The next 5 days were some of the most miserable sunrises and sets I have ever had the the displeasure of experiencing. Due to the size of the tumor in my eye the radioactive plaque disc was 20 millimeters in diameter and inserted behind the conjunctiva in order to target its little death rays at the mushroom shaped cancer sac causing so much trouble. This meant stitches. In my eyeball. Also one tricky, itchy, panic inducing suture or so through the upper and lower lid to keep it closed over the plaque while it did its cancer-killing thing.
They had warned me the first two days would be rough ones but had promised me really good pain pills and certain relief by the third or at least fourth day. As I am naturally an optimistic positive person (this is a lie) I foolishly believed them. The morning after surgery I awoke feeling as if half of my face had fallen off and been replaced with an itchy, fiery, excruciating tape ball. This was followed by the realization the oxycodone (or as we fondly refer to it, percocet) is a wonderful appetite suppressant and a terrible eye pain killer. It made me sleepy and my left eye all squinty but had about as much of an effect on reducing my eye pain as a magical kiss does for a scraped knee.
Despite repeated promises of healing, adjusting, and recovering, the following days were a blur of painkillers, xanax, HBO on demand, and waking dreams. I had no appetite and shunned the outside world after a particularly unfortunate breakfast experience with one rather precocious child who was quite enamored of her "mommy mommy what's wrong with that lady's face" act that put me off my English muffin and sent me running back to the shelter of my secluded queen bed in tears. The tears dried and then mixed with the ointment and blood seeping out of my bandaged eye, matting my eyelashes which inevitably worked their way inside the lid and stabbed at me when I tried to rub out the maddening itching of the sutures. Reading was out of the question, writing was out of the question, anything but lying in bed and existing was out of the question. Each time I looked right or left with my good eye, the injured one tracked with it, the disc tearing a new path over day-old healing. I developed an aversion to all food. My mother went from the Amish market to whole foods to target, searching out cheeses, fruits, and junk foods to tempt my appetite, largely to no avail. I subsisted on apple juice, tangerines, and cheez-its but my main food group was pain killers, which I optimistically continued to take every 6 hours despite their ever diminishing effectiveness.
Despite the misery, the days were not without their bright moments. The good wishes from friends and family were overwhelming; I felt more noticed and loved than ever before. Flowers, cards, and some particularly delicious chocolate strawberries arrived, reminding me that life was beautiful and delicious, even if looking at the colors hurt my eye. The hospital had arranged for us to stay at the Hilton Garden Inn, which housed all of their radioactive plaque patients and was staffed by people so good and decent they must've been angels in disguise as front desk agents and waiters. The day after my unfortunate breakfast confrontation our waiter, who'd brought us coffee and orange juice and never flinched once at my bandaged face, tracked us down using our breakfast vouchers and hand delivered an incredibly sincere get-well card to the room when he noticed our absence the following day. It was signed merely, "your server, Eric" but to me represented one of the most powerful gestures of human kindness I have ever experienced. I wasn't allowed out of my room for fear of contaminating the world with my radioactive footprint (eyeprint?) but the cleaning lady stopped by every day anyway, she gave us extra shampoos and lotions on the sly. She knocked to check on me when she knew I was on my own and her motherly presence was probably more healing than my percocets. Through those 5 days I suffered but also came to a new understanding of the basic goodness of people that I had lost somewhere along the path of my 24 years.
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