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. ✈️👁️🌑
This Was Not the Blog Post I Planned to Write
I had other things to write about.
I had just gone to see The End of Oak Street—vlog review coming soon—and then stopped at Boxcar Betty’s in MTP, where I discovered bacon jam.
I did not know I needed bacon jam in my life. Now I’m wondering how I survived this long without it. Was I even living, or was I merely existing in a tragically bacon-jam-free state?
After lunch, I wanted to go to the nearest Starbucks, sit down, and get some writing done before a recovery meeting. I had topics. I had thoughts. I may have even had a plan.
None of those topics involved the back of a Honda CR-V.
And yet, here we are.
This particular Starbucks is next to a National Tire & Battery. Because it is next to a tire shop, there are sometimes vehicles parked outside the service bays. It happens. Cars need tires. Tires need cars. The circle of automotive life continues.
The resulting passageway is narrow, but it works—as long as everybody participates in that increasingly experimental social practice known as courtesy.
Usually, drivers go around the vehicles near the service bays and move as far left as possible without sacrificing a wheel rim to the curb. It is not a perfect system, but civilization has survived on less.
Not this vehicle.
This vehicle appeared committed to occupying exactly enough of the available space to make passing somewhere between “deeply uncomfortable” and “please have your insurance information ready.”
There wasn’t much room between the building, the sidewalk, and the car. So I waited.
And waited.
At least ten minutes.
I did not honk. Remember, no horn. Read back if you don’t know that story.
I did consider flashing my high beams, but that seemed like the automotive equivalent of sending a strongly worded email while the recipient is sitting directly in front of you.
Eventually, the car moved forward.
Victory?
Not exactly.
It moved just enough to acknowledge that movement was technically possible, while still declining to leave what experts call “a reasonable amount of space.”
As I finally worked my way around, the people inside appeared to be waiting for the early-bird special to begin while conducting important business on a portable device. Perhaps they were negotiating a treaty. Perhaps they were solving the national debt. Perhaps they were watching a video explaining how driveways work.
I may never know.
Here is the semi-serious part: parking lots are small communities with bad signage. We all have somewhere to be. We are all distracted. We are all occasionally the person who doesn’t realize we are blocking someone else.
But when you are sitting in a narrow lane, and another car has been waiting behind you long enough to reconsider every decision that led them there, moving over a few feet is a lovely gesture.
It costs nothing. It requires no app. There is no subscription fee.
Just look around, notice the other humans, and share the pavement.
Anyway, I eventually made it to Starbucks. I had bacon jam in my recent past, a recovery meeting in my near future, and several completely different topics waiting to be written.
Instead, I wrote about this car.
Ugh.
Sometimes Saving Money Costs You More: A Lesson From My Fuel Tank
There was a piece of advice I heard about a month ago that I never got around to sharing. As I was driving to a local detox facility to bring a recovery meeting, it came back to me.
It was one of those simple pieces of car care advice that makes perfect sense once someone explains it.
Most gasoline sold in the United States contains ethanol. The exact blend varies depending on the season and location. Alcohol has impressive cooling properties. That reminded me of my drinking days.
Back then, a bottle of Jack Daniel's often lived in the freezer. Since alcohol freezes at a much lower temperature than water, there was no need for ice. If I was drinking it straight—or with Coke—it stayed ice cold without getting watered down. (Side note: Applebee's serves Pepsi products. Jack & Pepsi? No thank you.)
Anyway... back to the car.
I recently heard that during the hot summer months, it's a good idea to keep your gas tank at least half full whenever possible. Why? Because the electric fuel pump sits inside the gas tank. The gasoline surrounding it helps keep the pump cool while it's working, and having more fuel available reduces the chances of the pump working harder than it needs to.
That advice made a lot of sense.
Unfortunately, I didn't follow it.
Not too long ago, I found myself driving around with less than a quarter tank of gas. I was trying to time the market, waiting to see if gas prices would drop a few cents before filling up.
Then it hit me.
The price of gasoline might fluctuate by a few dollars per tank. Replacing a failed fuel pump can cost hundreds—or even well over a thousand dollars once you factor in labor. On many vehicles, the technician has to remove the fuel tank to access the pump.
That's a pretty expensive way to save five bucks.
Sometimes we focus so much on saving a little today that we forget the much higher cost tomorrow.
I think I'll stick with keeping my tank at least half full from now on. My wallet—and hopefully my fuel pump—will thank me.
Join the discussion on NielFlamm.com.
Peace, Serenity... and the World's Longest Car Horn
Today I was reminded that peace and serenity aren't destinations—they're things I have to keep practicing every single day.
I've shared this story before, but it still makes me laugh... and cringe.
On my way home from my initial retina detachment consultation in Hanahan, South Carolina, traffic came to a complete crawl. Bumper-to-bumper. I was actually doing fine with it. Traffic happens.
Then someone decided the shoulder was their own personal VIP lane.
