Jammin'

Jammin'
Saturday Night on the Miles Farm
8.5" x 11" pencil
I wanted to go home, as usual. I wanted to be in my own house, with all the family that I was around daily. But, sometimes, we had to go visit my mother's family who lived on a farm in Navarro county.
There were times when we only went for the day on Sunday, when Daddy was off work. The stores were all closed on Sundays, including Uncle Tom's grocery store, where Daddy worked, and the adjoining drygoods store, owned by my grandparents. Other times, Mama and I would stay for a week or so, while Daddy stayed home to work and have his meals with his relatives. He said that he didn't even know how to boil water. So, he would make the rounds of all the relatives, friends, and even some people in town, who offered him food when Mama couldn't be there to cook for him.
I wanted to be at home around the stores, "helping" a little, but playing a lot in the mirrors, the show windows, on the counters, and getting lots of attention. Going to the picture show, getting ice cream or Cokes at the drugstore. Listening to the radio, playing on the school playground, or in the park with my friends. Going to the neighbors' houses. Going to organ and choir practice with Mama, then Sunday School and church at the Methodist Church with all the family on Sunday. Going to parties and "lunches", or meetings in the afternoon with Mama. And days of just playing outside, making mudpies, or going to play paperdolls or coloring with a friend, playing out the latest movie, making the rounds to neighbors to see what they were doing, and watching during wash day, ironing day, cleaning day, and all those normal things. I wanted to be where I could walk around town by myself, if I wanted to, feeling safe and secure in my little adventures and play. Most of the time, I was glad to escape my mother's piano pupils, though. The piano, by itself, especially for those just learning to play, just hurt my ears!
When we went to the farm to visit, we didn't leave the farm. Mama and Grandma just seemed to cook and then everyone would eat. The men would go back out to work outdoors, while Mama and Grandma would sit at the table and talk. They encouraged me to go outside and play, but there was nothing to do. Grandma sometimes gave me several jar lids and a spoon so I could make mudpies. But, then, there was no faucet. I would have to get water from the well and I couldn't reach that. I would go inside and get a little water with the dipper from the drinking bucket hanging by the door. But I didn't want to get mud on it, so I thought that was a little risky to try. There wasn't a really good place to make mudpies, although I did try it a few times, and left my "pies" on the steps to bake. No toys to play with, no swing, no dolls, and no other kids to play with. Usually, I would go outside, kick the dirt a little, walk around the outside of the house, look for kittens, then just sit on the steps, or go back inside the house. Occasionally, Grandpa would take me to see inside the smokehouse or the barn when he had to get something there. They didn't want me to risk scaring the chickens or the cows and I was scared of the big mules. I was also concerned that there might be a snake around since I had heard them talk about chicken snakes.
We never went into town, to see a movie, or to go to church. I don't remember that they had a car. They probably did, but I just remember a wagon. In those days, that was probably all they needed. Any town seemed a million miles away, over the low hills of black dirt and a faint line of trees on the horizon.
Sometimes my mothers sister would drive from where she was teaching to meet my mother and visit with her parents. My mother and her sister started taking paino lessons when they were about 3 years old. Both continued to study music and my mother planned to be a concert pianist. Instead, she married before she graduated from high school. My aunt went on to get a degree in music, taught school, and taught private piano lessons. Both of them played for their churches and learned to play organ when the churches bought organs, and they played for civic events in their respective communities. When those two got together, and there was a piano, people could count on them playing individually and duets. They were really good, and popular.
I was probably age 3 or younger, when we were visiting on the farm. My sister had not been born yet, so I had to be very young. My aunt was there to visit. And, I was bored. I wanted to go to the Saturday picture show, to choir practice, or the drugstore. I probably would have been happy if there had been another child to play with.
Evening arrived, supper was over, and everyone moved from the table to a sitting room, where there was a piano. I whined and wanted to at least listen to the radio. It seemed like they only turned it on for farm reports, news, one soap opera that Grandma liked, and "The Grand Ole Opry" on Saturday nights. (Grandma said that Tennessee Ernie Ford was our cousin, and talked about some of the people on the program as if they were old family friends. I don't know if that was true, but she was from Tennessee. ) It was too early for that program.
