I Lost My Right Eye!

On April 01 of this year I had an enucleation to remove my right eye. It was the worst April Fool’s Day ever! My eye was nearly swollen shut, and I could barely make out any light coming through. I was examined by multiple specialists who had tried in vain to save my eye, and it was pure torture. No one could confidently assess what the problem was, and it was determined that the best solution would be to just remove it. The decision to do so likely saved my life, but what was crazy about the whole situation was that just a week and a half earlier, my eye appeared to be perfectly fine.

Six months later and I’m already struggling to remember various details of the whole episode. I’ve read that trauma can do that to a person, but there are some parts that I’ll never be able to forget (like six needles going into my eye).

It was approximately March 22 when I noticed a small red dot in my eye. I believed that it was a burst blood vessel. I’ve burst many blood vessels in my eyes over my lifetime, and I never know what I do to cause them. This one seemed like any other and so I didn’t have any cause for concern. The next day my eye was almost completely bloodshot, which followed the typical pattern that I was used to for burst blood vessels. But the next day, my eye was nearly swollen shut.

I was used to bloodshot eyes from time to time. I was not used to my eye swelling from a burst blood vessel. I was reluctant to seek medical attention, but my co-workers all insisted I do so. My Physician Assistant (PA) was away, and so I had to wait a little longer to be seen by one of his colleagues. When I was finally seen, the PA expressed great concern. He certainly wasn’t an eye specialist. He told me what he thought was the cause (one of those details I can no longer remember), but said he wasn’t certain. He directed me to go immediately to the local Emergency Room with the goal of being seen by an ophthalmologist after seeing the ER doctor.

I texted my boss that I wouldn’t be back as soon as I had hoped and headed to the ER. It was the middle of the work week, so thankfully the ER wasn’t terribly busy. I was triaged and taken back to a room where I donned the typical hospital gown while I waited to be seen. I explained to the doctor as best as I could what had transpired in the past couple of days, but there was nothing in my story that stood out to him. The doctor ordered a CT scan, and while we waited for the results he ordered a dose of anti-biotics to be administered through my IV drip. Similarly to the PA, he confessed his lack of expertise on matters related to the eyes. I was discharged from the ER after I had finished the anti-biotics but was sent to the Ophthalmology Department – the ER doctor called ahead to ask for me to be squeezed in for an examination.

The ophthalmologist was as perplexed as anyone else. We looked at the results of the CT scan together; it appeared that there may have been some metal in my eye, but I could not for the life of me remember any trauma that could have made that possible. He proscribed me some kind of steroid to reduce the swelling and scheduled me to come back the next day to be reexamined.

An amusing anecdote: The ER doctor intentionally left my IV lock in in case the ophthalmologist determined I needed to return. The ER doctor told me to have the ophthalmologist remove the IV if appropriate. When I pointed out the IV still in my arm, the doctor was a bit shocked. He told me he hadn’t handled in IV in over 20 years, but he kind of just shook his head and said, “Alright, let’s do this.” The IV came out smoothly enough, and he was quite pleased with himself. He went to find a colleague to examine me; he wanted a second opinion on my eye. When he brought his colleague into the room, the first thing he did was point to my arm and exclaim, “Look! I removed an IV!”

The second ophthalmologist (man, I’m typing that word a lot) was just as confused as to what could be causing my condition as the first. The first was getting ready to go away on a long weekend, so it was agreed that my examine the next day would be with the second doctor.

That evening, my eye was doing much better. Much of, not all, the swelling was down. Most of the redness was gone. The day after that saw more improvement. The redness was gone and most of the swelling was gone. I believed I was coming out of the woods. I went back to see the second eye doc (I’m going to start saying that instead of typing ophthalmologist again and again). He was pleased with the progress. Then things got worse.

I woke up on Saturday, March 26th excited. The swelling was barely noticeable, and the redness was completely gone. I went for a run. While running I noticed some black dots floating around. I get those squigglies sometimes. I assumed it was just that. On Sunday, the 10 or so black dots had turned into dozens. On Monday, the black dots numbered in the hundreds, and some of them were starting to coalesce into bigger dots, and streaks. My vision in my right eye was also getting pretty blurry. I couldn’t see anything clearly past 20 feet, and it was starting to really hurt.

I went back to see the first eye doc on Monday, the next day. I was feeling pretty concerned. He looked at me for about 30 seconds and went to find the second eye doc. Have you ever had two experts stand in front of you, talking about you in a manner that shook your confidence? I can now say that I have. They both kept shaking their heads, saying “this is not good.” That was the moment I began to experience some fear. They worked to get me a referral to another specialist the next day.