They flew past everyone who had been patiently waiting and squeezed right in front of me.
At that exact moment, my serenity clocked out for the day.
I didn't give a polite courtesy honk.
I didn't tap the horn to let them know I was there.
I introduced them to the entire catalog of my car horn.
And I kept introducing it.
For so long... that I literally wore out my car horn.
Yes... I broke my horn.
I actually heard it take its last breath.
I'm pretty sure if my BMW could talk, it would've said, "Niel... buddy... enough already."
I estimate I was honking continuously for at least 15 minutes.
The person who cut me off probably forgot about me after 30 seconds.
Meanwhile, I was apparently auditioning to be the Low Country Symphony's first horn section.
Looking back, it's hilarious.
It's also a little wild.
For me, that's what alcoholism can look like today. It isn't that I'll pick up a drink—that was never my first thought, and recreational drugs weren't my thing either. Instead, it can show up as anger, self-righteousness, and reacting in ways that make absolutely no sense.
I've never repaired the horn.
Not because I don't have the time.
Not because I don't have the money.
I haven't fixed it because, in my mind, I haven't yet truly learned how to share the road with other people. Until I make more progress on that, the broken horn serves as a daily reminder that I still have work to do.
Recovery isn't about becoming perfect.
It's about recognizing when I'm the problem, owning it, laughing at myself when appropriate, and trying to do a little better tomorrow than I did today.
Recently, an awesome friend from one of my recovery meetings thought of me. She knows this story. She knows I still wrestle with the rage that can pop up out of nowhere—and she knows I've been driving around with a silent horn ever since.
She surprised me with the perfect gift.
I laughed immediately.
Now I need to mount it on my dashboard.
If you want to see what she gave me—and hear some of the hilarious things it says—head over to:
Oh... and before anyone points it out, ignore the lack of manicure in the video. Dialysis, life, and recovery have been keeping me just a little busy.
Who knew one broken horn would become one of my biggest recovery reminders?
Life has a funny way of teaching us lessons.
Sometimes those lessons arrive with a whisper.
Sometimes they arrive with 15 minutes of uninterrupted honking.
Thanks for reading, and if this story made you smile—or reminded you of one of your own moments of insanity—leave a comment. I'd love to hear it.
Join the discussion on NielFlamm.com.
Helping Launch A Godd3ss3s Cr3ation Has Strengthened My Recovery
One of the projects I’m most proud to be involved with right now is helping launch A Godd3ss3s Cr3ation at https://agodd3ss3scr3ation.com.
Most people know me through NielFlamm.com, where I write about everything from leadership and AI to movie reviews, recovery, and whatever else catches my attention. This project, however, has become something much more personal.
Working alongside Godd3ss Aisha and Godd3ss Alicia has given me the opportunity to help build something centered on healthy living, mindfulness, self-care, and becoming a better version of myself.
What surprised me is how much it has helped me.
I’ve been sober for many years now, and I’ve learned that recovery isn’t simply about not taking a drink. That’s where it starts—not where it ends.
Recovery is about taking care of my mind.
My body.
My soul.
It’s about the people I surround myself with, the conversations I have, and the thoughts I allow into my life.
As I help edit blog posts, brainstorm ideas, and publish articles for A Godd3ss3s Cr3ation, I’m constantly reading about gratitude, letting go, protecting your peace, managing stress, self-care, healthy habits, and slowing down long enough to check in with myself.
I can’t spend hours editing articles about becoming healthier without asking myself if I’m doing the same.
The blogs aren’t just helping readers.
They’re helping me.
I’ve always believed that if I'm around positive people long enough, some of that positivity rubs off on me. The discussions I have with Aisha and Alicia aren’t about gossip or negativity. They’re about growth, healing, perspective, and trying to become better than we were yesterday.
That reinforces the principles I’ve tried to live by throughout my recovery.
One thing I’ve learned is that sobriety requires maintenance. It isn’t something you accomplish once and never think about again. Just like physical fitness, healthy relationships, or a successful career, recovery requires attention.
Helping launch A Godd3ss3s Cr3ation has become part of that maintenance for me.
If one of our blogs encourages someone to pause before reacting…
If it inspires someone to take better care of themselves…
If it helps someone choose hope over despair…
Or simply reminds someone that they’re worth investing in…
Then we’ve accomplished something worthwhile.
If you haven’t visited the site yet, I’d love for you to take a look.
Visit https://agodd3ss3scr3ation.com, spend a few minutes reading through the Blog, and if you enjoy what you find, subscribe. It’s completely free, and you’ll receive new articles as they’re published.
And if a particular blog resonates with you, please share it with someone you care about. You never know whose day—or life—you might brighten with a simple act of kindness.
Thank you to Godd3ss Aisha and Godd3ss Alicia for trusting me to help bring this vision to life. It’s been a rewarding experience, and one that continues to strengthen my own journey every day.