Dr. Lin said we’d give it one more month. One more month of careful observation. One more month of weekly self-injecting methotrexate with its life-sucking side effects. One more month of painful (but brief) bi-weekly Humira.
If the inflammation goes away, we’ll continue without the injection of steroids into my left eye. If the fluid is still there, well, we’ll continue and do the shot. Again.
The good news was my ocular pressure was down from “high” to “normal”; there was no new inflammation, just the same old damage; nothing new in the front/center of my eye.
So, I bought a bike and went on a ride with my wonderful friend. I bought plants – flowers and vegetables – that I was able to plant over the course of a few days. I designed a windbreak based on boat covers that I think might actually work to protect the plants on the west deck from the destructive June winds that whip over our hill.
The trouble is I cannot see the light tan thread well enough to thread the needle, not even with the little cheater we used to use when we were just learning to sew (decades ago). I can’t sew straight lines anyway, and these seams are going to be visible, so being prevented from sewing might not be a bad idea.
But I really am doing ok.
So why am I crying?
I’m still fighting to stop the damage in my left eye.
My visual acuity at OHSU was 20/25 – with two wrong on the 25 line; at my optometrist’s office two weeks before it was 20/25 straight up. I can’t tell if the haziness is due to something wrong or the controlled burns that are making May look like scorched September.
I read about a woman and her husband who have to give up their Australian shepherd. The husband is working too much … they may have to relocate. But this lovely 16-week Aussie is the “husband’s beloved dog.” And I am wracked with a sense of loss. I am sobbing for this man and his dog. For the loss of that beloved dog.
No, I’m sobbing for the dogs I’ve lost, and those I’ve left behind, and for the losses I’m fighting off. I struggle to focus on what I have gained, or at least what I have learned. But a small part of my soul is tired and sad. I can usually keep a shelter over this little flame, protect it. Sometimes it flickers in the wind, though, sputters in the damp cold, and threatens to give up in a tiny puff of curling smoke.