Why Be Nice?

In light of so much loss, so much back-biting, so many dismissive comments and acts of divisiveness in our society, I began to wonder why be nice?

Here, in the Bay Area, I pondered, Why put myself out there time and time again, trusting people, thinking better of people than what [periodical/occasional] circumstances dictate, why constantly be the one who gives the Benefit of Doubt to those around me? Why help out, reach out, give a hand, or a kind word or attentive ear and expect nothing in return? I'm what many would consider to be a kind person, I give of myself, I ask questions, I am loyal to a fault, I have left myself exposed, per se, and attempted to 'show my cards.' And yet, among the many wonderful friends & family who are sincere and supportive, it never ceases to amaze me how frequently I am on the rancid end as recipient (or would it be considered a victim?) of squelchings, snubbings, rumors, lies, and underminings. Do I ask for this? I think not. Who would?

Why, oh why, some might ask, do I not simply look out for me and say 'fuck you' to those around me who step upon or turn their back to me? Why not venture down that scientific path of Survival of the Fittest, Only the Strong Survive, Keep your Friends Close and your Enemies Closer, Be Number One Because Nobody Remembers Number Two, Cooperation is Only for the Weak and all those other signs along the way? Why not follow the Origin of the Species to the nth degree? In living and adaptating to my family, this was the way of survival, sure, but as an adult, it's an entirely different environment.

Hmmm. I proposed this question on my fb status page and discovered that many of those with whom I associate found that niceness is the way to survival. That this, indeed is the way to continue our species in life. Because helping out another altruistically, opening a hand for another, turning a blind eye, letting go of mistakes, accepting forgiveness and all that stuff is what brings our society out from a bunch of egomaniacal self-serving, self-centered, myway/highway, compartmentalized beings to a bonded, reliable, scaffolded community.

Some British scientists proposed the questionable idea in a free lecture, "Why Be Nice? Understanding Co-operative Behaviour in Humans and Other Animals" at the Zoological Society London (ZSL). One lecturer pointed out the basic picnicking friend we're all too familiar with: the ant. Ants share their hoards. When they discover an open soda can or forgotten mound of potato salad, an alert is sent via their funky little ant saliva. If ants didn't share this lovely meal with their million other brethren, their massive ant colony and their beloved queen would die. That's a bit of pressure to play the telephone game, I tell you.

In the primate world, it was pointed out that when monkeys, (the example given), a vervet monkey discovered a food fest, say, a tree or the ground underneath dotted with luscious fruits it was expected that he share and holler out a 'food call,' with his troop. Not unlike a cowpoke's banged-upon triangle for vittles & grits, I suppose. When the troop discovered the monkey hoarding away his sweetened treasure, he received a beating. Wild dogs or wolves tended to share their banquets too. It's for the betterment of the pack; "dogs and monkeys favour co-operation and refuse to participaate in unfair social exchanges."

Redouan Bshary of Neuchatel University in Switzerland discovered that certain fish are cleaners (wrasse) and others are clients (grouper fish). Cleaners eat the parasites off of, crazily, much larger predator fish. Sort of the 'keep your enemies close' notion, I suppose. There's a certain respect from the client fish for the cleaners who could easily bite their own predatory customers, and these predatory clients could easily make a meal of the cleaner, but opt not to especially when there are other cleaners around -- like it's frowned upon in fish society to eat the not-s0-hired help. Of course, there's a bit of misogyny in all this too: male cleaner fish attack female cleaners if the little lady gets fed up with the whole parasitical meal thing and decides to swim away. This keeps the females more cooperative and more likely to give an excellent grooming service. Sounds a bit pimpish to me, but that's just my point of view.

However, when it comes to humans, it's a different level of cooperation. With no chance of punishment to selfish behavior, helpfulness, altruism and all that 'love one another' bizness quickly failed. A Danish scientist deduced that if punishment is wielded upon cheaters and malfeasants, then behavior is likely to change for the better (not always, of course, but more likely). And, what did I draw from this? That humans are not nice unless we're forced to by fear of punishment. Of course, social contracts, location of your home/community and quite a bit of that Nature vs. Nurture stuff plays a heavy role.

