Eye drops keep falling on my cheeks

What would I do if I couldn’t add at least one more permanent prescription into my life each calendar year as I age, not yet shorter of breath but most definitely one day closer to death?

Since I have good health insurance it would be quite arrogant of me not to discover additional co-payments. That would be such a gross lack of appreciation for my privilege.

My eyes have been the bane of my existence. I’ve written about my -11.0 prescription, wearing glasses beginning at age four and contacts since I was 13; and I actually cannot wait until I get cataracts so I can swap those defective bitches out for new, inorganic lenses that supposedly give you close to 20/20 vision. (Expectations are more dangerous than drugs.)

I’ve also written about the torn retina in my right eye that happened in September 2021, which was immediately repaired but left me with a wayward clump of collagen that presents like a lock of hair I can never fully brush out of the way. I’ve nicknamed it Harry Floater and, like Harry’s scar, it’s never going away because, well, dark magic.

A week ago I visited my eye doctor so he could get the latest data on my eye pressure and lining, which we do a couple of times per year on top of my annual examination. Although I probably didn’t need to start them for a couple more years, we decided that I would begin taking nightly eye drops to help ward off glaucoma; which is a really scary word even without fully knowing what it means.

So, roll call! Here’s the updated prescription line-up, an often-unappreciated motley crew of draft choices, free agents, and veterans united by the goal of giving me enough sound mind and body to enjoy a quality of life for as long as possible:

Sertraline (Zoloft)

Wellbutrin

Amitriptyline

Finasteride

Minoxidil

Aaaaaaaaand then there were six. May I present Latanoprost, what John Bender from The Breakfast Club would say is for better hallway vision and he would be spot on.

And isn’t it ironic that the prost in Latanoprost is just one vowel purchase away from Proust, my boy Marcel who famously said in his fifth volume of In Search of Lost Time that the real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes?

Well, new eyes ain’t gonna happen, but I love not just seeking but gazing at new landscapes so let’s try to at least keep the darkness at bay.

Photo by Manuel bonadeo on Unsplash

According to articles from the Mayo Clinic and the National Institutes of Health, the early stages of glaucoma involve small, patchy blind spots developing in your peripheral or “side” vision, frequently starting in the area closest to your nose. The brain, which continues to amaze me more and more each year, automatically compensates for these early gaps, making the disease feel completely unnoticeable (thanks a lot muthafucka).

But then, as glaucoma progresses, the blind spots expand (sort of how like your ignorance expands the longer you watch Fox News). You might start bumping into side objects, which awkward me has already mastered into an art form, as well as missing doorways or experiencing a noticeable decline in night vision (mine already sucks, just ask that squirrel) and contrast sensitivity (but I do love me some contrast, paradox, and juxtaposition).

In the advanced stages, two words that hardly ever signify anything positive, the peripheral field narrows drastically, resulting in accelerated ignorance tunnel vision. Your visual field feels as though you are looking through a narrow tube or straw, leaving only a tiny island (do they serve fruity drinks cause if so that might not be too bad but am I supply-chain-fucked if I run out of sunscreen) of sharp central vision in the middle.

And the end stages…if left untreated, glaucoma damage ultimately reaches the central macular fibers, resulting in complete, permanent blindness. And it might be true that no one is blinder than those who will not see but damn, there’s still hope for those folks because who will not implies they still have some agency.

Any peripheral vision already lost to glaucoma cannot be restored. However, further vision loss can be successfully slowed or entirely halted by lowering intraocular pressure through several methods including the aforementioned eye drops and some different surgical procedures.

Photo by Sara Gault on Unsplash

The immediate result my doctor is looking for is drop-driving that pressure down from last week’s 16/17 snapshot to around 10.

Since I’m still only 58 (as Dr. Dunn put it, you’re still a young guy and oh please go on you brilliant man) with potentially decades more to live, it’s worth beginning to get ahead of this now.

So just before bedtime (funny how I still call it that, as if I’m a little kid), after brushing my teeth, flossing, and squishing a lid full of mouthwash around for about 10 seconds, I pick up the tiniest plastic bottle and attempt to squeeze a single drop onto each eye.

I suck at this task. Sometimes the drop actually gets into my eye and I close my lids in an effort to keep it there. Most times it lands just outside of the target and rolls toward my cheek. But I’m sure I’ll get better with practice, especially since we’re not talking about trying to hit a golf ball or baseball.

Well, I’d better get better at this, because the stakes are pretty damn high.

I could tabulate an endless list of reasons why I don’t want to lose some of and certainly not all of my eyesight. There’s the functional absences such as writing, reading, driving, walking without getting hit by a garbage truck, and seeing, well, everyone and their subtle facial expressions and body languages and everything else, including my orange tabby when he rolls on the ground and demands I rub his soft, furry belly so he can bite me.

But then there’s the psychological and existential losses.

The abject vulnerability and helplessness. The vanishing of how wonderful I feel when I absorb beauty in all of its natural explosions of colors and forms.

The entirely unfamiliar, terrifying re-orientation to the world, forced to make meaning by relying upon only four of those main senses. As John Bender might say, it’ll be anarchy.

The upside? (Not a bright side, because this ain’t the Life of Brian and there’s gonna be a lot less illumination.)

I’ll get to be even more inside of my head, which has always been my default choice for seeking new landscapes. Poor old Johnny Ray!

But wait. Does that mean I’ll have accelerated concentration, discernment, and insight as I traverse those cerebral landscapes? There will certainly be fewer distractions and fewer doesn’t do the number justice.

Photo by Kristina Flour on Unsplash

I’ve heard amazing things from friends who’ve gone on silent retreats, blown away by clarity regarding truths about themselves they were able to more fully confront and process, free of idle chatter and the need to impress other people or make them laugh through spoken words. I want to participate in such a retreat sometime before I die and I won’t pretend that I’m not a little terrified of plunging even deeper into said head.

But what would a sightless retreat be like, one that I could never leave?

Would it empower me to confront myself even more holistically, to have mental breakthroughs that are currently eluding me because I’m too busy staring at and processing everything outside of me? Would the only clutter I give a damn about be the mental clutter in my noggin’?

I’m so cute, trying to rationalize yet another thing I might have to grieve.

Or is this simply hope? The promise of new possibilities? Resilience?

I don’t know. But for now…

…focus on the tiny plastic bottle, John. Hit the target with the liquid. Drop-kick glaucoma’s ass before it gets the jump on you. Glaucoma? Eat. My. Shorts.

Hello! I’m John DeMarco, a Nashville, Tennessee-based, married GenXer dad of amazing daughters, sharing stories and reflections on growth, loss, identity, and mindfulness, offered with a deep respect for your capacity to make your own meaning. I’ve been writing since around age 11.

My Substack is reader-supported. While all of my articles and Notes are free to access, those choosing to upgrade to paid subscriptions enable me to dedicate more and more time for writing, reading, commenting on, and restacking other writers’ work. I’d love for Substack to eventually become the only thing I do for a living along with writing books and, perhaps, movies and TV shows.

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