The Aftermath
The days following the accident were pretty dark and bleak. Every morning I would wake up, eagerly fluttering my eyes to gain focus, holding on to the tiniest shred of hope that I’d have improved vision, only to be disappointed again and again. It was so disheartening and gut wrenching each and every time - like reliving the torture of those initial moments of panic I felt immediately after the accident where I literally could not see at all out of my left eye - over and over. I knew my mental game was important to healing and tried to remain cautiously optimistic that I would eventually see improvement. But innately I had (legitimate) growing concern with each passing day, ever towing the line of hopeful and realistic.
The Emergency Room Doctor at the hospital referred me to an Ophthalmologist. My appointment was scheduled for first thing the next morning at 8:00 AM. I took that as a sign of the serious nature of the injury. The Ophthalmologist noted the enlarged left pupil and saw blood and swelling behind the eye, a possible sign of retina damage. I was given two types of eye drops: one was a steroid to be taken four times a day to bring down the inflammation. The vile taste of that medicine would linger in my throat for hours and just as the taste would begin to fade, my next dose would be due. The other drops were to assist with the dilation. I saw the Ophthalmologist a few more times that week, he confirmed the left eye’s dilated pupil would likely always remain larger than the right eye. He likened the impact to the eye as being squished and stuck in that squeeze. He recommended constant sunglasses for the light sensitivity the dilation inflicted. He also gave me a plastic patch to wear at night so I wouldn’t accidentally touch my eye, indicating the first week was the most crucial for healing.
When I say those first few weeks were dark, only now can I comedically see the irony of my vision loss and the selected metaphor. But at the time? Oh man was I doing my best Justin Timberlake. I cried and cried. I cried me a damn river. Truthfully, it still leaks out of me often. I both was and am still in such disbelief that this happened and that I’m continuing to deal with the lingering consequences and the impact of the ramifications on my life. I know I’m not a spring chicken, still I’m truly perplexed that this far out I’m in such significant pain and just how crazy fast an airbag strikes you.
General fatigue, grogginess, muscles aches, spasms, and stiffness, jaw tension, neck, shoulder, and back pain. Constant headaches, headaches that lead to migraines. Spots, flashes, and squiggly lines plague my vision and continue to catch me off guard. And let’s not forget the persistent throbbing eye pain like I’ve been smacked upside the head by a 2x4 which has yet to fully dissipate even months later.
It wasn’t long before my black eye took full affect and got darker and darker. It lasted for a couple weeks. So in addition to curious looks for wearing sunglasses everywhere I went, I was also causing concern for the black eye I appeared to be concealing. Sadly and kindly I had more than one encounter with a well meaning stranger asking with genuine sincerity if I was “ok,” insinuating my injuries potentially came from malice.
Of course there were moments of levity too. I had to wear the aforementioned eye patch as evening wear. I laughed and giggled as I taped up my eye each night, Macgyvering my pirate ass using multiple band-aids as adhesive at first before finally committing and buying the proper medical tape. (I swallowed my ego, gave in and bought the damn tape, justified as the pain lingered on for many more nights.)
I poked fun of the fact that as the song goes, “I wear my sunglasses at night.” Family and friends teasingly calling me Corey Hart. Personally I preferred Lisa Left Eye Lopes. I referred to myself as Cyclops and Mike Wazowski or even joked that never in my life have I had a love and acceptance for my brown eyes until now (they help camouflage the dilation).
However many jokes I made out of my suffering, underneath it all is the undercurrent that physically and mentally, it was and continues to be a daily challenge.
The appointment two weeks out was a pivotal moment. The Ophthalmologist confirmed my pupil had done the extent of its healing/shrinking, and the persistent blurry vision was a result of a cataract. With the inflammation gone down, he could see a small hole or tear in the retina remained. He ultimately referred me to a retina specialist at Sunnybrook Hospital which was a whole other experience of it’s own! (A post for another day).
The Doctor’s description of what would happen if my retina fully detached from the optic nerve - like peeling wallpaper off a wall then it’s *snapped his fingers* lights out - was a visual I could have done without, thanks doc! Needless to say I was totally terrified to do anything strenuous. It also further provoked my worst fear: a life with vision less adequate than before my accident. Painfully replaying the trauma of having no vision in my left eye the day of the accident is not something I wanted to live with on a daily basis.
I could hardly hold back the tears in his office. I got the requisition from the receptionist and barely got into the car before the tears came tumbling down. I cried the whole way home. It was so hard not to jump ahead to a life filled with fewer of the things I currently enjoy like being outdoors, sunshine at the beach, reading, and writing. Completing all the insurance paperwork was eye exercise enough on most days. Despite trying my best to limit activity, screen time and eye strain, I had this nagging feeling that a lot of my newfound discomfort was here to stay.
Then there was the mental turmoil of being behind the wheel again. Driving after a car accident is not something I’m keen to do, but especially given the nature of this crash, I’m seriously spooked. PTSD is real. Since the car was a write off we replaced it with an SUV, which is an entirely different beast and an adjustment in itself. Layer in my impaired vision (no restrictions for driving from the doctor) and a fear of basically any other vehicle on the road: I’m jumpy, tense, sweaty, white knuckling and also tortured because I pass that dreaded intersection daily.
It’s been truly tough mentally and physically processing and healing inside and out in the wake of this accident. Everything I felt and continue to feel is real, painful, and anguishing. As the days turn to weeks and beyond, how much longer can I continue to grin and bear it? While it’s scary to admit that even months later daily pain remains difficult to endure, that’s the truth. I’m here but I’m still hurting. I realize now more than ever that sometimes even just admitting it’s hard, can be hard. Acknowledging where I am, accepting what’s been lost, feeling the feels is deeply healing. I see that now in a way I never would have before.