Mama and her sister sat at the piano and they started playing duets and talking about the latest songs. Grandpa sat in a little rocking chair, near a window and a door to the outside. Grandma sat in a chair across from Grandpa. In cold weather, there was a wood stove set up in that room. I sat on Grandpa's foot and we played "Ride The Horsey" and "Yankee Doodle", as my grandparents at home would do. I bounced around, imagining a beautiful horse I might have some day and thinking of a young patriot, riding his prancing steed. I jumped to the music as Grandpa sat on his rocking chair with his legs crossed.
As Mama and her sister played, Grandpa started playing his violin with them, while I sat on his foot and "rode" to the music. Soon, I was laughing away. I didn't know most of the songs, or I would have been singing, too. My mother told me that I knew every song in the Methodist Hymnal by the time I was two. And, I knew all the songs on the radio and in the musicals in the movies, along with the dance routines.
"Grandma, why don't you play anything?" I asked.
She went out the back door and returned with a saw and a little hammer. "This is some time for her to want Grandpa to cut some wood!" I thought.
"I'm going to play this," she smiled as she explained.
I thought she must be joking. "Grandma, no one can make music with a saw!" I sighed, sure that she was kidding me.
She sat down in her chair, draped her skirt, and put the saw across her lap. As she raised the saw and bent it, she hit it softly with the little hammer. I'm sure that my mouth must have dropped open. There were wavering tones tht matched what Grandpa and the sisters were playing.
"Now all we need is someone to play the jug and the spoons," Grandma grinned widely, which was unusual for her. Her dark eyes seemed to sparkle with mischief. Usually, she was stern and serious.
"Grandma," I said, disgusted that she would try to put one over on me.
She went to the kitchen and returned with a pair of metal spoons. She tried to show me how to play the spoons but my little hands couldn't manage that. She passed them to Grandpa and he played a bit, then passed them on to the sisters who showed that it could be done.
"Go get me that jug," Grandma pointed to the back door. There was a white pottery jug being used as a doorstop at the back door. I had seen jugs in the movies and I knew those related to whiskey. I wondered why there was a jug in this house because I knew that all my family was against drinking and lectured about it a lot. I hoped that Grandma, in her unusually happy mood wasn't about to lift the jug and take a swig of whiskey. Worse yet, I hoped that she wasn't going to have me carrying or drinking the stuff, too. I brought the empty jug to her and she told me to blow in it. I tried but the air just came back into my face. Then she showed me that she could blow into the jug and make deep, strong sounds and rhythm. The others took their turns at playing the jug as well.
"When you get a little bigger, you can probably do that, too." Grandma took up her saw again and they all started playing songs like "The Great Speckled Bird", "The Midnight Special", "Big Rock Candy Mountain", "Jeanie With The Light Brown Hair", "Froggy Went A Courtin' ", and many others. They never did turn on the radio to hear "The Grand Ole Opry" that night.
I got the feeling that, sometimes, they got together with neighbors and friends, and they had a jam session that included other instruments like the jug, spoons, bass fiddle, and guitar.
I never did learn to play those things. My grandparents moved from the farm about war time. I don't recall ever seeing the violin again. They sold or got rid of most of their things when they moved into a tiny little apartment and worked at the aircraft factory in the city. And, my mother wouldn't allow anything in the house except classical or church music, sometimes the better popular music. She didn't want us listening to "trash" she said. However, there were some Saturday nights, while she was cooking a roast for Sunday dinner, and Daddy was still working, when she would turn on the radio to a variety program or comedy, and then would listen to "The Grand Ole Opry".
Grandma was born in Tennessee, and said that her father was "a hillbilly doctor". Grandpa's father was born in Alabama. Grandma moved to Texas with her mother after her father died. Grandpa was born on that farm. So I could understand that they might like what we called "hillbilly music", back then. I guess that some of it must have been folk music. Times change.
"Jammin' " shows the family room in the farm house, with music on a Saturday night. The moon is out above the barn. In my drawing, I showed the barn much closer to the house than it actually was.
This pencil drawing is a memory from childhood. I hope that, on this Saturday night, and others, you are able to do a little jammin' of your own, and make some memories. Or that, at least, my memory has brought back some of your own memories.

