit repeatedly with a hammer. I am not sure if they’ll let me continue my treatments or if they’ll cancel them out of fear of permanently damaging my eyes. I come across an article in a medical journal about how bad oxygenation is for your eyes. It says it can actually cause cataracts, though it seems unlikely they would have appeared in only three weeks. I’ve only been in the chamber for three weeks. I'm not sure if they'll make me stop my treatments but I won't find out until Monday. I hate to quit now, but is it worth the risk of blindness?
I eat the rest of my sandwich, which I’ve been stealing bites from all afternoon. I want to cry but my eyes are too dry and strained so I just sit there, staring into the void, my head throbbing from the effort of trying to see.
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