I wish to God I could argue with my ophthalmologist. He has just said the words, “You’ll be permanently blind in two years.”
After 5 years of hospice work for people with AIDS, I know where this is heading. I look deep into his very black eyes and ask, “What is the protocol for treatment?”
He smiles and is relieved that I am not hysterical or licking his boots for some miracle. I know there is no cure for CMV Retinitis.
“Two years of Gancyclovir, intravenously,” he says curtly. He hands me a prescription for a pick line and the medication, which is considered a form of chemotherapy. “It can be hard on the kidneys; drink lots of fluids with it.”
“Does that include a good Chardonnay?” I say jokingly. He gives me a quizzical look, not sure if he should be alarmed.
“You can go downstairs for the pick line now. Something tells me you know the drill.”
“Yes,” I reply, “a little too well. I’m a hospice aide preparing for nursing school.” Well, there goes that pipe dream, I add under my breath. Not a high demand for blind RN’s these days.
As I am prepped for the pick line, an avalanche of countless dreams that will never be realized begins to creep in, and I cringe at the immensity of disappointment that awaits me. I’ll cross that bridge when I get there, I resolve. I hold my breath as they slowly insert the pick line needle in my forearm. This is really going to put a crimp in my dating!
This is all happening way too fast for me. I want to go home, listen to Tori Amos or eat a gallon of Cherry Garcia. Anything but this!
The pick line is throbbing in my left arm but doesn’t impede my driving with my stick shift. I drive home in a daze, feeling like I’m suddenly not a well person. I wonder if I’ve joined the ranks of the Undesirables, with “Death” tattooed on my forehead. My life flashes before me in very slow motion as cars zipped past me. I look in the rear-view mirror and know there is no turning back. I have to take this one by the horns; this prop is for real! It’s in my left arm for all to see.
Stuck in L.A. traffic, everyone is in a hurry to get nowhere on this road, and I’m in a rush to save my life.
Somehow I manage to get home in one piece. I sit on my favorite chair and watch the squirrels, Chip and Dale, dodging the mockingbirds. They look up defiantly and munch on their cache of goods. The window prisms dance in the light and I, with my 20/20 vision, can see all the way to Century City. I laugh at life’s irony. I cradle my head in my hands, the pick throbbing.
“Two years,” I sigh.
The countdown begins.
(To be continued in the next issue)
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