Before this story begins... I wish to outline a quick ‘disclaimer.’ In case anyone is wondering, Frank gave his full rubber-stamp of approval. That being said, this is my slanted side of the story... slanted because, of course, I am going to tell it from my perspective... should Frank desire, he can sit and write his own version...
Ha!?! As if his version would consist of anything more than a repeat of these two words... “I’m fine.”
Little, if anything, affects him! Seriously, this is the man that - sorry we’re going to get really personal for a moment - went to sleep while getting a vasectomy. No... he was not given, nor did he take, any medications to relax him. If he was any more ‘relaxed’ as he says, he’d be dead. The doctor could not be convinced. He wanted to know ‘What he took?’, “Most people are not this ‘relaxed’?!” All Frank wanted to know is, “Do I need to be awake for any reason?” No sooner did the doctor say "Well, No?" and Frank drifted off into La-La-Land.
This relaxed demeanor ‘malady’ - as I refer to it - is unnerving for the rest of the human race who try to exist alongside him. There is no gauge for fear, danger, or concerns. That being said, one might view him as the couldn’t-care-less calm within many a storm. It’s what allows him to actually sit, as a needle is being stuck into his eyeball... Lord knows I would have to be sedated!
His vision is barely improving - thanks a lot stroke! - though the verdict is not in yet. (He is still going for treatments, a.k.a. Injections in the Eyeball! ...squealed loudly from behind the hands covering my own...)
Next on the medical ‘To Do’ list, was the structural aspects surrounding his eyes. Two years ago the doctor wanted him to have surgery to correct the excess tissue encroaching on his vision, as well as the drooping lids below. Day by day he was looking more and more like wise ol’ Yoda from Star Wars.
But Frank would have nothing to do with surgery, especially an eye lift! That’s vanity, and he will have no part of that. (said with a snarky cockeyed wink... ;)
I can’t say I blamed him. There was so much already on our life’s plate... Grandpa was having serious issues thanks to aging/dementia, Cherub had to be home schooled thanks to situations at school, I was falling apart thanks to all this - as well as needing to get my own surgical needs addressed... Our home was on pure overload.
With those issues now either addressed, or somewhat controlled, Frank’s eyes moved front and center. He agreed to reconsider the notion of surgery. Of course, the fact that he no longer had a decent blind eye to turn, and was going from wise-ol’-Yoda level to Basset-Hound-in-the-making... it was time.
We sat in the eye surgeons office and - after taking a few of his pointed chides about 2 years later, bla, bla, bla - revisited the possibilities.
What an amazingly involved procedure?! First, the excess upper lids needed to be removed, which was pretty straightforward - whatever was hanging into his line of vision had to go.
Second, and more importantly/nerve racking, was the lower lids. They were no longer ‘seated’ on his eyeballs, which caused his eyes to water incessantly, as they desperately tried to get tears to actually make it to each of those dried out orbs. They didn’t... pooled up in the space created below, they dripped out. This is why he always looked like he was crying... and stoned... those red, gritty eyes were parched and screaming out. “Water Please....”
Chronic dry eyes... Itching, grainy, scratched up to the point of creating issues with vision, his eyes were bloodshot and looking more like a redlined roadmap... The health of his eyes was, and is, at stake, which is why he agreed to the second - way more invasive - part of the surgery. Not only is excess tissue to be removed, but cartilage will be taken from his ears and used as virtual struts to support the lower lids. (Yes... that is how low they were going....)
The third recommendation - which Frank would not even consider - was reconstructing the tear duct that the doctor claims is 90% blocked. Typically this procedure involves a somewhat Roto Rooter approach, as a fine tubular devise is inserted to rid the blockage. However, the doctor was suggesting a way more involved procedure that bypasses the existing tear duct with a completely reconstructed new path. This was much too invasive for Frank, especially since there is a glimmer of hope that once his lids are properly seated, the duct will begin functioning again. (I agree... We are crossing our fingers and anything else that can be crossed... eyeballs included.)
We left the office with an appointment for surgery... two days later! As Lopez luck would have it, there was a cancelation on Thursday and Frank took it. Not only did this date land just before the three day weekend, giving him an extra day to heal, but all the pre-surgical testing requirements were in order ‘thanks’ to the ongoing doctor visits. It is surreal how it all lined up.
