My Year of Falling Apart

It all started with a broken tooth. I'd been wanting to replace it with an implant for some time. But once I made an appointment with the periodontist and recovered from the sticker shock, other maladies started sprouting like dandelions.

I moved last year. Stuff got postponed. When I finally got around to my overdue vision exam, it revealed lens-clouding cataracts. I had no idea. Two sessions of computer-guided lens replacement lifted the veil and I am now blessed with perfect distance vision. Miraculous.

Equipped with better eyesight, I notice that my left knee looks like a relief map of the Nile. Since the offensive bulging vein impedes my exercise efforts, I head to the vein specialist for a series of injections followed by two weeks in a compression stocking. Okay. No biggie.

Now, just as I am making appointments for the final incisor placement, another tooth breaks under the stress of a humongous old-style filling. Since this one doesn't show, it goes on the Tend to Later list. As it turns out, I'll have other things to deal with anyway, like chronic pain in my right glute.

"Go ahead; grab a heavier kettle bell. You can handle more than you think you can," urged the 20-something trainer at the Y. Six weeks later a persisting painful strain lands me in physical therapy, where things are improving nicely until . . .

An innocent trip to the dermatologist (why not, now that I'm seeing every other specialist in town?) for treatment of a few small patches of psoriasis, and surprise! Seems the one that's been there for, like, ever, is actually a squamous cell carcinoma. Gulp.

Very early, very treatable. That's the reassuring prognosis I repeat to myself as I lay in bed the nights before the procedure. And thanks to an excellent surgeon, a helpful support staff, and a lovely fellow named Frederic Mohs (developer of the microscopic, phased surgery that allows for minimal but complete removal of all affected tissues within a single surgical session), another miracle.

With no more cancer worries clanging around in my head, I am now sleeping well. But wait; what is that sound, like a distant swarm of high-pitched cicada bugs? Shoot. I've developed tinnitus! Must have snuck up on me while I was preoccupied, and now a peaceful mind allows awareness.

Meanwhile, during a follow-up vision exam the ophthalmologist notes that my aging eyelids have drooped, becoming hoods that impair my peripheral vision. She refers me to a plastic surgeon. [Heavy sigh.]

But small potatoes, right? Inconsequential inconveniences. When the kind, patient audiologist declares that I have the hearing of a 21-year-old and suggests ways of dealing with the ringing in my ears, I thank God I'm not losing my hearing. Or my sight. Or dealing with a serious malignancy. Or lacking access to good care. Or … The thanks blanks could go on and on.

So maybe another title for this post could be "My Year of Dodging Bullets." Ever had one of those? Do tell.