My vision continued to deteriorate rapidly. By that Monday night I was blind. There were no more black dots. Just blackness, with a little square in the center where light was still penetrating. I remember putting my face up against our bedroom tv, closing my good eye, and trying to make out anything with my bad eye. I couldn’t. I sat back on the edge of the bed and wondered if the light coming through my bad eye would be the last thing it would “see.”

On Tuesday, March 29, my wife drove me more than an hour and a half to see the specialist. His assistants did whatever scans he needed (see the cover photo). Everyone was shocked. Nothing was visible in the scans. It was just milky white (it should be somewhat colorful and veiny). The specialist was equally perplexed as everyone else. He proscribed a short list of medicines for me to begin immediately (I hadn’t had anything but the steroids since the IV anti-biotics). He then passed me off to another specialist in town.

The next specialist reviewed all the forwarded medical documentation, and surprise surprise, had no idea what was wrong with my eye. His answer was more anti-biotics. BUT, the method of administering them was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life! He put six needles in my eye.

The process started with numbing drops. The first three needles were more numbing medication. Those were uncomfortable. After waiting about 20 minutes to let the numbing medicine kick in, the doctor was ready to proceed with the last three jabs. The fourth needle was actually meant to draw fluid out for a biopsy, not inject anything. I cannot begin to describe the pain. It was unlike any other pain I had ever felt. I didn’t cry, I screamed. And screamed. And screamed.

Did you know those eye doctor chairs can tilt back? I didn’t. To conduct the procedure, I was tilted back in the exam chair, and a nurse held my eye open. I had a death grip on the arm rests. I don’t know how I resisted the urge to let go and start swinging. But there I was, laying back with one stranger holding my eye open, and another stranger shoving a needle in my eye.

The attempt to suction any fluid out failed. The doc’s guess was that the fluid in the back of my eye was too thick. Needle number five was an actual injection of anti-biotics. The pain was just as intense, but different. I could feel the pressure of the fluid going into the back of my eye on top of the pain. I screamed again. The sixth needle was an attempt to relieve some of the pressure that was caused by injecting the anti-biotics. I screamed again. The sub-title of this is “Trying To Save It Was the Worst Part.” This is what I meant by that. The doc told me this procedure usually doesn't bother his patients as much as it did me. My theory was that my eye was so inflamed, the numbing medicine didn't make it as deep as the needles.

That eye specialist scheduled an appointment for me with yet another specialist the next day. My wife drove me home. The trauma of the six needles triggered a migraine. I couldn’t keep anything down, including my medicines. I woke up vomiting throughout the night. The next day my wife drove me an hour and a half back to the next appointment. After telling my story for what seemed like the thousandth time to the next specialist, she examined me and called in one of her colleagues for another opinion. They had no new guesses but were greatly concerned about my inability to keep any medicine down. The misery I was in by this point is beyond difficult to explain. My eye hurt from the needles. It hurt from the swelling. My head was exploding. If there had been a guillotine nearby, it would have been difficult for me not to have stuck my head in it. The specialists sent me to the nearby university hospital ER and called ahead for me.

My memory gets very blurry (pun intended) from here on out. I was pumped full of pain meds that did nothing to lessen the pain. A flurry of doctors and nurses from multiple medical disciplines came to my room to examine me. I had to tell my story over and over and over again. At some point the decision was made that I would have an emergency surgery. No one knew what was wrong with my eye, but they all knew it needed saving. The doctors all told me my vision was likely gone for good. For some odd reason, I held onto hope that maybe, just maybe, my vision would return. I was moved from my ER room to a different “room.” My new room had two walls and two curtains. It was loud. The patient in the room next to mine wouldn’t stop complaining about the hospital conditions to whomever she could. If a doctor or nurse wasn’t in her room, then she would call anyone to lament to. I was given ice chips to suck on – no eating allowed before surgery. On top of all the pain, I was starving. At some point a doctor came in to explain the surgery that was about to happen. I can’t remember anything he said.

Eventually, I was wheeled to another waiting area to be prepped for surgery. It wasn’t a room per se. It was a big open area. There were a couple other beds with people laying there just waiting. A nurse came up to me with paperwork for me to initial off on. I have no recollection of what I agreed to. What I do remember is anesthesia entering my veins. That was the first moment in what seemed like an eternity that I felt some relief. I was passed out seconds later.

