So this is what 40 looks like.

It seems fitting that my first post here is about the very thing that motivated me to create this blog in the first place: Glaucoma.  As with so many other things in my life, I "kind of" have it.  Glaucoma, that is.  Or at least I have a condition called narrow drainage angle closure that, if it decides to throw a tantrum, could result in an acute angle closure attack similar to what people with glaucoma experience.  I will neither bore nor scare you (depending on your age, eye health, and level of hypochondria) with the clinical minutiae of what such an attack entails.  Suffice it to say that when my eye doctor suggested I meet with a glaucoma specialist to discuss my candidacy for the laser surgery that would "fix" this condition, I made the appointment, did my best to avoid Web MD, and actually planned ahead for the panic attack that I knew would accompany me on the way to my appointment.

The sorta blessing in this thing my eye doctor referred to as a laser iridotomy, is that they only do one eye at a time.  I say "sorta blessing" because the logic behind the one-eye-at-a-time policy is based on the reasoning that if anything goes wrong, you will still have one good eye.  I wish I was joking.  But for a procedure that literally takes all of three minutes (once you've waited half an hour for all the necessary drops to do their work and then stayed for thirty minutes afterward to make sure your eye pressure doesn't go high enough to result in the very attack you're trying to avoid) it's pretty unsettling to think about how quickly any number of complications could arise.

During my initial consultation with the glaucoma specialist, I amazed myself by sitting calmly through his diagnosis and nodding at his recommendation that I have the laser iridotomy sooner rather than later. Then I smiled as he ran through his awful list of "highly unlikely but possible risks," the ones he was required to recite, one at a time, while counting them off on his fingers to make sure he covered them all.  I'm sure he was completely unaware that my ear refused to hear the "highly unlikely" part of his explanation and instead began listening to my brain's monologue:

"The laser is is going to burn a huge hole in my eyeball and cause my pressure to go so high that my retina is going to detach and my iris is going to bleed until my pupil implodes and I go blind.  But hey -- yay for the remaining good eye, right?"

Not so much. I've made it through 39 years of life rather dependent on both my eyes, and I'd like to keep it that way.  So I listened to the specialist's risk list and did my best to brush it off, reminding myself that I was young (by glaucoma standards, anyway), relatively healthy (compared to the poor elderly patients in the waiting room, each with a cane or an oxygen tank), and doing my best to embrace this thing called courage that I was trying so hard to cultivate.

And so, several weeks later, as I drove back to the glaucoma specialists's office with the knowledge that I would soon have a permanent, pin-sized hole in my eyeball, I was still trying to talk myself both out of and into going through with it when I walked through the office door.  Since I knew that my sight actually depended my ability to have this surgery, and since I knew that once I checked in I wouldn't turn and walk out, I willed my feet to carry me to the receptionist, where I announced, probably a little too loudly: "Heather Haskins. I have a 9:45.  And I'm a nervous wreck."

I knew my internal filter was shutting down at that point, since high levels of anxiety require all my energy and attention, including the energy and attention I would normally spend on acting socially appropriate and speaking softly and behaving modestly.  So nothing made me happier than when the receptionist told me to have a seat and try to relax.  She had a lovely smile and welcoming eyes - very likely untouched by the glaucoma demon I was there to exorcise - so I took her suggestion and found a seat between an enormous oxygen tank wearing a tiny elderly woman and a snoring, middle-aged man in overalls and a baseball cap.

Only a few seconds passed before the medical assistant called my name, brought me into the first exam room, nodded and smiled when I announced, again, that I was a nervous wreck.  "Even more nervous than I was when I told the receptionist," I clarified.  This assistant was pretty familiar with nerves, she said, and she promised to explain everything she intended to do before she actually did it.  And she kept her word.  She asked me to sign forms acknowledging my understanding that medicine was not an exact science (Read: remember that risk list.  Blindness is not an impossibility.) and she stated the name and function of every drop - 4 in total - before she released each one into my suddenly blink-happy eye.  She checked my eye pressure and my blood pressure, had me sign a few more forms, and then escorted me back to the waiting room. Where I waited.  And waited. And waited. Instead of the eye dilation I was expecting, the assistant had actually given me something to constrict my pupils.  "So Doctor can see as much of your eye as possible to make the hole exactly where he wants it."  And apparently, it took thirty minutes of forever for maximum shrinkage to happen.

The waiting room was full of different people when I entered it once again.  This time, I sat across from a lovely elderly couple who shared their recipe for homemade fig and date bars with me.  Next to them was a kindly older gentleman who was very concerned that no one had accompanied me to the appointment and that I would be driving myself to work after the procedure.  As if glaucoma wasn't enough of an age reminder, I got to sit and think about my single-hood, my partnerless, childless existence, the empty "emergency contact" line on all the medical forms I had just filled out, while I waited for my right pupil to shrink to the size of a single quinoa pellet. I wish I could say that, as my eye transformed, I saw things more clearly. That I had a miraculous epiphany, where I realized that "seeing" was something that came from within, and not something that could be externally measured.  But no.  Everything was blurry and I had just managed to add "sadness about my partnerless, childless existence" to my growing list of unfortunate emotions at the precise moment that medical assistant #2 called me back to the "procedure room."

From that point on, everything went according to plan - always a wonderful thing in the "medicine is not an exact science" world. The doctor entered and explained everything he was going to do, then put some gel on a little contact lens that he used to prop my eye right eye open.  He adjusted my head in a huge Hannibal Lecter contraption made of bars and pads before resting his own arm on a brace to steady himself. Then he held the contact firmly against my eye while I followed his instructions to "look down at the floor" and felt the red beam of light zap my eyeball. It was more of a sensation than it was actual pain, but it was a strange sensation that my eye couldn't quite believe had just happened as it blinked and fluttered and watered and tried to close.

"Well, it's a small hole but it's a hole, all right," the doctor announced, seemingly pleased with his work as he peered into my eyeball through the front of the contraption still holding me in place. "And I saw some fluid rush through right away, which is a good sign," he added. "Means you had quite a bit of pressure built up, so this will certainly relieve that."

And suddenly, Dr. Glaucoma Specialist was my new best friend.  For an inexact science, this particular medical procedure had gone exactly as he had hoped, and I was not only relieved of the pressure in my right eye, I could still see and move and breathe.  I was going to be fine.  In fact, I was going to be better than fine. I was going to be a laser iridotomy warrior.

"So, how soon can I get the left eye done?" I asked, preparing to subject myself to this process all over again as soon as possible.

Even though there is no mandatory waiting period before having the second eye done, I couldn't get on the doctor's surgical schedule until September 10.  By then, I imagine that a little of my new found bravery will have worn off just a bit, but I am still ready for it. Because I realize, at moments like this, that I am not so much brave as I am a fear junkie - I'm not exactly addicted to feeling fear, but I am addicted to the euphoria of overcoming it.  So at least, on September 10, when I walk back through the waiting room door, just slightly concerned about going blind, I will be a little more prepared for the unknown.

If this is what 40 looks like, then I think I can handle it  So far.  After all, maybe I didn't get stuck dealing with glaucoma as some kind of punishment after all.  Maybe I just got the opportunity to face glaucoma while I was still pretty young, as some kind of reminder that I am a whole lot stronger than I think.  I'll let you know on September 10th.