A University of Amsterdam scientist found that the impact of a single female in a pack of snarly, drooling males also makes a significant difference in terms of cooperative action; just a single female on a board of directors demonstrates that a company is 20% less likely to go bankrupt.

Yet, I will take this one step further because I can: we will be nice because the impending punishment might be solitude, and not necessarily the good kind that we seek when on a meditative journey. No, we will be isolated, then become curmudgeonly or marmish or mean or simply put aside by our peers and colleagues and, well, our friends. We need each other. We need forgiveness and the ability to accept our misgivings and shortcomings and errors and to rely on one another in ways that draw us into a sense of community rather than arms-length distance of individuals.

I'm not saying that individualism is a bad thing and competition is horrid. Not in the least. I think both are healthy, they bring out the best in who we are and also allow us to see where we can improve: it's in that latter element that we can lean on those around us, and in the former, we become better at what we know. It's in the asking for a hand, taking the risk of exposure and believing that the other will respond in kind. Even the gift of a genuine smile, a passing hello, making a phone call to a friend, an up-nod to someone you see every day but don't know her name, the burying the hatchet, release of an unnecessary grudge, or even offering to carry some groceries to the car for someone who's struggling can is a simple gesture of niceness, cooperation in our society. Doing something that is uncharacteristic, I think is what I'm suggesting here: extend beyond our normed behavior and make a change for the better.

Yea, I know, if we're too nice, people look at us like we're o-d-d or trying to rob them or murder them and steal their organs. It's a fine line, I know. It's because we don't live in a Brady Bunch or Beaver Cleaver world. It's closer to Yosemite Sam's rootin' tootin tarnation town than anything.

Recently, I was standing in line at TJ's, my red basket overloaded with heavy stuff; I was hoisting a jug of juice under my arm and doing the TJ's kick-the-handbasket along the line routine. The couple behind me, utilizing a regular cart said, "Do you want to put your basket on ours? We've got space." I was dumbfounded. Initially, I didn't respond, not believing that they were gesturing towards me. The woman repeated the offer as her male partner tapped my lopsided shoulder. I thanked them graciously and took up the offer. For the next 15 minutes, as we shuffled snail-pace along in the line, we carried on excellent light convo. Very funny all of us were.

When it came time to part, when a check stand opened, that is, I thanked them again for their goodwill and kindness. They looked at me like I was crazy -- it was simply putting my basket under their wheelie basket -- because I expressed so much gratitude. Alas, we wished each other off to a pleasant evening.

Mind you, I'm of the ilk that gratitude and true compliments can never be stated enough in oue under-appreciated, epically condescending and cruel society. One month ago this TJ's event occurred and the impact is still profound -- a tiny act of kindness. It's like the monkey sharing his guavas: it's simply something 'you do' and not think twice about it.

Recently, I had to deal with a rather significant loss. An acquaintance of mine, a woman with whom I work came up and simply hugged me and expressed her sympathy and support. It was so unexpected, so real, genuine and loving. All I could do was tear up and get all weepy-eyed -- partly for what I was already feeling but also because her action was simply that: nice and simple and unexpectedly supportive and kind.

No, I'm not a fan of the bumper sticker that proclaims and demands of us to Commit Random Acts of Kindness, blah blah blah. I roll my eyes every time I see that. It's the unstated, unexpected event that needs no car-rear reminder. It simply is Nice to be Nice. We do it to make a community versus continuing as a bunch of brainwashed, sweaty heathens vying for a betterment of the single self, the survival-of-the-fittest society, essentially like the poke-a-fork-in-my-eye movie, Soylent Green.

