Recovery Update: The Bubble, the Blood Vessels & the Crusty Arm

Today was my one-week follow-up after having the silicone oil removed from my left eye, and apparently my recovery story needed another plot twist.

First, the easy update.

My arm is getting crustier.

That sounds disgusting because, frankly, it looks disgusting. The road rash from my disagreement with my prosthetic, gravity, and the carpet is continuing to scab over. It may technically be healing, but aesthetically, we're still several miles away from a Neutrogena commercial.

Now, back to the eye.

For the past several days, I've been talking about the horizon, the vinaigrette, the eclipse and, most recently, this translucent dot or bubble floating around in my vision.

Naturally, that was one of the things I wanted to ask about at today's appointment.

The Good News

The doctor looked at my eye and didn't see the translucent dot I'm seeing.

Okay. That's encouraging.

Apparently, whatever I'm seeing isn't something obvious sitting there waving at him from inside my eyeball.

The Bad News

He said what I'm seeing might be an air bubble.

So after spending the last week describing my eye as an airplane cockpit, apparently there might literally be air involved.

You can't make this stuff up.

The horizon has been shrinking. The vinaigrette has been disappearing. The eclipse came and went.

Now I've potentially got my own tiny bubble level.

👁️🫧

And Then Came the REALLY Bad News

This was the part of the appointment I wasn't particularly excited to hear.

The doctor is concerned enough about the blood vessels in the back of my eye that I may need injections into the eye to help prevent further bleeding or problems with those vessels.

Yes.

Shots. In. My. Eye.

I've dealt with an amputation.

I've dealt with dialysis.

I've had retinal surgery.

I've had silicone oil put into my eye.

I've had silicone oil removed from my eye.

And somehow the phrase "injection into your eye" still manages to get my attention.

I'm not saying that's definitely happening yet. That's the possibility we're now discussing, and we'll see where things go from here.

For now, I'm continuing the recovery process and paying very close attention to what I can—and can't—see.

The good news is that I'm seeing better than I was immediately after surgery.

The weird translucent bubble is still hanging around.

The arm continues to transform into one giant, crusty scab.

And apparently my left eye has decided that one surgery wasn't enough material for this blog.

Stay tuned.

At this rate, my eye may develop Wi-Fi tomorrow.

My Eyes Weren’t Playing Tricks—That Is Not a Parking Space

After dialysis, I made the 30-minute drive to Retina Consultants of South Carolina in Ladson for my eye appointment.

Apparently, the parking lot decided to test my vision before the doctor could.

I saw a vehicle parked in a spot that was not actually a parking space, squeezed unbelievably close to the cars beside it. I am not sure the pictures fully capture just how little room was left between the vehicles.

Maybe this was part of my eye exam:

“Niel, can you identify the illegally parked vehicle?”

Yes. Yes, I can.

The scene reminded me of something that happened many years ago after a business trip. At the time, I was neither physically nor emotionally sober.

I returned to the long-term parking lot at O’Hare, exited the train, and walked down the stairs. My car was parked nearby, which should have been a pleasant surprise after traveling.

Instead, someone had parked beside me in a space that did not exist. Their car was so close to mine that I could not open the driver’s door.

I had to climb into my car through the passenger side—all 350 pounds of me, at least—and maneuver myself across the center console into the driver’s seat.

But before I did that, I gave the illegal parker a reason to get a new paint job.

That was not my proudest moment.

Let me be clear: damaging someone’s vehicle was wrong. Their terrible parking did not justify my response. That story is not advice or something I am celebrating. It is simply an honest example of who I was at the time and how poorly I handled anger and frustration.

Today, I respond differently.

I take a picture. I write a blog post. I point out the problem without creating a bigger one—and without adding an appointment at the body shop to someone’s calendar.

Still, parking in a space that does not exist and leaving barely enough room for other drivers to enter their vehicles is selfish. You do not know whether the person beside you has limited mobility, uses a wheelchair or prosthetic, or physically cannot climb through the passenger side.

And no one—especially after dialysis and on the way to a retina appointment—should have to perform parking-lot gymnastics because you decided the painted lines were merely suggestions.

My eyes may be recovering, but even I could see that was not a parking space.

Be better, people. Be better.

Apparently, My Eye Has an Eclipse Now

Another day, another update from the cockpit of Left Eye Airlines, where apparently the in-flight entertainment has switched from aviation instruments to astronomy.

The good news is that the horizon is getting smaller.

The less-good news?

It’s still there.

That strange line across my vision that I've been comparing to the horizon indicator in an airplane cockpit hasn't completely disappeared. It takes up less of my field of vision than it did before, which I'll count as progress.

But today I discovered another visual effect.

And this one is weird.

I went to a recovery meeting with quite a bit of reading. I spent a lot of time looking downward at the material, and that's when I really noticed something different happening in the center of my vision.

It looks like an eclipse.

🌞🌑

Not the Mitsubishi Eclipse.

Although, admittedly, a turbocharged 1990s Mitsubishi would be considerably more entertaining than what my left eye is currently doing.

I'm talking about the sun-and-moon kind of eclipse.

When I'm looking down, things directly in the center of my vision become very dark. There's this dark circular area that reminds me of the moon passing in front of the sun.

