The Procedure

Sometimes you have an experience that is too surreal for words.  And then you try to apply words.  And don't fully do justice to the experience, but you feel like the experience needs to be documented.  This is one of those stories...   One that I won't soon forget.

I’ve had issues with dry eyes for years.  Maybe even decades by now… I’m old enough to measure my life in decades these days.  Anyway, my eyes are always dry. I can’t think of the last time I’ve cried a real tear.  Not my wedding, not the birth of any of my children, not a sad movie… I just don’t. Because my eyes just don’t. And so after being even more miserable than usual for several months with my dysfunctional non-tear-producing slacker eyes, I decided to go seek professional help.  Since I’ve had this issue off and on for years, with little relief from the standard treatments, my ophthalmologist recommended something that she referred to as a “gentle type of heat treatment” (trade name withheld intentionally) that I could try out as a new option. And being a fan of both my ophthalmologist and new treatment options, I decided it seemed worthwhile, and the appointment was made.

I arrived on time, and cheerfully greeted the somewhat less cheerful receptionist.  I checked in, waited only a few short minutes (which in this clinic is nothing short of miraculous), and then I met Marcia.  Oh, Marcia…

We walked into the treatment room, and the fun began.  “Have they explained what exactly we’re doing today?” I have a pretty well-known habit of playing Dr. Google on the interwebs, and so I gave a confident “Yep! Sure have!”.  Her chuckle should have given her away, but didn’t. “Well, our treatment is in four parts…” she continued. Given my full confidence in my google-ing the previous night, I didn’t pay it much attention.  She handed me a couple of brochures, sat me down in the chair, and tipped me back. Within a couple short minutes, I was ready for what I expected to be something akin to a spa treatment for my eyelids. “If any of this is too painful or you need me to stop, just let me know, and I will stop…” she said.  It was then that I realized that maybe there was a red flag off in the distance. Like… Did I really need a safe word for my eye spa experience? Really? REALLY MARCIA!?

Phase One.

“This part is what one gentleman jokingly referred to as “The Dremel”...” she said with a light chuckle in her voice.  [Uneasy laughter from me] “It’s kind of like going to the dentist.” [Internal panic level rising quickly] “See, look. (she showed me what looked like a polishing tool at the dentist but with a little flat disk on the end instead of the rubber one that holds the tooth polish.)  It’s kind of like the tooth polisher at the dentist. This little silicone disk with these cute little nubbins on it will clean your lid margins.” I realize the term “nubbins” was supposed to make it seem less like a medieval torture device, but to no avail. “And if you need me to stop, I can.” Oh no, Marcia… I’m good.  I pride myself on my relatively high pain threshold. I’ve given birth after all, I can handle pain.

And then it began.  

If you could imagine the sensation of purposefully turning your eyelids inside out and then walking into a sandstorm in the Sahara?  Maybe. Broken glass crumbs blown by gale-force winds directly into your eyes? Could be. A Dremel rotary tool? That gentleman hit the nail right on the head.  I’m not sure the type of pain was even remotely similar… If it was possible for eyes to curl into the fetal position, they would have. They’d be rocking in a corner somewhere. A normal person would have been in tears I have no doubt… But since my eyes are effectively the Atacama desert as far as ocular moisture is concerned (thanks David Attenborough for the knowledge to toss that name around), there was only a wish I could cry.  A wish and no tears. If I was a smoker, I’d have needed a cigarette after that. But I’m not. And so I didn’t… But if I were…

It’d be a hard call on whether or not being in labor was worse than this. No exaggeration. I’d have to give it some serious thought.  Imagine someone filing out the rough spots on the inside of your eyelids with a small power tool. Sounds unpleasant? Sounds like something you’d steer clear of?  Well, dear reader, that’s exactly what it was. And then imagine that the person is trying to make cheerful small talk about her (presumably lovely) grandchildren.  Because she was.

Phase one complete.

Phase two.

 

My new friend Marcia then gladly informed me that we were moving to the next phase of treatment.  I asked if she meant “the part where you melt my eyelids?” and she chuckled and said that they preferred to call it a “heat treatment” or “eye spa treatment”.  Whatever the title, it sounded less traumatic than the violation I’d just survived. And for 10 minutes, she held the little heated device over my eyelid to encourage the tear-production fairies to get their crap together and start functioning (my words, not hers).  “Are you asleep yet?” she asked, assuming i was in a deep state of relaxation. “No ma’am, pretty sure all hopes of relaxation left when you used the previous torture device.” She chuckles again. “I keep thinking I should get some relaxing music in here to help people relax more.” I don’t have the heart to tell her that she’d have to follow that with a full bottle of wine in order to make that even a remote possibility.  This part of the treatment wasn’t awful. I remember naively thinking to myself, “I can get through this.”

Phase two complete.

Phase three.