I'd offer my cart space to another, a hand to a person who needed a lift up, I'd forgive, honor, and continue to love someone despite some difficulties because that's the kind of person I am. I guess it's what works with me - some CM Strohecker sense of betterment. In my perspective, that to be nice versus contemptible, is easier, more pleasant, and draws in a sense of wellness in our -- or my -- otherwise difficult society.

Also, I think it's simpler in my own psyche to be nice, no matter the W.i.i.F.M. sense of entitlement; I suppose that What's in it For Me is this: I'd rather give back to others because in doing so, I'm giving back -- forgiveness, a warm gesture, a kind word, some love -- to myself. Spreading the wealth without being creepy.

Share your guavas, eat an other's skin-based parasites, or, just reach out to someone you care for and demonstrate an act of niceness and kindness that is true and loving. That's how our fittest will Survive: giving back, making amends, relying on each other, and, quite simply, being gracious and Nice humans. And, as I've said repeatedly here, forgive and remember what draws or drew us together in the first place.

Searching - for a home - where the heart is

Looking for...
Seeking...
Searching out a...

Although these sound like openings to personal ads, these are all beginnings for roommate searches. The housing search is on. Even though the roomates want someone with a good 'feel' the posts indicate otherwise: It's a visual thing, at least this is what the Craigslist ads tell me.
Cozy, quaint, nestled. Indications that the room (shared housing) is tiny, tiny, tiny. Some are cryptic: fully updated. What exactly does that mean? Indoor plumbing? Electricity that's no longer knob & tube?

Dog-friendly. Many I've seen say this yet it's a ploy: there's a $350 dog deposit. $350? Really? Not so friendly "deposit." That is a lot of damage, far beyond the cost of replacing dry wall or some grass. Or, dog must be under 25 pounds, which is kind if funny since I've seen quite a few hefty Dachsunds, Shih tzus, and Poodles at work, not counting the cats who tip the scale above mid-20s and have offered to draw blood from my forearms and face at no extra charge.

Easy going. This is something I look for then discover that the Easy Going roommates have a bunch of rules around community-building and food interests.
Vegan, meat-eater, Ethical hedonist, Green, Conscious, male attorney seeks other professional, no professionals - please! artists only!, dogs, no dogs, no cats, hypoallergenic couple, non-smoker, smoker, drink-okay, no drugs, 420 okay, one day at a time, must like children, day-work schedule works best, no parties, community life and music in the house makes it all come together, section 8 okay, No section 8, descent [sic] credit, "patio overlooks plush court yard where you'll ...enjoy your morning coffee on... plus it has a closet." Yes, that was all one sentence.

I couldn't wrap my brain around the closet on the patio, but that's just me. I haven't had to be in the throes of major shared housing in a while, so I suppose that there are now closets on the patio because the others inside are now little bedrooms? I dunno.

So, I switched to houses or apartments (as a solo and not a shared) and immediately found that my price range set me far beyond the Bay Area's galaxy. I actually considered a place that offered multiple bedrooms, bathrooms, garages (yes, plural), and an enclosed backyard, AND an option to buy this house cheaply. It also came with a complimentary, miniscule one-hour, eight-minute commute to my present abode. One hour ++. That's 68 minutes in good traffic. I get frustrated on my bicycle if I miss a couple stop lights and arrive at work in 20 minutes instead of 15. could I handle sitting on a train and/or bus and/or Bart for 1 1/2 hours? Could I? I'm not so sure. Yet there's a nagging at my brain: the yard, the yard. Big enough for one or two or three furry buddies.

Searching for housing is a pain, no doubt about it. I'm trying to piece-meal my health together and also consider a big ass move .... again. It seems that I have finally received most of my forwarded, non-yellow address mailer postal mail.

Not long ago, I searched for the abode in which I presently reside -- by the way, thankfully, kindly, and graciously made possible by hired movers. It was arduous, to say the least, to finally settle on this place. Fifteen places caught my fancy and all were in varied geographical coordinates. Now, today, I'm looking both at location and price. I've ruled out ground-floor anythings, north-facing buildings, and buildings that appear to have pink as their typical exterior color. This latter descriptor is hard to explain; pink simply doesn't suit me as a building's color. North? Well, it's dark. I lived in a north-facing apartment and we discovered mushrooms growing in our always-damp shag carpeting. 'Nuf said there.

