Three moons!

I walked outside with the puppies. It was dark and we were minutes away from going to bed. My usual habit is while they run around and do what puppies do best, I look up at the stars. I let my eyes trace over the familiar constellations and enjoy a few minutes between me and the cosmos.

But this night, something was wrong. The ghost like Pleiades was high in the sky. It’s often called the Seven Sisters because you’re supposed to be able to see seven stars. There’s actually closer to two dozen star. But most people can only see six. That’s the club I belong to. But that night, I’m seeing as many as eleven.

I looked at Jupiter and noted something I’d never seen. I could clearly see a couple of the moons. I’ve known people who can see the moons with the naked eye. They hover right at the edge of what the human eye can see. I’ve never been among them.

A few nights later we had a full Moon. I went out with the puppies, looked up at the moon and went, “Oh, my God!” I could see three moons out of my left eye and the middle moon was smeared across the sky. Right eye was fine.

What was going on is something that’s actually rather common. It’s something called a pterygium or better known as “surfers eye.” It’s caused by exposure to the sun. It can also be caused by dust and/or exposure to dry hot conditions. In some ways, it was acting a little like multiple lens and catching and bending the moonlight differently.

It often times resembles a small triangular growth. It can be almost anywhere but seems to congregate usually on one of the corners. They’re almost always associated with older people.

I got mine early in life and noticed it when I was about thirty. I’d just come back from NTC (National Training Center – Ft. Irwin CA) and the sun and sand out there might have triggered it or at least tossed it into hyperdrive.

I went to the TMC (Troop Medical Clinic) and that’s the first time I heard the term, pterygium. “It’s something to keep an eye on,” the medic said.

“Eye on? Very punny,” I replied.

He smiled. “Thanks. I do stand up. It might cause you some issues later in life, but right now, it’s Okay.”

I suspect I’ve had it since my teens and working on the ranch. At times my eyes hurt so much, all I could do was lay in the dark with my eyes closed.

Flash forward almost thirty-five years.

I’d gone into VA for my yearly eye check. Being a diabetic, it’s important to monitor my retinas. My doctor had been watching the Pterygium and she said, “We really need to watch it. It’s on the move.” She meant it was growing.

Months later, I knew something was going on when I could see the moons of Jupiter with the naked eye.

I made an appointment and they ran me through a battery of tests. The right eye was perfect, even better than perfect. It was compensating over and above which explained why I could see things I couldn’t before.

The left eye?

I was almost legally blind in it.

“What’s happened,” she said, “was there’s been an explosive growth of the Pterygium. It’s covered most of your pupil.”

“What can we do about it?” I asked.

“Surgery,” she answered, “It has to be removed.”

“Laser surgery?”

She shook her head. “These guys have to taken the old fashioned way. They have to be cut off.”

“Oh!”

Let’s see, take a sharp instrument and put it next to my eye. I couldn’t imagine anything less pleasant and said so. “I take it I’ll be asleep for this?”

“Actually,” she said, noting my discomfort, “you’ll be awake for it.”

She quickly assured me that this was done dozens of times a day and not a big deal.

There was one small problem with the entire scenario.

I’d read the book Samurai by Martin Caidin.

Samurai is one of my favorite books, but there’s one seriously nightmarish piece in a book full of nightmares. In it, Saburo Sakai (often called the Red Baron of Japan) is wounded during aerial combat over Guadalcanal. In a feat of amazing airmanship, he flies a crippled Zero back to his base. Did I forget to mention he’s been hit in the head, was almost blind, and bleeding to death.

He’s taken out of combat and sent home to Japan. There, in a harrowing operation (without any anesthesia) Sakai is operated on to save his one good eye.

I was wishing I’d never read that stinking book!

All I could think of was this brave fighter pilot having to endure it. I knew medical science had come a long ways since, but still, just the thought. And the Surgeon who would do the procedure had told me that yes, I would be awake for it, but I it was relatively painless.

What they would do was scrape it off. Then they’d take a small piece of the covering of the cornea and use it to cover th area they’d scraped.

About a week out, it got so bad, I went up for prayer at the end of our service. Pastor Alan asked what was going on. I told him about my eye, that I was almost blind in it. And that the idea of having it cut on was bugging me.

He prayed for me.

And a week later, I went in and had it operated on. I felt no apprehension going in. This was an outpatient procedure. Being prepped was interesting. I was called in and told to lie down on the gurney. I’d already left my wallet, phone, and coat with Julie. I was wrapped cocoon like into blankets. They verified I was who I thought I was at least three times and an IV was started (I hadn’t expected that).

When I finally went into the OR, A nurse explained they were going to start a Pentothal drip on me. I’d had it once before and trust me, you don’t know anything while under it. It’s sometimes referred to as Truth Serum and I think I showed the only display of nerves I still had.

“Truth Serum,” I said. Then warned them in a joke that told me I wasn’t the first to use it, “If I start babbling about aliens at Area 51, ignore me.” Like I know anything about Area 51.

The stuff worked as advertised. I heard my doctor say look up. I could feel her working. I found myself looking at something. it looked warm and crossed with lines. I couldn’t iamgine what it was. Eventually I figured out they’d put a drape over my face.

That Pentothal is wonderful stuff, I thought. I felt warm and totally calm. Obviously “awake” is a relative term. I don’t recall a thing about it all.

“Ok, Mr. Muniz,” she said. “We’re finished. How do you feel?”

I tried to blink. I don’t know if I did or not. “Like I said the wrong thing and you punched me in the eye.”

That was a perfect description for how it felt.

“The light,” I said. “It’s hurting my eye.”

“It will for a while.”

“How did it go?” I asked.

“Very well. Very well, indeed. We’ll take you into recovery and you’ll be there for about half an hour.”

“Cool,”

In recovery, I rested for a little while, then Julie joined me. She listened carefully as the nurse gave me my postop instructions, and then I was allowed to leave.

“How you feeling, Baby?” she asked.

I felt oddly disconnected from the world, and despite the tint on my glasses, the light still hurt my eyes. I was wondering what I’d got myself in.

We left and I sat in the passenger seat with my eyes closed. I was asleep before we reached E-470. In fact, I slept all day. I was careful to pay attention to the meds prescribed and Julie was always reminding me.

I had to have a follow-up the next day. I got up and looked at the eye. What did you do to yourself, I asked. The eye itself was bloody and the tissues around the eye on my face were swollen. It still felt like I’d been punched in the eye.

And it itched like crazy. Almost like I’d gotten a eyelash in it, only about forty times worse. It took almost everything I had not to rub it.

My surgeon was pleased with the results, and I didn’t have to come back for a couple of months.

And one day I put on my glasses and realized I couldn’t use them. The lens that had been made for my left eye was way too powerful and I started getting headaches. I went back to an old pair.

Finally the day of my last checkup came. They ran a full battery of tests. My vision was now 20/15 in both eyes. A far cry from almost being blind in one of them.