This might be the most disturbing thing I’ve ever written. For some, it may feel like watching YouTube skateboarders wipe out— that physical reaction where your stomach flips and your muscles twitch. Except… I get needles in my eyes. No, not recreationally. And no, I’m not using my eyeballs as an alternative to shooting between the toes. (Though I wonder…)
The Beginning of the Blur
A few years ago, I noticed the center of my vision was slightly out of focus. Naturally, I went in for new glasses. Nope. Specialist time. They dilated, scanned, and shined every light known to man into my eyes. The diagnosis: diabetic macular edema—fluid behind the retina. “It’s like a little pimple,” the doctor said. “Totally treatable. We’ll inject some medicine to reduce the swelling.” Great! I’m not even good with eye drops, but fine. Then he added: “The injection is expensive, but it works very well.” Injection? Like, with a needle? Into my eye? What if I spasm mid-shot and the needle starts spinning like a dervish? What if I blink? What if my eye sphincters? He read my face. “We numb the white of the eye. The injection is quick. You’ll be fine.” “Oh—and we use a clamp to keep your eyelid open.” Like Clockwork Orange? This is getting worse. Fast Forward: Life on the Needle So… 1.5 years go by. Eyeball shots every four weeks, both eyes.
The good news? My vision is nearly perfect. The weird news? I can see the medicine floating around afterward— a shimmering, multicolored amoeba in my visual field for about an hour. Then I had the heart attack. Suddenly, no one cares about my eyes anymore. But I still love the moment when a nurse comes for blood or an IV and I casually say: “Don’t worry—I get regular eyeball injections.” Sometimes their hand starts to shake.
The Submarine
Post-cardiac recovery, I go back for more eye treatment. “Sorry, John—the old medicine might increase your risk of another heart event.” Great. Now what? “Good news! Steroids work really well. We didn’t use them before because they can cause glaucoma… but we’ll monitor with drops.” Hmm. Not thrilled. But okay. “So—we’ll numb the eye with an injection, then insert the implant.” Wait—stop. Insert? Implant? “The steroid is like a little rocky chunk of medicine. It dissolves slowly over three months. Think of it as a tiny submarine in your eye.” Whoa, whoa, whoa. How does it get in?! (Bigger needle.)
Angry Eyes
I got the right eye done three weeks ago. Left eye done yesterday. I won’t have to go back for three months. That’s a win. And yes—I do see the little submarine shadow from time to time. It floats around in there like a tiny, smug sentinel. But yesterday, we had a complication. My eye started bleeding like a stuck pig. Eventually it stopped… but now I have full-on red eye. One of them is glowing like I’m halfway to Terminator. I keep thinking: “What if I get roid rage in my eyes?” Maybe I’ll team up with Mr. Potato Head and his angry eyes.
At this point, we could share sunglasses.
A Work Progressing 