Fuzzy On The Edges

 I can remember when my affiliation with the medical profession existed on two fronts: The first of which was my friendship with a guy in my freshman dorm who was pre-med. The second was the times I visited the emergency room. Once I had moved out "on my own," the need to see a physician on any sort of regular basis pretty much disappeared. The idea that I might want to monitor my ongoing physical health was something old people did. 

Well, now it seems that I am an old people. 

While I am still friends with that guy in my freshman dorm, who went on to have a distinguished career as a pediatrician, I have developed a deep but not completely fulfilling relationship with my primary care physician and the specialists to whom I am periodically referred. The first whiff of this newfound connection came about as I experienced the first of what would turn out to be several bouts with kidney stones. Spoiler alert: The kidney stones won. Eventually I tired of listening to my doctor tell me that all that Coca-Cola I drank was going to make it increasingly difficult to dodge the specter of those flaming hot specks of intolerable pain wending their way through my abdomen. The punch line was "you're not as young as you used to be." 

If you've been reading this blog for any period of time, you have doubtlessly stumbled upon my attitudes toward aging and the creeping deterioration of the vessel in which I live. My knees have become those of an older man, and though I continue to push them to what feels like their limit on any given day, I continue to call myself "a runner," and though I have taken a few unfortunate tumbles down the stairs of caught a toe on a sketchy city sidewalk, I persist. 

The most recent encounter with the looming presence of the clock ticking down on my original parts came this past week when I started seeing bright flashes of light in the corner of my eye. I must be tired. The following day I became aware of a blob resembling a paramecium gliding in and out of my vision in my left eye. I squinted and fussed, applying eye drops in the hopes of dislodging what I figured must be a stray cat hair. Stupid cat. 

A call to the advice nurse, who experience tells me is not just one person sitting in a cubicle 24/7 awaiting my complaints and concerns. Instead, there is a revolving group of trained medical professionals there to dissuade me and old people like me from falling in love with whatever Al Gore's Internet believes might be the problem. For instance, my cursory Googling suggested that I had finally succumbed to the cataracts that had plagued my mother, god rest her soul. Upon further discussion with the aforementioned medical professional, it was determined that I had a "floater," and that generally speaking I was in no great danger. The primary cause for such a malady was aging. 

So there it was. I was encouraged as ever to have an actual physician take an actual look at my eye. Which I did. The following day. After having my pupils dilated to the point of nearly turning inside out, a real doctor came and looked deeply into mine eyes, to check for holes or retinal detachment. None was found, but the vitreous gel inside my eye had begun to separate from the back of my retina, leaving the fuzzy glob through which I was now peering. 

What was to be done?

Deal with it. You're getting older. These things happen. 

I suppose the alternative is not getting older, which would mean my path through this mortal coil had come to an end. At which point convention suggests I will still need a doctor to make that pronouncement.