Price, though is tough. The market seems to be jacking up the cost of rentals even though many people are unemployed and unable to pay their skyrocketed rent. The Tenant's Union declared, as per California statute, that a move-in cost can be no more than twice the cost of the first month's rent (that's the deposit), or three times that if the place is furnished. Criminy! That is one chunk o' change. And still, the management company or the owners or the other roommates request the cash bags.

One shared place I perused offered an 'easy-going' space in a 1900s house, complete with a meditation person, a writer, some furniture (dresser, chairs), a bed (eeww, bedbugs) and requested nearly a thousand bucks for rent since the dwelling was located near the Berkeley Bowl and not far from the University. Yep, all for the low low price of $950/month + first, last, And deposit -- a person could have a ROOM! Yes, a Room, oh, with cupboard space (of course, water is included) and two laid-back dudes. I have to admit, I actually Googled-earthed it just to see what the house looked like: not so bad for a bedroom with potential bedbugs (that's my input).

Rentals. I searched beyond my frontiers when I rather recently (6 months ago) settled into my chilled upstairs apartment space. I wonder, after all the address changes I plugged in to my creditors and magazine subscriptions, could my mail locate me, moreso, could my own persona pinpoint me once again if I skedaddled for the fourth time in 11 years, seventh in 15?

I hate moving. Did I say that yet? I hate moving. And yet, I am seriously considering this sojourn of my being once again. I hate moving. I can handle public speaking, let alone the fright of a shortened life, but moving, or losing my vision? No, not so much on my list of favorite things.

Could it, the mail, my inner foundation find me again if I hopscotched to another town, another zipcode, another dwelling shared or unshared, communal or solo, in the woods or out in the burbs, along the water, on the Peninsula, in Sonoma, somewhere in the 925 or in the Presidio in what was once an Officer's housing? Could I handle bonking my head on the Potrero Hill top floor (it's complete with its own, private bathroom!) attic-converted-to slanty ceilinged bedroom/live-in space, or perhaps in a massive 3-story Jingletown loft that reminds me of the one Kevin Bacon rode his bicycle around in that 1980s broker-turned-bike messenger movie, or, perhaps abutting some farmland with acres and acres to roam and grow stuff or throw pinecones and balls for Gracie and Basco and ...?

Uprooting for trees is traumatic at any point. Often kills off part of its cell structure and definitely jerks its growth patterns around, occasionally to the point of death or near-death if not handled correctly. No certainty, though, on its survival even if it does seek and receive ample nourishment, sunlight, and fresh air later. Moving is difficult.

One thing is certain: at this point, I am solid where I am but aware that a foundation can be borne elsewhere. Only downfalls here in this funky apartment are no dogs and the windows are made from rice paper and imaginary glass.

In search of...
Seeking...
Looking for...

I suppose that this, all of the shared-dwelling, solo-resident thing, and/or this search-for-housing bizness is a different way to move forward, move on, or simply move again. Or it's the process of creating a space again where 'the heart' can reside. Find a home where my heart will be. Or, maybe simpler, it's just living in a dwelling where I can have dogs, which, quite frankly, is pretty much the same as the previous sentence.

Sideways Glance?

Fear. To be afraid. Dread. Apprehensive.

I don't feel fear too often. I am not afraid of heights, the dark, blood, dentists or dental procedures, or public speaking. Yea, rattlesnakes have me quaking in my boots, no doubt about that; I'll amend this: snakes, in general, make my skin crawl. Yuck.

