...for disasters. *sings* Fah-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la. (End song.)
Okay...So, my laundry was violated. Prior to this, I had two medical issues. The first was splitting my foot open and bleeding so much a pair of socks was ruined. (Didn't notice the bleeding right away, crossed my feet, and ruined the other sock by staining it with blood. (Sorry, Midnight Son!)) The other was a retinal bleed, and it had been fading, as expected.
Perhaps I should explain that last one, eh? I'll use a quote from my little treatise on diabetes, The Suicide Note to do so.
"...this gets a wee bit complicated. You see, lack of control of diabetes causes damage to small blood vessels. The eye is filled with such vessels. Damaged vessels are weak, will balloon, and even hemorrhage. These leaks tend to scar the retina. But that’s not the worst of it. You see, the eye needs blood and oxygen delivered to the right places. The loss of this optical nourishment is called ischemia. In a wondrous little process called neovascularization, new vessels start growing in the eye. Good news, right? Wrong! These new vessels are just as weak, if not weaker, as the original blood vessels. They, too, will hemorrhage. Eventually, blood will flow into the vitreous gel of the eye, blocking vision. The scarring that can occur without treatment can cause the retina to detach. The happy little visual receptors, commonly known as rods and cones, stop working because they are no longer attached to the cells beneath them. These detached areas become blank spots in the vision. Get enough of these areas, and the diabetic becomes completely blind."
So I had laser therapy to fix my retinopathy issues about a year and a half ago. Well, the way my right eye is behaving, I believe it's that time again. Why? Because for no reason whatsoever, last night, my right eye started bleeding again. Mind you, it's nothing that can be seen with the naked eye of a third party. It takes dilation of the pupil and a lens to see it. Oh, but I can see it plenty. It's not a tiny spot, as one might think. It's a smear of darkness that exists in three dimensions, just off center of my vision. The extra fun is that my eye keeps trying to focus on this 3-D smear, while also trying to focus on the world around me. It is truly headache inspiring.
I had a bleed that had almost completely faded, and now I have a new one. I was adjusting to these things, expecting them to fade, and then I would have a new eye issue months later. No worries. One on top of the other? That old panic is visiting me again.
Now, on GitP, I frequently give the advice that is one doesn't do anything to help themselves, there's little anyone online can do for them. We can't leap from the world of the Internet and escort them to whatever help they need. Well, while heading in for a shower a few days ago, I was admiring the swelling of that now open wound on my left foot. Looks infected to me.
Off to the doctor I go, and...Well, I saw the doctor who treats me like a moron. It doesn't seem to matter how intelligent I prove myself to be, he seems to feel the need to make me feel like an idiot. For example, I learned ages ago that scar tissue forms a kind of thatch. The cells weave in such a way that they tend to become very tough and disruptive to normal functions. This is why, after surgery on a joint, physical therapy may involve a painful kind of massage by the therapist to smooth the tissue out. Upon mentioning this to the doctor, he informed me that diabetic scar tissue doesn't thatch, but becomes layered, and those layers tend to slide against one another. Is this true? How would I know? And some part of me thinks he invented this "fact" only to make me feel stupid. What's more, he said it's not infected, but told me to keep using the prescription antibiotic cream I have, and to come back in two weeks.
Then I have the Twilight Zone dream last night, and it's bothering me a lot today for reasons beyond my understanding. Please keep in mind that this is a dream, and won't make a whole lot of sense.
I went to my 20th high school reunion. Because I had to repeat a year, I somehow felt entitled in the dream to go to two different reunions - the class I should have graduated with, and the class I did graduate with. So I went to the former, and found myself talking with Amy, a girl - now a woman - whom I had a crush on when I was eight years old. (Yes, I always knew girls were more interesting than baseball cards.) How she entered my dream is a mystery, as I haven't invested much thought to her in ages. I recently made mention of playing "Doctor" with her when we were kids, but that was it. But as we chatted, we revealed that we'd been thinking about each other on and off for years, and came to the realization that we were destined to be with one another.
Ummm...Okay? Word gets out to the rest of the people at the reunion, and the DJ on hand announces to everyone that Amy and I have decided to go off and live happily ever after. Everyone there then insists that we do the traditional "White Chicken Dance." I have NO idea where that came from, but Amy and I proceed to dance, while those around us smile and applaud. The thing is, I was handicapped on and off in the dream. Sometimes Amy would have to literally drag me during the dance, and at other times I was able to execute moves that would impress professional dancers.
Cut to a scene where I'm trying to find my Dad to tell that I am about to settle down with the woman of my dreams. (Literally!) But my father was living in a bizarre house that seemed to come from an MC Escher drawing, and there were notes around the house saying "No geeks allowed!" I apparently found my Dad at the old family business in Brooklyn, and was trying to explain that I was going to become a Conservative Jew to match Amy's religion, and that she was from Trinidad. I also made mention of the "White Chicken Dance," at which point the music for the plain old "Chicken Dance" would kick in, and everyone would stop what they were doing to do the silly dance.
Ummm...Huh? Amy wasn't from Trinidad. My ex, Perlin, was. And Perlin wasn't Jewish at all.
Dad's response was an offhand, "That's nice." He was infinitely more concerned with what appeared to be work uniforms. The uniforms were, according to my bizarre dream, white Polo shirts with green and gold logos...and matching underwear. So while I was shouting across the store, asking him what I should do with all the boxes of shirts and underwear, I think I was actually shouting in real life, and the sound of my own raised voice woke me up.
You know, I would be okay with this dream if I could interpret its meaning. But all I can see is a scattered, lonely mind, worried about the future and on the cusp of panicking about the present. Maybe it's the holiday season, and the fact that I am, once again, completely alone. Only one person has sent me anything in the way of a gift, and that "campaign contribution" has gone to basic survival. Mr. Obama's office has yet to reply to my message, and...and...
Suddenly my life seems a lot messier than usual. The disorganization of that dream last night seems to represent that. Add a dose of the holiday blues, and I become a less than happy camper.