I spent the next two days readying our house for another medical intrusion. Frank, was Frank... unfazed. Not nervous, not thinking about it, not anything... Even as we sat in the waiting room, he played phone Solitare, followed by one of his infamous naps. I was by no means as calm. He had told me numerous times to go home, “I’m fine. Really Hon. Come back later. You don’t have to just sit here....” Can you picture the moment? The one where the Wife outright ignores the Hubby? There was no way I was leaving...
(Actually, I brought my laptop and was prepared for the long haul. I sat in a quiet waiting room and wrote. It keeps my mind off of all the stress and allows you all a worthy update. Win-win.)
I typed through the office hours ending. I typed through the doors being locked. However, when the security personnel began doing rounds, I could no longer mask my nerves behind my keyboard.
Somebody better tell me something....
Frank was still in surgery. I spent the last bits of waiting outside the surgical doors.
Finally, I was called in. Propped up, to give gravity a chance to ease some of the swelling, his eyes were covered with cotton bandages and ice packs. The anesthesiologist was waiting nearby, as was a gaggle of nurses.
“Fine.” was his response when I asked how he was doing. His only compliant was, “They're trying to freeze me to death.” He didn’t want the ice packs on. Pain was not an issue, “my eyeballs are freezing” was. The nurse and I began going over release paperwork, while he figuratively, and literally, chilled out.
One of the ice packs fell to the ground, revealing loosely fitted bandages. The droplets of blood staining the gauze, was a tell tale indicator that this was really happening. The nurse took the opportunity to check the incisions, and refresh the gauze and ice packs.
The first thing I noticed - that I didn’t like! - was the stitch that went from the bottom lid, up over and across his eyes, attaching to his forehead. It looked uncomfortable to say the least, and if not for the swelling of his lids, the strings would have rubbed directly on his pupils. Geesh! Imagine my delight to hear that they expected me to remove this the next day... (Yea... I’m good. {self-pep-talk} I could take the stitch out... I suppose...{watch Frank try to blink, pep-talk-over})
Frank interrupted the nurses’ reassuring hoopla and surgical release protocol, “Is there any reason why my balls are cold?” She stopped briefing, concerned that he didn’t understand that he had ice packs on his eyes. Actually, several nurses quickly leaned in to check on his mental faculties. They were baffled and concerned. I couldn’t help but laugh as I watched them fall prey to Dennis-the-Menace. I was relieved that he was interacting. Until now he was too quiet and ‘still’ for my liking. (Yes... I know the man just had surgery... I didn’t like it!)
Leaning over, I grabbed the ice pack the nurse had left on his lap... Remember? The one that had fallen off his face a few moments ago? I signaled with my functional, rolling eyeballs, “His... Balls.”
It took a moment, and then with a somewhat non-medical, relieved revelation, they ‘got it’, “Ohhh... I thought he meant his EYE BALLS...” I shook my head as they cackled over their ‘misunderstanding.’ Frank mustered a little smirk, albeit weak, “They're trying to freeze me to death.”
Once in the van, even before the assistant left with the wheelchair, he started to shiver. This from the man that might as well rent himself out as a personal warming device... Cherub can be found snuggling in his armpit on any cold day. His hands have defrosted many a mitten-less fingers, but here he was complaining. The heater would not get hot quick enough for his liking... and even when it was... he still shivered!
I couldn’t wait to get this painstakingly slow ride home, safely over! Of course, once there he would not wait for anyone to help get him into the house... “I’m fine.” He was basically blind because his eyes were so swollen. Not only the lids, but the eyeballs too. He managed to navigate into the house and took up residency on the couch. (Cherub promptly hid in her room... can’t say I blame her. He was a sight... bloody gauze that kept having to be replaced, swelling that was getting worse not better, temperament that was understandably waning, that funky stitch crossing his eyeball, not being able to see... Mini-man was ‘fine.’ {Yes... he takes after his father... somebody help me...})
‘To Do’ checklist:
Find every available pillow and prop, prop, prop him up. (To help keep the swelling down...)
Gather warm blankets - pile and tuck him toddler tight. (He was still shivering!!)
Spoon feed him a meal. (He needed to eat so he could take pain pills...)
Tape plastic eye shields bug-eyes in place. (I had to request and insist for these?! Seriously, sometimes I don’t get the medical world... I would think after a surgery such as this, they would be mandatory?!)
We were as ready as we were gonna be for the night ahead...
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