Calm Before the Storm: Fear and Loathing in the Ophthalmology Ward

The whole thing started on a Friday morning, the kind of morning that feels like the universe is slowly cranking up a chainsaw. I was barely awake when BSW blasted a notification into my skull: PET scan results available. Jesus. Someone over there must have sobered up long enough to actually look at Monday’s radioactive glamour shots of my internal machinery.

I opened the report with the trembling hands of a man who knows he’s about to witness a crime scene. And there it was— “2.0 cm mass… marked hypermetabolic activity suspicious for malignancy.”

Hypermetabolic. Christ. That means the bastard in my eyeball lit up like a Vegas casino caught in an electrical storm. A glowing, feral tumor in the “lateral right globe,” which is just medical code for YOUR EYEBALL IS HOSTING A DEMON. A rat bastard demon called charlie.

But the doctors tried to soothe me with their icy reassurance: no signs of cancer in the chest, abdomen, or pelvis. Lovely. A clean body, except for the small nuclear reactor in my right eye socket.

And then they tossed in some casual nonsense about “focal radiotracer uptake in the prostate,” which sounded like something a bored intern added for fun. PSA was low in June, so that’s probably just the prostate waving for attention like a drunk at last call. I’ll deal with it later.

Before I could recover from the PET scan debacle, Austin Retinal Associates rang me up. A voice too cheerful for human civilization informed me they were “trying” to get me into Seton Hospital on the 17th, 24th, or maybe December 1st, depending on whether the planets aligned and the surgeon felt spiritually prepared.

We were already told the 17th last week, but I held my tongue. You don’t argue with people who control the sharp objects.

She checked the schedule and—hallelujah— I was already on it. Jesus, a victory. A rare diamond glint in the medical sludge.

Then came the commandments: Shower twice with antibacterial soap. Eat nothing after midnight like some doomed gremlin. Follow the directions. Don’t wander off. Don’t lick anything.

But the real madness came an hour later, when Seton Hospital called. Their nurse had her own list of rules—nothing to eat from Sunday onward except clear liquids, all the food of an ascetic monk or a man awaiting execution. Stop all medications. No breakfast of champions. No mercy.

Then she asked what procedure I was having.

“A needle biopsy on my right eye,” I said.

A pause. Then: “No, no, no, it’s your left eye.”

My soul left my body.

I slammed my left eye shut, stared into the yawning black void of my right, and declared:

“IT. IS. MY. RIGHT. EYE.”

The nurse, clearly rattled, said they’d need to “call ARA to confirm,” and I imagined a circle of medical staff passing a chart around like a joint.

Then came the second curveball: I needed a follow-up appointment the next day, but Dr. Day would be in Waco. “Fine,” I told them. “Waco is closer anyway.” A logistical triumph, small but glorious, like finding an unbroken cigarette in the apocalypse.

So now I wait. Sunday, they’ll starve me like some deranged vision quest participant. Coffee is allowed, thank God—black, savage, life-sustaining.

And if this ordeal ends with me in an eyepatch, so be it. Pirates ruled the seas for a reason.

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