The Waiting Room
"In the room the women come and go, talking of Michelangelo..." from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, by T.S. Eliot
Fragments of this poetic confession appear in old wrinkle-pockets, tucked deep in my brain, like the hankie I use to dab my eyes in the Waiting Room of the Doctor’s Office, decades later.
Today in the room, the women come and go, not talking; eyes straight ahead, ready to show an insurance card and sign in for today’s appointment. Since we are in the midst of a viral pandemic, we are masked and more buttoned-down than usual.
The chairs in the waiting room are spaced six feet apart, with separate translucent panels offering diffuse daylight to help us avoid eye contact.
I started this painting, “The Waiting Room,” to look busy on my iPad.
A quick sketch of what I could see about the patient to my right…just her pink summer dress draped over her long crossed legs. We were all waiting for our turn to be called back for images or procedures or more tests.
I was surprised later to see how the sketch caught the feeling in the room: cold marbled floor beneath a thick beige fog of isolation and worry. More than a dozen women, silent and uneasy, kept apart and holding our breath.
Each of us second-guessing, weighing scenarios and alternatives. The poet’s voice inched up the back of my neck again, deep and slow, from Eliot’s Love Song:
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
I cleared my throat to choke a giggle.
My mind replays that first hint of a diagnosis, seven years ago, during a tedious routine checkup by the wretched Eye Doctor. The faint ache of dilation, my chin and forehead held firm against the curved cold steel…the punishing bright light and the brusque third degree:
“Look at my ear. Look up. Look down. To the left. To the right. Up again. Down. Up. Down. Look to the left. Look straight ahead. Blink.”
He jots some notes and changes instruments. Repeat. Repeat. Blot. Jot.
He leaves the room for a few minutes, then returns.
“OK, I am going to refer you to a Retina Specialist to confirm what I think I see here. He can fit you in on Friday at 3:00. The appointment is made, here’s the address in Palm Springs. We’ll know a lot more once he sees you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, I can’t say for sure, so let’s wait till he’s had a chance to take a look, and not get ahead of ourselves.”
“OK, but what word should I write in my diary tonight with a question mark ?”
“Tumor.”
“OK!”
I blink and blot my right eye again, swing my purse over my shoulder, dogleg out through the waiting room and into the late afternoon sun. I see where my soulmate is parked and join him for a chorus of, “Tumor? Tumor? What the Heck!”
(Think Jim Carey in the movie ‘Liar Liar.’ “I’M INDICTED! I’M INDICTED!”)
“WHAT THE HECK! What the heck? What the HECK! WHAT THE HECK?”
“OK, but what word should I write in my diary tonight with a question mark ?”
An Ocular Melanoma Specialist, referred by the Retina Specialist, disintegrated the tumor by stitching a container holding a tiny but powerful radiation bomb into my eye for a week that summer. I am still monitored regularly to check for metastasis: cancer cells moving to other organs. All’s well so far on that issue.
An Ocular Melanoma Specialist, referred by the Retina Specialist, disintegrated the tumor by stitching a container holding a tiny but powerful radiation bomb into my eye for a week that summer.
But when I returned two years later to have the original Eye Doctor remove a cataract in that same eye, another issue popped up. During the simple surgery to remove the cloudy lens and replace it with an artificial one…in medical parlance, ‘The Lens Went Down!’
Which means it shattered and ripped through my eye, cutting through the vitreous humor, damaging the cornea, and detaching the retina.
When I came to after about four hours, I remembered the Eye Doctor’s voice shouting, “Get Him Back Here! Get that guy back here now!”
Later it was confirmed by a nurse that ‘that guy’ was the anesthesiologist, and he was needed because I was allegedly kicking the Eye Doctor during the procedure.
When the Eye Doctor ushered me over to my soulmate to take me home, he mumbled about some unforeseen complications and that I had an appointment for the next day with the Retina Specialist to finish up.