I woke up in the room with two walls and two curtains. A doctor came in to tell me that the surgery was not successful in determining what was causing the massive swelling and pain. He predicted it would continue to get worse, and highly recommended my eye be removed. I didn’t care. I was in so much pain I was ready for it to be gone. I was ready then and there. How desperate, in how much pain does one need to be to readily agree to having one's own eye removed? I now know. I told him to take it. I don’t know how many times he asked me if I was sure, but it was more than once. I reiterated my understanding of the permanent nature of removing an eye, and re-stated that I was ready. I was scheduled for surgery again on April 01. The time between waking up from the first surgery to the second is vastly a blur. But I remember being wheeled to the same waiting area, initialing off on the same paperwork, and the peace that came with the anesthesia. But I also remember being wheeled into the operating room. I had to scoot from my hospital bed to the operating table. For some illogical reason I was afraid that this time I might not wake up. I wondered if that room would be the last thing I would see. I prayed a quick prayer for a successful surgery, and for my family to be watched over if it wasn’t, as a mask was slipped over my face.

I woke up. The surgery was successful, and I was minus an eye. I was still in an incredible amount of pain, but it was different. New doctors came into the room to check on me and hear my story. I told them all the same thing. One, I minded talking to less than the others. She was blind in one eye, and had been from either birth, or since she was young. She let me ask her personal questions about life with one eye. I appreciated that.

Suddenly, one of the doctors burst in and told me I was headed straight for the MRI lab to get an MRI done immediately. A biopsy of my removed eye showed that I had a Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus (MRSA) infection in the eye. I won’t bore you here with all the medical details of MRSA, but in short, it’s a staph infection that people can get on their skin and happens to be resilient to normal medicines that treat infections. One doctor later told me that the odds of getting MRSA in the eye were astronomical. Lucky me. He said the only people who do get MRSA in the eye are in their 80s, living in a hospital bed, never getting up, with tubes coming out of their neck; not active men in their 30s.

The primary concern was whether or not the MRSA had reached the optic nerve at the back of the eye. If it had, then the MRSA would have a straight shot to my brain. That would have likely been the end. The hospital neurosurgeon was put on emergency speed dial as I was wheeled down to the MRI lab. Thankfully, the MRSA didn’t make it to the optic nerve. The surgery was deemed a success. I was sent to a nicer room to recover for a few days before being released, with several follow up appointments scheduled.

I am so grateful for the support system I had through this experience. My wife was an absolute saint. She spent as much time as she could with me in the hospital, which was difficult to do since we have two kids in school full time, and the hospital was an hour and a half from home. I’m probably still unaware of how much she juggled just to sit quietly next to me holding my hand while I occasionally moaned in pain. My brother was on a work trip, accompanied by his family, and they diverted their travel plans to spend a couple days helping out my wife before the first surgery. My brother visited me in the hospital room. He would hold me steady while I would pee in a small, hand-held urinal, because I was too weak to make it to a bathroom. One of my brothers-in-law flew in from GA for a few days to help. He did great getting the kids to and from school, feeding them, and helping with bedtime, freeing my wife up to spend more time with me. Several co-workers made the trek to come visit with me pre and post-surgery. Their time was valuable to me. So many friends and family sent me encouraging messages to let me know they were thinking about me or praying for me.

I’m healing. Admittedly much faster physically than psychologically. I have a prosthetic that looks fantastic. The first several times I saw it in the mirror I almost thought it was a real eye. I’m living my normal life, for the most part. My depth perception has showed no sign of returning, but I’m adapting to living without it. I have a stress ball in my office that I bounce off a wall and catch to work on improving my hand-eye coordination. I still miss sometimes, but I’ve gotten a lot better. I can drive. Merging to the right in heavy traffic is a little stressful, but so far, no accidents!

I am daunted by the fact that, if I live to an average age, I will live more than half my life with one eye. But I am so grateful that I get to be alive. This experience has put a plethora of things into perspective. I’d rather lose an eye than an arm or a leg. I’m grateful I can still walk, and run, and lift. I’m grateful I can still wrap my arms around my kids and throw them high into the air. I’m grateful to have such a loving wife and caring friends and co-workers. I’m grateful for a supportive boss, and boss’ boss, who gave me all the time I needed to heal before coming back to work. I am cognizant of my many blessings, and aware that many do not have the same.

If I can offer any piece of advice, it’s this; don’t mess around with life, limb, or eyesight. Be annoying if you think you have a problem with one of those three. Incredibly annoying.