A Spoke In The Wheel

What we see on social media is not the whole of who we are. I have a cloud hanging over my head right now. I can’t see the so-called silver lining, though I believe it's there; it’s just shining somewhere else. Maybe someone else needs it more than I do right now. Probably.

 I feel I owe it to my friends and family to provide a clear update on my health and life so they understand what's happening.

What I have learnt, again, is that life has a way of bowling a curveball when you least expect it, like the afternoon before you leave for holiday, on a very ordinary Thursday, a side swipe out of the blue.

Lunch was fine, though excitement and a ripple of nervous tension ran through me as we packed our last few things into the Honey Badger, our long-awaited Overlander truck. This was our dream; the years of planning had finally panned out beautifully. We were on our way to Zimbabwe to spend a month at Mana Pools.

Butch and I enjoyed a relaxed lunch, something simple, like a hot dog. He went off to work to finish the last little bits; he’d tidy his desk and be home shortly after 17h00. It’s on my planner that by then I’ll be done, finished and klaar, done and dusted. We’ll have a quiet dinner, watch a film, and get to bed early to wake up at sparrows for our last spinning class.

Not so fast, Maricha. The universe had other plans. Butch gets home, starts packing his things, and, in passing, mentions he has the oddest “feeling” in his eye. Painless but fuzzy, almost as if his spectacles are covered in grease. I know the feeling; my glasses are a nightmare, and I know what it’s like to squint through dirt. But he hadn’t mentioned dirty spectacles.

Without a second thought, I sent him off to Eddie, our optician. Coincidentally, he’d had a check-up not too long ago and had received a clean bill of health. Eddie, already home, made a U-turn, returned to his office, took one look at Butch’s eye, and sent him off to an ophthalmologist. He also had to dash back to work.

The diagnosis? One of three things, he said—retinal detachment, veins haemorrhaging into the eye, or Central Retinal Vein Occlusion. After a thorough examination, he pronounced the verdict. CRVO (the third option). In his opinion, the better of the three. Like a stroke in the eye. We could still go on holiday. Drops and Disprin were prescribed. We were optimistic and believed all would be well.

Next day. A quick visit to the G.P for a medical check-up. They adjusted the medications and sent us on our way. Butch received a tick list of blood tests that had to be reviewed by the pathologist before his follow-up visit on our return.

(This is what CRVO is: The eye's retina has one main artery and one main vein. When the main retinal vein becomes blocked, it is called central retinal vein occlusion (CRVO). When the vein is blocked, blood and fluid spill into the retina. The macula can swell from this fluid, affecting your central vision.)

Butch and I faced these challenges with resilience, and I hope this inspires my friends and family to stay hopeful even when life throws curveballs. 

 My philosophy is simple: see a doctor, get a diagnosis, get treatment, and get better, because early action can make a difference.

“We aren’t children anymore!” I should have listened to myself. Three weeks into our trip, he mentioned that his eyesight was deteriorating. The Vaseline-in-the-eye feeling was back with a vengeance, and his peripheral vision and depth perception were worsening. He’d virtually lost sight in that eye.

We took proactive steps by arranging appointments with his dentist, GP, and ophthalmologist, underscoring the importance of taking control during health crises.

My heart broke. And I seethed. I was so angry I could explode. Things come in threes, they say; well, at about the same time, I received a message from my brother saying my Mum had a mass in her armpit. The local doctors were sharpening their scalpels for that, and my Dad was in a state. Then news trickled through that a dear friend, an iconic figure in our community, had passed away after a long illness. Like Queen Elizabeth I, I set my chin and seethed. I don’t, unfortunately, have a tiara. The bottle of Moët is still on ice. I have nothing to celebrate. Yet.

I am scared. Really, really scared. I have been plunged into darkness. All I want to do is curl up, go to bed, and stay there for the foreseeable future. Call me what you like. It is what it is.

In my defence, we’ve made drastic lifestyle changes to be proactive. We’ll be physically fit in no time. Butch will sport a 6-pack again, and we’ll be a few kilos on the light side of the scales. Believe it or not, I am going to go for my heavy-duty truck licence. That is one for the books. I wonder if they still take bribes. Once I have my licence, we’ll share the driving, and whoop-whoop, he can handle the GPS and last-minute reservations. Fortunately, we have a “no backseat driver” policy in our vehicle. To travel is our dream. We’re working with our son-in-law to recommend good e-bikes; we’re going to be adventurous in our travels.

We’ll cut our travel time and distance drastically. Butch must rest more. He has to consider his future, weigh what’s important, and make realistic changes accordingly. He has to consider his well-being and re-evaluate his responsibilities. He has to de-stress. He owes it to himself to live a full life. He has the potential to.  

I want to be kinder, nicer and gentler, but I’m petrified. I also feel guilty. I am unscathed and have no reason to wallow in self-pity; I know that. But how do I get that message to my brain? We’ve had the wake-up call; our health will determine the rest of our lives and how we spend those precious hours. Once again, I've been reminded that "the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry".

By the way, the tooth was fixed; the quack says the elbow will heal with rest. Alas, his knees have started acting up again, but it’s the cold, I’m sure. We need warmer climes. He’ll go for regular eye check-ups and, if need be, seek another opinion.

I am sure he must be petrified, sad, angry, disoriented, heartbroken and insecure. I am too afraid to ask. He has not let on. Butch has been uncomplaining and brave; in fact, he has supported me while I've been pathetic! I salute him for that. We will live the rest of our lives without regret. The light will shine in our eyes again.

I will write follow-up blogs about our amazing trip and adventures in Zimbabwe, including our stay in Mana Pools. The photograph below shows the marks left by an elephant's trunk gripping Butch's arm! He just had to say hello.