The worst part about medical mysteries isn't the poking and prodding—it's the waiting game.
Nothing says "your day is about to get interesting" quite like being referred to someone whose business card probably reads "Premier Ocular Oncologist" in fancy lettering.
My brain immediately started writing checks my anxiety couldn't cash.
Dr. Google, that quack with a medical degree from the University of Wikipedia, became my new best friend. Pro tip: Never, and I mean NEVER, google medical terms at 2 AM. According to the internet, I have condition that might mean I need to start planning a funeral and pick out a nice casket.
Tomorrow's agenda includes Round Two of "Let's Shine Bright Lights in Your Eyeball." The per-appointment phone call was like getting a preview of coming attractions: "Eye exam, dilation's, imaging—basically everything we did last time, but with more enthusiasm!" I'm not complaining though. I want these folks to have more data than NASA's mission control.
Back at Casa de Chaos,AKA Pete’s Forest Compound, life trudges on with its usual brand of controlled mayhem. Saturday featured the annual "Great Honey Heist of 2025," where Hunting buddy Josh and I successfully liberated 59 pounds of liquid gold from my buzzing tenants. They seemed less than thrilled about the eviction notice, but the honey tastes like heaven's breakfast syrup, so we're calling it even. And I only got stung once.
Sunday was cleanup day in the honey room, which looked like a crime scene from CSI: Sticky Edition. Note to self: honey has the supernatural ability to teleport itself onto every surface within a three-meter radius.
In a burst of DIY genius (or stupidity—the jury's still out), I decided to install a repurposed AC fan in the shop. Because apparently, I subscribe to the "No Project Complete Without Bloodshed" philosophy. Cue the jig saw versus pinky finger death match. Score: Jig saw 1, Pinky 0. The thing went right up the middle of my little finger like it was auditioning for a horror movie. The bleeding was impressive—I could've started my own blood bank. When the iodine hit, I'm pretty sure my casual comments became profane. Thank goodness for super glue, the duct tape of the medical world, and enough actual tape to mummify a small pharaoh.
Today's mission: mow the Forest Compound before it officially needs baling. While it’s been drier than my sense of humor lately, I've been running irrigation like I'm trying to recreate the Amazon rainforest. Gotta get it looking respectable on the off chance my upcoming treatment turns me into a temporary couch potato.
Here's what the medical detectives have uncovered so far:
Base Eye Exam: Right eye went from 20/20 to 20/70 in a month. Apparently, my eyeball decided to take early retirement without consulting me first.
Slit Lamp Exam: Posterior vitreous detachment (sounds like my eye is having commitment issues)
Fundus Exam: Inferior chorioretinal mass. I'm choosing to be offended that anything about me is labeled "inferior." Couldn't it be a "premium" or "deluxe" mass? Where's the quality control here? Also didn't even know I had a fundus that could be examined.
So until noon tomorrow, my brain will be hosting its own little anxiety Olympics, complete with worst-case scenario gymnastics and catastrophic thinking marathons. The unknown is scary, but ignorance is bliss—and right now, I'm living in a blissful fog of medical confusion.
Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode of "Adventures in Eyeball Land."
P.S. - If anyone needs me, I'll be googling "how to become a pirate" just in case I need a career change that accommodates potential monocular vision.
Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler
No comments:
Post a Comment