Act II: Rat-Bastard charlie Strikes Again

As narrated by a man who has seen too much, expected too little, and still somehow feels personally victimized by his own skeletal system

Not my first rodeo. Hell, at this point I could run the rodeo, judge the rodeo, and file a complaint about the rodeo’s parking situation. Been there, done that, and the first time around, all I got were dentures—and now it looks like this round could cost me my shooting eye. I hate when the universe goes for the classics.

Previously on “My Body Hates Me”:

This saga began one fine June morning when my back woke up before I did and filed for divorce. Yep—another round of “Guess Which Vertebrae Betrayed You Today.” I toughed it out until the pain reached “scream-into-a-pillow” levels, then crawled to the VA for mercy. They thoughtfully scheduled an MRI for November, because why rush? I could be dead by then, but at least I’d die knowing the appointment was on the books. So I slapped down my own cash at Baylor Scott & White and had the MRI in under a week.

Diagnosis? “Degenerative.” Or as the doctor said—very helpfully—“Well… you’re old.” Fantastic. I paid hundreds of dollars for the medical equivalent of “No kidding, Grandpa.”

But then came the plot twist: vision changes that didn’t go away even when I kicked the pain pills. So off to the eye doctor I went, blissfully unaware that I was about to enter the emotional escape room known as adult ophthalmology.

The Day Surgery Chronicles

When we last exited our hero (me), I had just returned from day surgery—the kind where they pump you full of chemicals strong enough to make you confess to crimes you didn’t commit—and I forgot to mention what happened during the endless pre-admission paperwork. My phone rang.

BSW Nuclear Medicine was calling, bright and chipper, like they weren’t the same department ignoring a fax for twice the time legally allowed for a cheese expiration date. They asked if I’d like to schedule a PET scan for December 4th. I sweetly inquired, “And who the hell ordered this?” “Dr. Day,” they said. Ah. So the fax did exist. My reply may have involved “pithy” language. No appointment was scheduled. They may still be crying.

Somewhere in the fog afterward, while I was doped to the gills, someone—which forensic evidence strongly suggests was me—took a picture of my freshly bandaged eye and made it my Facebook profile pic. I learned this when my phone lit up with messages from people who assumed I’d been attacked by a raccoon, a bar fight, or possibly my own karma. My hunting buddy, an expert in Photoshop and bad decisions, stepped up and converted my photo into a full-on pirate portrait. Thus my new identity was born. I invited people to submit pirate names. I stand by this decision.

Bandage Removal, or: Holy Crap I Can See Again

The day after, I went to the follow-up. They checked my vision: up from 20% to almost 100%. Apparently, Rat-Bastard charlie—my ocular tumor—flinched during the needle and scooted its nasty little self out of the way. Bless his cowardly heart. Better yet: for the first time, the doc didn’t say “We’ll probably have to take the eye.” Progress! A new clinical trial is starting up—an oral treatment that might shrink eye tumors. If charlie loses 50% of his body mass (same thing my doctor tells me every year at physicals), then radiation becomes possible and the eye might stay. Sign me up. Let’s starve the little bastard.

Meanwhile, in the ‘Waiting’ Montage…

Now I get to learn to function with no depth perception and reduced vision, which is basically like living in a video game with bad graphics and no patch incoming. New challenges everywhere.

Driving? Life on the edge.

Pouring coffee? Side quest with risk of burns.

Catching anything thrown? Absolutely not.

Current objectives:

• Wait for the VA to schedule an eye consult. (Estimated ETA: 2057.)

• Try to get Tricare for Life to reimburse me for at least some medical expenses. (Ha.)

• Wait for my primary care doc to eyeball the PET scan and weigh in on the “suspicious” prostate. (Nothing like your organs keeping secrets from you.)

Meantime I think I’ll focus on the burn piles around the forest compound. That and day drinking, sounds like a plan.

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler