Repetition

Repetition

By Albert W. Caron, Jr.

“I’m sorry Sarah, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”

           “But Doctor Anderhaus, I’m only 34 and you said that there was a good chance, with that new procedure, you could restore my vision,” trembled the patient whom I presumed was Sarah.  A long pause was followed by soft sobbing and I could only imagine the tears running down her cheeks.

I didn’t want to eavesdrop on a patient-doctor confidentiality but the thin wallboard between the exam rooms in the medical building didn’t allow for much privacy. The inside walls between the cubicles lacked enough insulation or soundproofing material sufficient to muffle voices and discussions in the next room on either side of me. With sharp hearing one could overhear every spoken word but I tried to put the conversation out of my mind while thinking about my own consultation.

Today is Wednesday and I am to learn the results of my own recent field of vision test screening and cornea photos.  My recent eye appointments with Dr. Anderhaus were usually on a Tuesday or Thursday. But I didn’t give it a second thought when the appointment was rescheduled.  The last time I saw the doctor, he indicated that I was doing fine.  

I left work early to get to his office for the follow-up appointment which was scheduled after my last office visit.  Traffic was light after lunch and I arrived early at the medical center. Luckily I found a parking place for my navy blue Corvette convertible close to the building. Feeling chipper, I proceeded to the stairs instead of the elevator taking them two at a time to the reception area two flights up.

I checked in with the receptionist who slid the window open. She asked my name, date of birth and with which doctor I had an appointment. Then she handed me the all-purpose clipboard, holding papers and a pen dangling by a string, with questions which I needed to answer with current information about my home address, phone number, medications, next of kin, etc.  Once I completed and signed the forms she, requested my medical insurance card to swipe into their system. “Have a seat in the waiting area. The nurse will call you when a room is available.” I smiled and found a chair with several two-month old medical magazines on the side table. I noticed a blond woman with curly hair also sitting nearby reading a periodical. As I sat she looked over at me and we nodded to one another with tight lipped smiles. A few moments later a nurse came into the waiting room and said “Sarah” and the tall blond put the magazine down and followed the nurse to the exam rooms. Other patients joined me.

About 10 minutes later a nurse called “Robert” and I raised my hand and got up to follow her. I was ushered through a maze of corridors finally reaching the exam rooms. I asked if it was OK that I left a trail of breadcrumbs so I could find my way out. She merely grinned at me as she opened the door. She probably heard that line more often than not.  It was a bland compartment with whitewashed walls, a sink and diagrams of eyes with various conditions. I was told to place my jacket and hat on the door hanger. She requested I sit on the brown faux leather table covered with a sterile white sheet of sanitized paper. As my legs swung inches above the step, she asked me to roll up my sleeve to take my blood pressure. When the procedure was completed, she typed the numbers into the computer, asked if there were any changes in my medication and added that the doctor would be with me shortly. She gave me a coat hanger smile, closed the door and moved on to the next patient.

           Doctor Jon Anderhaus was an ophthalmologist with offices on the third floor with other vision specialists. He had more than 30 years of experience in the field of eye care including vision loss, glaucoma and detached retinas. When I had a regular appointment years ago with another physician, I mentioned that I had some vision difficulty seeing floaters.  It was then I was referred to Dr. Anderhaus the eye specialist in the medical center.

I saw him nearly a decade ago with what I called “spider web” vision in my right eye. He diagnosed a detached retina and explained, that to save any vision in that eye, that I would need emergency surgery to repair and reattach the eye. I asked when the surgery would take place. He answered, “Two days.” I was dumbfounded and said, “Sure.” I had no real choice if I wanted to see with that eye and had the procedure. A gas bubble was injected into the eye pressing the detached retina back into place. The surgery was successful and, after many weeks of recovery, I was able to regain most of my vision.

Two additional laser procedures to reattach the retina firmly were done in the following years. This helped to slow the vision loss in that eye. But Dr. Anderhaus stated there was not a lot of room with which to work in the back of my eye socket. He became my go to guy and I continued seeing him each year.

Dr. Anderhaus’s voice again came through the wall next to my cubicle. Not wanting to listen in on their discussion, I began singing songs in my head and silently lip syncing them while bobbing my head and drumming my fingers on the table in rhythm with the tune. I only wished that I had my ear buds to attach to my cell phone and listen to my playlist.

Upon a follow up visit months after the initial retinal surgery, he noticed an additional problem: a cataract had developed and, once again, I would need minor surgery to replace a lens in the same eye. All I could say to the doctor chuckling was, “When it rains, it pours.” He cracked a smile and said this procedure was simpler than the detached retina and I would be able to have surgery on a Friday and return to work on Monday. I was greatly encouraged with this prognosis and within a few weeks, the lens was implanted. Sure to his word I was back to work Monday morning.

           I could still hear two voices next door and I concentrated on not listening but all I could hear was the beating of my heart. This took me back to my school days when I read Poe’s “Tell-Tale Heart.” I laughed inwardly at the irony as my heart pounded in quick step time. I took a deep breath. And another. And another and my heart rate began to slow. But what caught my attention was when I heard the woman’s voice clearly say, “I can’t believe that I’m going blind.”

           The next few words between them were muffled over her sniffling. Curiosity started getting to the better part of me as I wanted to learn more. I now wished I was a fly on the wall in this awkward situation because the word blind overshadowed the thoughts in my mind.

           Cripes, I was only a few years older than this young woman. What would happen if Dr. Anderhaus told me that I was going to go blind? I came here today to get my test results as well. What would I do? Would I be able to work? Would I be able to travel? My brain went into overdrive following a myriad of paths.

           The closing of the exam room next door snapped me back to reality as the doctor left her still sobbing and allowed her to compose herself before leaving the room and the office.

           A few moments later there were two soft raps on the door as Dr. Anderhaus walked in with a small smile. He extended his arm and we shook hands. In his left hand was a thick manila file with Wardle in large capital letters. Presumably this folder had the test results. He asked how I was doing and I flashed a smile saying “I’m doing fine, Doc.”  Then he took a deep breath and addressed me.

 “I’m sorry Robert, there’s nothing more I can do for you.”