In less than two days, I will have a few more opthalmic appointments: labs, exams, more eye pictures, and an exam with a Retina Specialist. Apparently my retinas are extremely thin, one is torn and has crud near the tear. If my retinas are too thin, then surgery to repair the rapid vision loss is not an option. Ideally, since I've not been wearing my contacts (apparently they cause the eye or retina to misshape itself) for six days, the specialist will be able to determine if I am a surgical candidate.

So what's with the dread, the fear? I decided to look up the meaning to determine if my trepidation fell, indeed, under fear's meaning. Yes, but I don't have the fright as in terror or scaredy-catishness (yes, this is a word in my book), moreso the dis-ease, tenseness, unquiet within my system.

However, I found, among many definitions, "to eye askance." I thought this ironic, you know, given the exams I have on Tuesday. A sideways view. With my glasses on, I can't see sideways, there's nothing there but blurriness or lens-edge. And, given my freshly wandering eye and double vision, to do so makes my head ache. Eye askance - no can do. I'll settle for pusillanimity (good word, eh? gotta look it up, ya big pussy... which, I believe is from whence this derivation came.).

Still, the dread. I think that when I had the first exam regarding the double vision and was told to return for more tests, I felt afraid, uncertain, a bit off. Startled. I mentioned this before. The second day of exams, consults, labs, surgical consultation teetered and uprooted me from my already shaky foundation. Rather, it threw me: the rapid changes, the funked up eye photos, the failed tests (peripheral, acuity, diplopia) that occurred; the fact that my vision is elderly but my chronological age says otherwise. My head was Linda Blairing, sans the green vomit.

So, why the rabbity sensation? Is it the notion of eye surgery as a possibility, going under the proverbial knife? Seems that I should want this - or these - problem(s) perhaps even a portion of them to be rectified and repaired. I do. There are always risks, but I have faith in the thoroughly educated and practiced KP professionals who do this for a living -- carefully and quite well.

Or, does the skittishness stem from the chance that I won't be a candidate because of the massive alteration in my left eye and because my degenerative retina(s) will not tolerate surgery? That I'll have to live with the two-of-everything perspective and cover my eye, as I did at a comedy show and at the movies last night when I desire only one focal point. Hmmm.

As I've contemplated this uneasiness within me, I've taken on meditation as a means of release and/or acceptance of the situation and other quirky dealings. During those meditative times, my eyes are closed and I see a blue oval film marked with blotches. Can't say if this is actually my lens seeing something or my mind creating something. Either way, when I get into the 'mode,' I feel all the temblor and attempt to push it out of my mind, release it to another space. It creeps back in and I encircle myself again, nudging it away. This mind-over-mind situation recurs. Strange how strong the mind is in its own battles and wills.

I want something to change for the better, no doubt about it. Headaches for months - probably caused by the double vision - are one of the symptoms that this body could do without. At times, I think I look like a Bayer or Excedrin commercial with my furrowed brow and fingertips encircling my temples or frontal lobe in a valiant attempt to assuage the sirened ache. There's only so much Ibu, Tylenol, and migraine Rx that a system can handle. Hate taking pills - hence the meditation. On top of it, I'd like to not think about this any more.

Interestingly, perhaps as a sidebar, often, when I electronically scribble out my fb status, these are visual observations of my surroundings. My mind draws a word picture from what I see. Yea, see with these blurry eyes, not eye askance of course, but eyes forward, body turning, senses alive. I see and write. I see, feel, and write. Given that my vision is the worst of my senses, it's peculiar that my observations are more visual, nearly tactile, than aural or olfactorial.

One and a half days. I'm a bit nervous. Not butterflies - - those are usually good nerves: happily anxious. This is flippy-floppy, Tums-like.

Visualize a beneficial exam with Dr. Lam in KP's Union City Ophthalmology office. Picture. Conjure. See.

Dog Eared and Possum Eyed

Taking care of Gracie and Basco, my two 65+ pound doggies this weekend. Their other human is away, so, for three wonderful days they are in my care. It's canine contentment.

Even better, I have a buddy visiting me from Portland this weekend. Marykate, or Kate as most call her. I've known her since highschool. She knows me all too well.