Vision-Kitchen Counter

Kitchen Counter What Happened to the Edge? 8"x12" watercolor
Morning light streamed through the blinds over the sink. I had put my grandson's oatmeal into a bowl and was waiting for water to heat in the microwave. I stood in front of the sink. I remembered that I needed a spoon to stir the cereal after I added the water, and reached to put the bowl on the counter while I went to get a spoon from the drawer.
I reached, and reached- and reached. I couldn't see the edge of the counter! What happened to the tiles and the edge of the counter? Instead, there was a purple cloud where the counter edge should be. I touched the counter and tried to put the bowl where my hand was. The bowl fell, crashing to the floor. Dry oatmeal and glass scattered all over the floor. I was sure that I had put the bowl where the counter should be, but, apparently, I had missed.
"That is so stupid!" I fussed at myself as I cleaned up the mess. "Where did the edge of that counter go?" I stood up and touched the edge of the counter. It was all there again and I was seeing it. I fixed another bowl of oatmeal for my grandson. The water was ready.
How long will I be able to enjoy the morning sun coming through the blinds? How long will I be able to fix breakfast for my grandson? Maybe I should just give it up before I have a more serious accident. I had already burned my hand and now dropped a bowl because I wasn't seeing correctly. I also realized that it took me several tries to hang a clothes hanger on the rod in the closet. I kept missing the rod and my clothes kept falling on the floor. I sat down to watch "The Golden Girls" on tv after everyone left for school, sipped a soft drink, and held tight to my elderly cat.
This painting was done using Winsor Newton watercolors on 140 # Strathmore watercolor paper.

Vision-Morning Toast

Morning Toast
Making Toast In The Oven
8" x 12 " watercolors
Each school morning, my grandson and I have breakfast together. We have some nice conversation to start the day off in a calm way, which takes away some of the anxiety we both have. He's always had anxiety about going off to school, but it has been better in the past few years. No more screaming and crying, kicking and resisting, until he has gotten settled in for the day. And I was always in a rush to get dressed and out the door, feeling anxious about going to school, when I was young, and being there as a teacher in later years. I would cry, too, when I was in school, and my mother had to even chase me to school with a switch or the hairbrush-even to graduation. I wanted to stay at home. Some days, even when I was teaching, I could imagine my mother coming closer with her switch or her hair brush, urging me to hurry up and get to school before I was late.
Now, I fix breakfast for the young one, and we sit and talk, or even watch "Sponge Bob" on tv. His favorite breakfasts are French Toast, although I have a lot of trouble with consistency on that, and toast and juice. I try to sneak in some fruit with the juice and toast. Oatmeal was good, but he got tired of that. He did love cheese toast, but eventually tired of that, too. So, I put butter in each corner of bread, put it on a pan, and under the broiler in the oven to toast. I tried a toaster and a toaster oven, but oven toast is just the best. He likes this even more than cinnamon toast. Sometimes, I make the pats of butter form a happy face, or something appropriate for the day. Later in the day, we may even have toast with soup, or just for a snack.
"I wonder what has happened to bread!" I said as I put the bread on a cookie sheet. "I used to put four slices of bread on this pan and it filled it up. Now, I have to use six or eight slices of bread to fill the pan. Even when I make sandwiches, I have to make two sandwishes to be as large as one sandwich used to be. And, not to mention the smell and the taste. What ever happened to that good, sweet, yeasty smell of bread! We used to drive past the big bread bakeries in the cities, and that smell was so good! Just like another tourist attraction. Now, you can hardly smell anything, even if you put your nose right on the bread. It has about as much taste as cardboard too. Goodness only knows where it comes from. It's probably made in some foreign place, like everything else these days, frozen, and shipped a long way to us, and passed off as being fresh. I guess they cut corners in ingrediants so we have to pay a lot more and get a lot smaller bread. Or, maybe some do-gooder is trying to make us eat less. It doesn't work. We just have to eat twice as much."
I put the pan in the oven, leaving the door open so I could take the pan out when the butter melted and the edges turned golden. The cheap pan began to curl up like a piece of plastic. "I'll bet that supposedly metal pan is really covered with plastic, is why it curls up like that. We're probably getting poisoned from that pan, even though it is new." I complained as I watched.
My sister had explained to me that you need the vision in both eyes to have depth perception. At this point of my Wet Macular Degeneration, I caught myself closing the affected eye often, attempting to clear things up that I looked at. I hadn't noticed a problem with depth at all. Just having trouble reading things at a little distance, things were wavey, blurred, had spots sometimes, and colors like blue and black, beige and lavendar, green and purple, were a bit of trouble to distinguish except in the sunlight.
"It's ready!" my grandson advised me that the toast was just right to take from the oven. I picked up the hot pad and reached for the pan. As I lifted the pan from the oven, I touched my hand to the top of the stove. It felt hot, but really didn't hurt that much. But, I could see the red from the top burner on my hand.
I put the toast on plates and my grandson took the plates to the table attached to the couch. I ran cold water over my hand as an angry red welt formed. I didn't know why I ever put my hand on the top of the oven. There was plenty of room, and I never had missed the correct space for moving my hand away safely before.
I put antibiotic ointment on my hand and a large bandage to protect it.
"Now that was a stupid thing to do," I lectured myself after everyone had gone off to school. I put the dishes in the sink and turned on "The Golden Girls" to watch as I finished my toast. It was nice to wave goodbye to everyone as they went off to school, while I could leisurely eat some breakfast, watch tv, or even go back to bed, if I wanted. I would have to remember to pull my hand out of the oven lower, the next time, though. I guess it would be easier to use a toaster.
This painting makes me think of the book, "Burnt Toast", which was given to us at the George Bush Library last spring by the author, Teri Hatcher, of tv fame. The book certainly has her voice. It reads just as if you are listening to her talk. Thanks to Teri for the book. That was really a nice surprise at the leadership program hosted by former president Bush. Other participants were Harriet Miers, Eileen Collins, and Chris Evert. Some days, I end up with the title to Hatcher's book-burnt toast in my oven, and I have to start over.
"Morning Toast" was painted with Winsor Newton watercolors on 140# strathmore watercolor paper.

