In other words, nobody around here is losing an eye, at least according to current plan.
So, we went up to Duke Eye Center yesterday. We were there from about 8:45 in the morning until about 6:45 at night. It was a long day, and people were shining bright lights in my eyes like they were expecting me to give up war secrets. But with the exception of one monolithic, lumbering orderly who expected me to follow him to the CT area without so much as a glance at me or a kind word, every single person I met was thoughtful, helpful, and gentle, even when they were doing something frightening.At one point a nice young doctor approached me with something she referred to as "a metal Q-Tip" and my handler nearly had to have me restrained in my chair.
My handler was Greg, BTW, and if ever a fella passed the sickness portion of the "in sickness and in health" exam with flying colors, it was he. Unfortunately, the test isn't over yet.
You would think, with all the poking and prodding and shining and flashing and testing that I would have been a bit testy at the end of the day, but I was feeling surprisingly calm and grateful. Dr. Mruthyunjaya, who is the boss of my eye, was incredible, even as tired and stressed as I was. He was direct and informative and managed to be compassionate at the same time. I seriously love him like I love Michelle Obama. Except Michelle tells me to exercise and she can't save my life. So maybe I love Dr. M. more.
He confirmed what Dr. S. had told us. It's a melanoma, though not the kind of melanoma you get on your skin. I didn't do anything to cause it. It's medium-sized. We will treat it aggressively, which means with a radioactive patch sewn behind my eye for five days. Yes. I am badass enough that I get an eye patch IN my eye. A nuclear one. Take THAT, sissy pirates.
The doctor is optimistic that this treatment will address the problem. He acknowledges that there is still some chance of metastasis, but he is optimistic that it won't occur. He didn't say what Dr. Google told me, that if this tumor does metastasize, I will die from this cancer. We are not going there right now. Right now I have a doctor who knows his sh*t, who is going to launch a full-scale nuclear attack on this tumor, which I have begun to refer to as "The Situation." It helps me somewhat to think of it as having a spray tan and a low IQ. It's going to be sitting there, waiting for someone to bring it a beer or some hair gel, and it's never going to know what hit it.
I would be lying if I said I wasn't scared. I'm very scared. Only an idiot wouldn't be scared. But I believe in God, and I believe in my doctor, and I believe that God moved me away from the Podunk, GA Regional Medical Center so I could be near this doctor. I'm in good hands, and right now I'm choosing to trust in that. A friend recently posted on Facebook something to the effect of, "Don't ask, 'Why was this done to me?' Ask, 'Why was this done FOR me?' When you do that, everything shifts." So I am trying to remember to ask the right questions, and to be quiet while I wait for further instructions.