“What are you talking about?'“
“Don’t worry. This will be a piece of cake for him.”
My eye was what Retina Surgeons call an ‘angry eye.’ That sounded about right.
“There will be two major surgeries, nine months apart. In the first one I will clean it out and repair what I can, and build a scaffolding to support the parts that will be reattached. In those nine months, the eye should be as undisturbed as possible.”
“OK”
“We’ll medicate and monitor for high pressure, glaucoma, infections, anything near the Optic Nerve. Do not lie on your back, at all. Always lie with the left side of your face down. Keep the hard shell mesh protector patch on at all times. Do not fly or drive through changing altitudes.”
“OK”
“After nine months we’ll schedule another surgery to take the stitches out.”
“OK”
“At that time it will be either good news or bad news.”
“Don’t worry. This will be a piece of cake for him.”
It will either be either good news or bad news.
Breathe in the Good Stuff. Breathe out the Bad Stuff.
I painted these two artworks to show what things look like to me now, seven years after all the commotion. The first photo depicts why the acuity in my right eye is coded as CF, rather than the more familiar 20/20 or 20/50, etc. In my case, the technician stands before me and asks how many fingers she is holding up. Sometimes I get it, sometimes not. In either case she notes, ‘CF’. (Counts Fingers.)
The second composition gives an idea of how things appear when both my eyes are looking together. I guess my brain tries to combine the information from the two very different sources, so it gets a general idea of shape, color, and location…but accepts a somewhat blurry, distorted or abstract interpretation.
This being the case, using traditional artist tools, paint, brushes, easels, pastels, etc. became exhausting, disappointing and depressing. Too often the paint on the brush didn’t arrive on the canvas where I thought it would . By the time I cleaned up each mess, I couldn’t remember what I was trying to do. The fatigue and frustration required more rest and self care than I had ever allowed myself.
While focusing on medical related energy stores needed for healing, I had to locate a space in myself for adjusting to many changes in my lifestyle activities and my personal and social identity. In what world was it OK for me to not drive a car? not meet friends for lunch? not travel? not read books on my own? not go shopping? not walk past the first corner up the street, not host visitors?
It was Grace and the process of elimination that guided me back to more quiet reflection, more deep breathing, more gratitude lists. There was no choice.
One of the most valuable gifts that came out of my vision impairment has been the discovery that I can create unique and beautiful artworks on an iPad. I can hold it close and with one eye and one finger, figure out how to use colors, brush strokes, blending, editing, saving! I can create high resolution images that can be shared, printed to hang on walls, featured on stationery, housewares, fabrics, voila!
There’s a good reason to get out of bed in the morning again! So far I don’t have one piece in my archive of digital paintings that I don’t Love! Every single one of them makes me crazy happy! I have much more to learn, I can keep creating things, and I can share!
And if I can, anyone can!
I have already found that some people appreciate what I share and cheer me on, Some are encouraged to start doing similar things themselves, in their own way.
P.S
Things are still much more clear and pretty for me when I cover or close the right eye, but either way my depth perception is dodgy. I tend to list to the left and lurch through doorways, leaving various shades of maroon bruises on my arms from the awkward defensive moves.
But my soulmate has learned to give me wide berth. We need at least one of us off the Injured List at any one time.
So here’s to Happiness in all its infinite forms. Beauty is to Share.
I feel honored to read your story. And to see your lovely art. Your optimism and gratitude are infectious. Are you writing in longer form? You have such a way for words. I particularly love your description of the Optimist, "He jots some notes and changes instruments. Repeat. Repeat. Blot. Jot." So poetic. It put me in the room with you seeing the images through the screens. And I love “OK, but what word should I write in my diary tonight with a question mark?” Fabulous!
You are in good company of artists who have dealt with vision impairment: Monet and O’Keefe are two I can think of off hand. Your positive attitude is very motivating! You have adapted and forged ahead creating beautiful art and words of inspiration for us. You are an inspiration. Thank you!