Vision-Telephone

The Telephone 8" x 12 " watercolors
I don't like telephones. From the irritating noise they make, I know that it can only be something bad, if someone calls me. Or, even if it is something good, I sound like a blithering idiot, as the old saying goes, when I talk. I never can think of what to say, until long after I have hung up, so I just stumble around, saying nothing that is the least bit intelligible. And that doesn't even take into account my drawl and my croaky voice which I am embarrassed for people to hear.
As usual, the jangling ring of the telephone was an indication of something bad to come that day. The mail wasn't much better. The letter came first. A bill for almost $4,ooo from the specialist. I almost fainted! I thought insurance was going to pay for everything but the copay. Insurance, it seems, would only pay $125. Foundations would cover what insurance would pay, according to the doctor. Not to worry, I had been told. Just decide on which treatment I wanted and show up. My focus had been on my eye and recovering from the shot.
"Sorry. We only cover your out of pocket expenses for things like hotels, meals, and travel, once you have paid out $5,000." One foundation told me by phone. I didn't have any of that.
"So sorry," another foundation said over the phone. "We only help out with the $25 copay after you have paid $500. We can't help you."
When I applied, they assured me that I qualified and there was money to help me, if needed.
Now, over the phone, it seemed there was no help and I was shuffled out the back door.
I called the doctor's office about the bill. It had to be a mistake.
"Sorry, but your insurance didn't cover it so we will need the $3,000 amount, plus another $1800 to cover the office visit this afternoon, before you see the doctor," the office worker told me. "We require that all payments be made before patients see the doctor."
"I told you to begin with that I don't have that kind of money. I would never have gone if you had not told me that it would be paid for 100%. " I tried not to sound so concerned and excited.
"We won't make any future appointments until this is paid in full," she said coldly.
"Well, I guess I'll just have to cancel, " I said angrily. I was swelling with frustration and tears. "I won't be back until you all get this insurance business and foundations straightened out." I hung up.
I had been scheduled to go in and have my red eye checked after the shot. It was a struggle to scrape together the $25 for the copay. But, that was something that was possible. Thousands of dollars was not.
"You don't just have to have treatment," I recalled the doctor saying. "But, without it, you will lose your center vision. You won't go totally blind, but you won't be able to read, write, watch tv, cook, sew, drive (and, in my mind, I added draw or paint). "
My daughter left the house to go on an errand, and I was glad to just sit at my desk, crying and feeling angry, all afternoon.
I put my nightgown on and sat in my comfortable desk chair. I tried searching online for others who had similar experiences, and for possibilities for help. There was only similar information to what the doctor had given me and information that didn't apply to me. Everything was geared toward people who either had lots of money or good insurance.
Now, what was I supposed to do! Go blind, I guessed.
Sometimes, it feels like there is some giant above me with a big hammer, and, everytime I start feeling a little bit hopeful, that giant is right there to hammer me back down into a blob of nothing. A grease spot in my chair. The phone brought feelings that sweat and tears were pouring from me, into a big puddle on the floor. I gripped the chair arms with my hands, and wrapped my feet tightly around the bottom of the chair.
I couldn't take any more bad news.
"Well, I can't ever go back to that doctor, and I may as well give up and prepare to go blind,"I told myself. "All this reading and searching about Macular Degeneration, and having to go through that shot, was just a waste of time. Who cares anyway." I gathered up all the material that the doctor had given me to read and threw it in the trash. "That was a waste of paper," I said. Even the Amsler chart went in the trash. "What good is it to check and see if it is getting worse or changing, if I cant' do anything about it."
I moved my chair over to my drawing table, pulled out a block of watercolor paper, my watercolors and brushes. I filled a can and spray bottle with water, and started painting.
"I may not be able to do anything about this, but I can paint about what happened to me." I told myself. And, there are some interesting designs and unusual things that I have seen during all this. Maybe someone else might find them interesting, too. And, who knows, maybe my pictures will help someone else."
My eye didn't get checked and I felt betrayed and hopeless, beaten into that blob in my chair. I thought that the nice doctor didn't really care if my eye fell out of my head. He wasn't going to ever be bothered with me again. I felt that his sign in the window that said, "Don't come in if you're sick". Should have added to it, "And go home if you don't have a lot of cash and insurance." The door to care was closed to me,and my journey seemed to be on the road to darkness. Maybe I should just prepare to be a blind person. I couldn't believe it. This could not be happening. It had to all be a bad dream. I didn't want the phone to ever ring again. I knew that it could only bring more bad news.
I had already cut out so many things including going to doctors, buying medicine, some insurance, drinking water, food, clothes, entertainment, my car-everything that I could to cut expenses and still get by on my retirement. I wondered if one reason I was having the eye problem might be due to lack of blood pressure medicine. That is listed on the possible causes of AMD. But, I'm told that I make too much to get assistance, so I just have to do without things.
They say that depression, anger, confusion, and other things go along with AMD. I can see why those things happen.
It becomes very difficult to know that there is treatment that can help, but it isn't available due to money or the lack of.
There is an incident that has stuck in my mind for many years. A little boy was on the news, going around with a jar, collecting change so he could have an operation. He needed $30,000 to have that surgery. He died before he raised enough money. To me, that is just criminal, to let someone suffer and die when someone else has the ability to help that person. I know that we all have to make money, but to deny someone what you are able to give, is just wrong. I guess that is my school teacher mentality-to give and to help, and not expect a bunch of money in return. That's why doctors have money, I guess, and teachers remain poor.
I heard one presidential candidate speak a few months ago. Many of his remarks were greeted with silence from the audience after an initial enthusiastic and warm welcome. One thing he said was that "We are not going to just let anyone fall out on the sidewalk and die. After all, this is America!" I said a soft, "Ha!" No one clapped for him. He was answering a question about health care for illegal immigrants. I knew that I could fall out on the sidewalk and die, or my eye could fall out of my head, and I had better be able to take care of it myself. I won't be eligible for any help.
My journey continues.
The watercolor above was done on 140 # Strathmore watercolor paper, using Winsor Newton watercolors.