“This next thing, which was designed by one of our very own staff is affectionately called the shoehorn.” THE WHAT?!?  She shows me what does indeed look like a small metal shoehorn. What in God’s creation does my eye need a shoehorn for?! “I’m just going to slide this in between your eyeball and your eyelid so I can apply some pressure to eyelid and not injure your eyeball…” Great, Marcia.  You just go ahead and GENTLY SLIDE THAT PIECE OF SHOEHORN INTO MY EYE AND I WILL JUST BE SITTING HERE FULLY FRIGGIN’ RELAXED.  “Here, I’m just going to give you one of these eye drops to numb up your eye.”  Small favors. She puts drops in, and goes right to shoehorn-ing my eye. And pressing on it so that it feels like she’s trying to more or less scoop out my eyelids.  I’d be lying if I said it was a great feeling. But she’s cheerfully chatting on, and so I assume that I’m not mortally wounded yet. “Did that hurt?” “Yeah. That really hurt.”  “So do you mind if I do it one more time??” Did Marcia really forget the &%@#$ safe word?!? “Oh, look at what I got out of THAT one….” she says as she gleefully shows me the freshly removed shoehorn… Generally that kind of thing doesn’t bother me, but after feeling like my eye has been violated for the past 20 minutes, I can’t even really feign enthusiasm.

Phase three complete.

Phase four.

“Ok, my dear.  Time for the last part.  I’m going to put some coconut oil on a cotton swab.  Just the generic brand of coconut oil, no need for name brand.  Put it on the edge of your eyelid just so, put a tissue over your eyes, and then this heated mask will stay on for 10 minutes. You should order one of these for yourself… You can charge it by USB.  Pay attention to laundering instructions, though, if you have to wash it too much, you’ll lose the lovely lavender scent…” Lavender is not my scent. But the ten minutes of relatively undisturbed eyes under the mask wasn’t terrible.  Not compared to the dremel. Or the shoehorn.

Then there was some more small talk and the discussion of when she’d see me again and then I escaped that fresh hell.  I can’t say I didn’t learn some lessons, though. Ask for more detail. Be skeptical of everyone named Marcia (Sorry, people named Marcia.) Pick out a safe word for every procedure well in advance.  

Make sure there’s a coffee place on your way home so you can drown your sorrows.

What a difference a year makes.

Tomorrow marks an anniversary that we never knew we'd look forward to.  Not because it marks something that's super worth celebrating, but that we've survived.  Collin has survived, the other kids have survived, and we've survived while getting everyone from point A to point B for a year.

A year ago tonight, I went to bed a normal frazzled mom of four healthy and normal and wonderful kids.  I woke up the next morning to a three year with with an earache and a six year old who'd peed the bed again, a day's worth of sub plans to scramble to get together, and if you know me, you already know what happened.

What a difference a year makes.  It would have been very easy for us to wallow and feel sorry for the hand that Son Number One was dealt, but as we've told him hundreds of times, we love him just as he is, and Type 1 Diabetes is a part of him now. Some days it would be easy to grouch, gripe, or wallow, and then I remember how much easier it would be if I were a 7 year old kid.  And so we will plaster on our smiles and press onward, and do our best.  Some days it's good, some days it could be better, and every day is a new day.

From the very first day of his diagnosis, I've been blessed countless times by the kindness of others.  From our awesome pediatrician who doubted my mom-diagnosis, and then stayed extra with us to tell us about her Type 1 son once our diagnosis was all but sure.  Every staff member we interacted with at the University during the hospital stay, especially our amazing nurse Laurie whose laugh was a bright spot in some tough days.  The friends who took great care to prepare some diabetic friendly meals in the days after we came home from the hospital.  The nurses and researchers who have helped care for him when we're at the hospital for clinical trial visits, and who take great care to make sure he picks something really cool from the prize closet.  The staff--teachers, associates, bus drivers, secretaries, and our school nurse--at school who constantly are going above and beyond for him. The local Lion's Club who came to me within a couple of days of being home from the hospital to tell me that they'd love to send him to a summer camp for kids with diabetes.  The staff members at Camp Hertko Hollow--every single one of them.  To the parents of other Type 1 kids who have been a source of information as well as support. To our family and our friends who have been learning so much right along with us... People I didn't know would find their way into our lives, but to whom we are eternally grateful.

I've administered more shots to my child than any parent should have to, become a pro at counting carbs for meals and predicting the subsequent changes in blood sugar.  Our home has sharps containers sitting around, and you'll probably find more than one diabetic test strip laying around (because 7 year olds...).  We've learned the difference between sugar free and no sugar added... We know we can carry OUR bag into Kinnick stadium when others can't (this was kind of a big deal!)...  We've come to rely on technology to alert us of high or low blood sugars, and a plethora of other details that we never expected to be important.  But that's not the big stuff.

We've learned that we can count on our seven year old to know what to do and how to respond in a situation that may be scary to others.  He knows when he needs to eat carbs, when to test ketones, when to calibrate his glucose sensor, how to administer his own insulin, and how to tell others about diabetes.  We've learned that the emotional roller coaster he is sometimes on must seem bigger and scarier to him than it does to us, and so we have to model calm as much as we can.  We know that he is still destined for greatness, even if the path he's on to get there may have gone a slightly different direction.  We've learned that he probably won't be an astronaut or a fighter pilot--and we are ALL good with that.

Everyone would do well to take a page from Son Number One's book.  Be grateful always, even when you're 7 and have more shots every day than most people have in a year.  Be kind.  There's literally no reason not to be.  Look on the bright side.  Could things be better?  Always.  But they could always be worse, too.  Take every opportunity you can to educate yourself and be your best advocate. Doesn't matter if you're 6 ot 60--knowledge is power, and the sooner that you realize that, the better off you'll be.  Ask him, he is really active in his care.  (He has an appointment next week and "can't wait" to see what his A1C is...  Because of course he can't.

Anyway.  It's been a year.  It's been a long year, and a year that I didn't hope to have, but that I'm grateful to have survived along with one of the best kids a mama could ever hope for.