At some point between playing with the pups and eating too many Gummi Bears, I commented on a painting hanging in the house. Said it was crooked, hanging with left side way up, right side down. I thought she bumped into it. She looked at me like I had forks growing out of my ears.

"It's not crooked."
"Yes it is. It's all askew. Just lean over and push it up on the right."
"It's not crooked. Do I need to take you to the hospital? Your perception is all off."
"No it's not. Yours is." (Good comeback).

Later this morning, I moved a couch about six inches in one direction. She saw this and asked me why I did so. Repeat above interchange. She grabbed a tape measure to show me how wrong my view was.

I laid down on the floor with Gracie and Basco and sighed. I listened to them gently snore and thought about how soft their ears were. Their hearing and their sense of smell are the core of their perception. Basco is totally blind. Yet he's completely adjusted to a non-visual life: sniffs & smells the cool air more, can hear the snap of a deer's hoof on a twig outside the house at night, feels the vibrations of Gracie's thundering paws racing on the floor as she bounds up to greet him -- he wags and barks at her.

We are not at the hospital nor are we planning on going. This whole visual meltdown is grating on my nerves, obviously. On top of it all, if we go anywhere, MK's insisting on driving my car because my acuity is off. Worried I might drive into something or perceive that a vehicle or object is actually farther than it actually is. I think she may be on to something and I might have to consider this option while she's here.

At least I can see the snow falling outside. Beautiful even if it is mixed with rain and not sticking to the ground. Hard to believe I'm seeing all of this during the day from my Oakland home. At least, with my double vision, I get to see twice as much of it.

Eye See

Second eye appointment in as many days.
I'm nervous, sad, confused. For the multitude of years I've dealt with my rancid vision, I am a bit distressed that I've had a sudden onset of visual acuity loss (more than I normally felt that is "usual") and double vision -- well, I've had it for about 5 -6 months, but tried to ignore it. At last, four days ago, after struggling with picking up a pen, that is, trying to locate 'which' was the correct implement of the two I saw, I called for an appointment. To give an idea, it's not unlike in the movies when the camera pans into the spy's binoculars and we see two images. However, as 007 adjusts the lens in the center of the field glasses to create one sharp image, I still remain at two, not having been born with a dial resting upon my nose.

It had been about a year since I was last in to see my eye doc so I was due anyway. Because I tend to lose (myopia//nearsightedness) about -.25 to -.75 in my eyes each year, I have to follow up with the optho peops. I love my Kaiser Permanente docs; my sight is awful, not unlike that of, say, an 80 year old, yet I receive full, comprehensive treatment until I can see with finite acuity, or at least to a level that, physiologically, my eyes can manage. Not perfectly with my contacts, but well enough (to what we consider 20/40 or 20/50?).

Now, however, I'm in the waiting area. I'm wearing my glasses. They are thick: Coke bottle thick. I cannot read anything without lenses of any sort unless the text is within a quarter inch of my face. Even then, no promises. I'm dilated. So these words I'm scribbling down are up and down over the line. It's like seeing under water, or so I assume, as I've never had the opportunity to see quasi-clearly underwater like the rest of you folks.

The older couple sitting shoulder-to-shoulder across from me, they're in their 70s, I'd guess, he's a Sikh, and she's in some type of sari. They're staring at me like I'm some sort of car wreck. As if they know it's not right to stare, but they simply cannot peel their eyes away from the young woman with the incredibly bad, bad vision. It's a little peculiar, actually, given that I am in the waiting area of the Ophthamology department. I mean, most people sitting here have some sort of ocular issue. Perhaps it's my age? Am I too young to have these 1/2 centimeter thick glasses? Are the frames not fashionable enough? Is my zipper open? No, just checked. Then I wonder, Who Cares? So, I write.

I've been in and out of this department's doors three times already today: different tests, different exams. On Wednesday, when I first saw my fabulous eye doc, he joked that because of the severity of my eye issues, he truly felt he was earning his salary that day. Today is no different.

