Trouble With Party Crashers

The party never ends! It's 2025, and guess who's maybe trying to RSVP again? That bastard charlie. Yeah, it’s been a while—but he just can’t take a hint. Now I get why we say “I’m a survivor, not cured.” charlie (and I will not capitalize his name—he doesn’t deserve the grammatical dignity) is always hiding in the shadows like a bad sequel no one asked for. charlie IV: The Eyeball Strikes Back. Too early to say what’s up for sure, but I’ve got an appointment Tuesday with the fancy eye cancer doc in Austin. Real VIP vibes. Here’s how this latest rollercoaster started: about 30 days ago, I was dealing with some serious back pain. I go to the doc, who by the way is a great guy, sharp dresser—and he tells me I’ve got degenerative back issues. So yeah, it’s official: I am degenerate. Street cred unlocked. He prescribes me Gabapentin, which is a stellar nerve-blocker. Within two days I’m strutting around like a pain-free rooster. It seems like a miracle. Life’s good. Then a week in, my right eye starts acting up like it’s auditioning for its own drama series. Can’t focus right, some bright spots, and a little vision loss in the top-left corner of my sight. I check in with the doc and guess what? Gabapentin has a known side hustle messing with eyesight. So we start tapering the meds—down from 900mg to 600mg. Pain? Still good. Vision? Not great. Drop to 300mg—still fuzzy. Basically I can walk fine, but I’m walking into walls. So I book an eye appointment. I describe the weirdness, get an exam, and we discover a fun fact: my glasses prescription is totally off. 90 days ago my right eye’s cylinder was -1.00, and now it’s +0.75. That’s not a small shift—that’s a plot twist. Something changed big time, and recently. Doc looks deeper and spots a possible retinal detachment. Not definite, but enough to hit the "uh-oh" button. I get bumped up to a retina specialist. This doc checks me out and says, “Well, it’s not a detached retina—but I still don’t like what I’m seeing.” Never good to hear a doc say something like that. Cue eyeball ultrasound. No, not the baby kind. No heartbeat, no gender reveal. Just one eye with what appears to be a suspicious little mass. Basically, my eyeball has a baby bump. Not ideal. So now we wait for the next appointment —Tuesday— with the top-tier eyeball expert to figure out what this mass is and what we’re doing about it. In the meantime, I’m browsing pirate costumes. If I need an eye patch, I’m going full Jack Sparrow. Might even demand people call me “Captain.” Listen, I hate charlie. Always have. Always will. He ruins lives and doesn’t even send a warning text. But here’s the thing—this time, I’m stronger. I’ve done this dance before, and I’m ready. Let the good times roll. And if they don’t? I’ll make them. Even if I’ve got to do it one-eyed.