So we've officially upgraded the Left Eye Airlines instrument panel.

First, I had a horizon indicator.

Then, apparently, we were climbing.

Then the horizon started shrinking.

And now?

We're apparently experiencing a total eclipse somewhere around cruising altitude.

Meanwhile, the eye itself is still pretty red, as you can see in the photo. It also hurts sometimes.

Pain management isn't quite as simple for me as grabbing whatever happens to be in the medicine cabinet. I have end-stage renal disease, so Advil isn't an option for me, and I don't take aspirin. That means I'm not casually reaching for those when the eye starts bothering me.

For now, I'm continuing to pay attention to what the eye is doing and following the recovery process.

And then there's my arm.

There really isn't an elegant way to describe today's arm update.

It just looks nasty.

The scrape from my disagreement with my prosthetic, gravity, and the carpet is still healing, but visually it has reached that wonderful stage where someone could look at the picture and reasonably ask:

"What the hell happened to you?"

The answer remains:

I fell.

Apparently, however, my arm believes it was involved in a motorcycle accident, bar fight, and bear attack simultaneously.

So today's recovery scoreboard:

Horizon: Smaller, but still there. ✈️
Vision: Improving, but strange. 👁️
Center of vision: Eclipse mode activated. 🌞🌑
Eye: Still red and occasionally painful.
Arm: Absolutely disgusting.
Sense of humor: Somehow still operational.

Recovery isn't always a straight line.

Sometimes it's a horizon.

Sometimes it's a bubble.

Sometimes it's vinaigrette.

And apparently, sometimes it's a solar eclipse inside your eyeball.

At this rate, I'm slightly concerned about what tomorrow's special effect will be.

Captain Niel signing off from Left Eye Airlines. Please do not stare directly at the eclipse. ✈️👁️🌑

Left Eye Airlines Is Gaining Altitude

Another day, another update from the increasingly complicated flight deck known as my left eye.

And today, I actually have some good news:

I can see a little better.

Not 20/20; throw away the glasses; read the bottom line of the eye chart better.

But better.

Since Friday, I’ve been taking three different eye drops, four times a day. At this point, administering eye drops has basically become a part-time job.

Morning: drops.
Later: drops.
Afternoon: drops.
Evening: you guessed it... more drops.

But something appears to be happening.

The strange horizon-indicator view I've been describing is changing again. When I look straight ahead, there is still a visible bubble at the very bottom of my field of vision.

So apparently, the complimentary vinaigrette service aboard Left Eye Airlines is finally running low. 🥗

The bubble hasn't completely disappeared, but I'm able to see a bit better through the left eye than I could before.

I'll take it.

Unfortunately, while my eye may be improving, the rest of my body has apparently filed several complaints about the treatment plan.

The antibiotics are absolutely wrecking my stomach.

I don't tolerate antibiotics particularly well to begin with, and my stomach has made its position on the matter extremely clear:

NO THANK YOU.

Then we have the steroids.

Those aren't upsetting my stomach.

They're doing something much more dangerous.

They're making me hungry.

Not regular hungry.

Steroid hungry.

The kind of hungry where you eat something and your stomach immediately asks:

"That was the appetizer, right?"

So the current recovery scoreboard looks something like this:

Left eye: improving. 👁️
Bubble: still hanging around at the bottom. 🫧
Stomach: protesting the antibiotics.
Appetite: apparently preparing for hibernation.
Arm: still healing from my recent disagreement with my prosthetic, gravity and the carpet.

The photos continue to make everything look considerably more dramatic than it feels, especially the arm. But compared with where things were just a few days ago, I'll happily take incremental progress.

And perhaps most importantly, Captain Niel seems to be getting a little more visibility from the cockpit.

We're not at cruising altitude yet.

The seatbelt sign is definitely still illuminated.

But for the first time in a few days, I think we may actually be able to see the runway.

And the vinaigrette?

Almost off the menu. ✈️👁️🥗🫧

Apparently, My Eye Is Climbing Now

Another day, another update from the cockpit of Left Eye Airlines.

Yesterday, I discovered that my vision now comes equipped with what looks like an airplane’s horizon indicator.

Today?

Apparently, we’re climbing.

The line across my vision is no longer level. It’s tilted, making the view through my left eye look like an aeronautical instrument telling me the aircraft is headed upward.

This would be significantly more exciting if I were actually flying somewhere.

Instead, I’m sitting here looking through an eyeball that has apparently decided it wants its pilot’s license.

The view itself is still divided into two distinct classes of service.

Above the horizon: blurry and out of focus.

Below the horizon: we are STILL serving vinaigrette. 🥗

So, if my eye were an airplane instrument panel, I believe the current message would be:

CLIMBING. VISIBILITY POOR. SALAD DRESSING BELOW.

Meanwhile, my arm continues healing from my disagreement with my prosthetic, gravity, and the carpet. It still looks considerably worse than it feels, but it appears to be moving in the right direction.

The eye is looking a little less dramatic from the outside, too.

From the inside?

Captain Niel is apparently gaining altitude.

At this point, I'm just waiting for my eye to announce:

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached our cruising altitude. You may now move about the cabin."

Until then, tray tables upright, seat belts fastened, and please keep the vinaigrette securely stored below the horizon.

✈️👁️🥗