When the ophthamology tech called my name for the peripheral test, she looked at the huddle of white-haired people, not me. When the next tech hollered my name for the intra-ocular photos, she too, looked towards the clustered seats filled with seniors. She appeared to be surprised when I popped up and greeted her. "CCCatherine?" Yes, I replied. "Oh, I thought we were going to take some photos for a possible lens replacement." Yes, that's right. "Oh, okay. I figured you were.... please follow me." I understood. I'm younger than the average person with such severe myopia.

My eyes are fully dilated. The Retinal photos of my eyes look similar to a de-shelled and illuminated chicken egg with a vascular embryo still inside. The lens focuses beyond my pupil and shoots images of the macula, nerve, and all parts within, leading to the back side where the retina attaches.

The image is round, not unlike the spherical nature of a standard eye ball. It is glazed in a yellowy hue filled with a mass of interconnected red, spidery vines. There's no real shape, they branch and spread from one tributary to the next. It seems random. the only real form is the photographer's mechanical circumference which is perfect, like a ping pong ball.

Within the right eye -- the still images pop up onto an adjacent computer monitor available for the patients to view -- there is a large messy glob, like gristle or something floating in our soup that we spoon past in order to get to the good stuff below. This whitish dumpling is the macula. It stretches a tiny jet stream finger out to the rear of the eye.

The left eye is not quite the same. It has a similar mushy blob that stretches out into a bumpy jetty towards the rear of the eye as well. However, instead of finding a connection in a thin outer layer, its gnarled line tethers into a granular, peppery pillow.

In the world of clocks and geometry, we would consider the lumpy schmalz - the macula - the central portion, say, from where the hands would pivot. If you imagine looking through the pupil and into the eye, you'd see its girth that spreads out like a fist from approximately eleven to just past five o'clock, or 80 degrees to 260 degrees, (fist-wise, forefinger to pinkie).

The thin white jetty, the ocular nerve, rests on the horizon, or at 180 degrees, and stretches back towards the rear of the eye from the cloudy white mass. In my left eye, it stops abruptly, as if unwilling to collide with this grey boulder - an impendiment to time or movement in my sight; blocking my view of life ahead.

Although both eyes have the bulbous, mashed lump in the center and fairly similar ocular nerves, the left's mirroring of the right's similarity ends there. The left has this alien counter-balance, potentially a cause to my newly formed horrid and double vision. I have lost 25% (-6) vision in the left in one year. Not so good. Viewing this grainy pebble in my eye set me back. I suddenly felt like I was a token in the Parker Bros. game of Sorry: Go Back 6 Paces, back to the ugly gravel that rests near the back row of my eye. Too bad I don't get to start over again all fresh and new.

We're discussing surgery. The opthamology surgeon said that I was "special" -- not as in low I.Q. special, either -- but because of the migraines, severe vision loss, severe myopia, the sudden diplopia (double vision) ,lazy eye (Amblyopia), and bilateral cataracts. (I think the cataracts are the least of my problems.) My eyes are old and rapidly aging. I've been referred to a retinal specialist because of the unknown mass which rests near what she thought was a tiny tear.

Because I wear contact lenses ALL the time, my eyes need to relax, take a natural shape without them. I walked into today's appointment with them on. For the retinal specialist I'll be sans contacts for a week and she will be able to ascertain and determine all the crud within my eye. Yippee!! She may even do the surgery, if need be.

I asked about the lazy eye because I'm vain. Can it be fixed? Yes. Will such a surgery (on the ocular muscles) rectify the double vision? No.

The day threw me off. What I thought would take an hour bled into nearly four. Although I've known that this day would come, I expected it to arrive when I was in my 60s or 70s, not my 40s. I did not anticipate the severity of diplopia, the severe vision loss in a year, the sandy rock near my retina.

And to my friends who know me, do I tell them, 'Hey, you know I can't see, right? Well, it's worse than usual: I can barely see the two of you, and with what I've just learned, I feel like I've just been broad-sided.'

<><>
This weekend I met a man, aged 81, who had ocular muscle surgery to correct his amblyopia. He knew going in that it wouldn't make his vision perfectly aligned, but just two days out, he felt that the two views were closer, not perfect, not one (he knew this would not occur), but closer.

I'd like to say that I feel as if I'm ten times more shaken up than when I learned I'd torn my shoulder apart...again. Most of this, I imagine, is because I have absolutely no control over any of what's happened physiologically. Until I see the retinal specialist (it's funny to say this, since I'll be wearing my glasses which don't give me the best acuity!), most is speculation. My vision has always been my proverbial Achilles Heel and now it's finally kicked my feet out from under my being.

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Today, now five days after my eye appointment, I met again with my doctor in SF and had another battery of lab tests and X-rays to rule out or determine one thing or another. Soon, right? Soon we will find out something. Some thing or cause or reason or idea as to why certain things that I feel shouldn't be happening are. It can only get better from here, right?

I see two sunrises and two sunsets which rise and fall side-by-side. There are two trees budding cherry blossoms, twice as many geese and ducks in the lake, and twice as much rain in my blurry view. But I love the rain, the water, and the sunrises and sunsets really do bring me a lot of peace and joy.

I breathe but one deep breath. It's pouring outside and the wind is gusting cold blasts through my thin windows and blinds. I don't see as much but hear and feel it all. Other senses heightened.

If you can, think positively, visualize, per se, clear vision for me. I'm trying to. Power of positive thinking, right? It can only get better from here. It must. Shoulders down, back straight, Breathe one more breath.

Breathe and Release

Breathe and Release.

Seems easy but the diaphragm struggles.

The Cure is time.

Yet how can time be a cure when we talk about Time in a Bottle? Aren't bottles a bit confining?

Breathe and Release. Even the best of everything will settle where it's meant to be.


Sew up the heart, stitch by stitch, breathe, gently, release slowly. Grieve, breathe, release, believe.

Stars and the General Masses

Stars. I love stars. I enjoy watching clouds, big masses of nothingness floating by in my view. They move, change shape, stretch out into elongated fingers that stretch into other white masses. With the right climate, those wispy fingers form into other shapes, stretching far beyond the eye can see. A bird, running dog, bull's head, or Wile E. Coyote in hot pursuit of the ever-changing Road Runner. Comical in the moment, a delight to see and feel the release from within as the imagination releases, the tension melts away.

I saw such clouds the other day. Outside the sun shone brightly, blue sky. It was a sunglasses day.

Inside, the clouds had already formed - unmoving, they were blobby but not, with stringy hairs poking out, reaching out towards other whitishy, hairy brethren. This was white on black, a still image. A side view. Hardly noticeable, no Mickey Mouse or Flintstone character. A mossy looking cloud resting deep, hiding, actually below the breast close to my chest. Like a coveted treasure - it looked like a spoonful of yogurt that was sliding apart, gravity or centrifugal force drawing it away from its core. Just the one, about a quarter's breadth, maybe a little thicker, but wide enough for a thumb to rest upon.

What is this, this cloud, this deviant from my imagination? Why is this not shape-shifting into something I like, a tree, a moon, or a heart that denotes the love I feel for someone? It's stretching alright, but into what? More of itself or, worse, is it reaching out into other areas , creating toxic clouds that don't belong?

I don't want this here. I don't want to know that my right side has this misplaced postage stamp of unwelcomness that hides beneath my breast tissue like some sort of evil nymph or ogre under a mass of morning glory or outstretched fern.

I am healthy. I have no risk factors. I have nothing that calls attention to this cloudiness that has decided to stay with me rather than move on to the next environment. It does not enlighten my imagination nor release my stressors.

This cloud, this stellate cluster, this little mass, its presence is not welcome.