Vision-Eye Test

Eye Test 8" x 12 " watercolors

"Eye Test" was done on 140 # Strathmore watercolor paper using Winsor Newton watercolors.

A few days passed after the injection in my eye, and my eye looked some better. It still sagged and drooped, watered, and was a little pink looking. But, my birthday had passed and my drivers license had expired. My daughter took me to get the license renewed. I felt confident because two doctors had told me in the last two weeks that my vision was good enough to pass this eye exam.

What a disappointment it was. I took in my old license, the renewal notice, and my fee, ready to keep my license. I had braved all that the doctor's office had thrown at me, so I felt ready.

I was directed to look into what looked like a wooden box. All I could see was the edges of the box around my face, a wavey, black background with squiggley green lines on it. I tried closing one eye, I blinked, I squinted and it didn't change. The clerk took me to another machine and it was no better.

"Time to see an eye doctor," she advised.

"I've been to two eye doctors in the past two weeks, and I could read their charts", I told her. "I do have sinus trouble today from the wind, and I'm getting over a little eye infection."

She told me that I had two years, and to come back and try again when my eye was better.

I didn't want to tell her that my eye may not get any better, but only worse. Still, I should have been able to see something. I didn't know what was wrong.

"Just don't get caught driving with an expired license," she advised as we left.

I was dejected, to think that I couldn't drive anymore. I got my license when I was 12, and had started driving when I was 8, although that was a bit reluctantly. Daddy insisted that I try to drive the war surplus Jeep he had bought. Scared both of us silly when I drove up a little hill and into a neighbor's yard when I tried to carefully turn a corner! So, he made me drive the tractor out in the pasture, to learn how to drive better. As long as I could remember, I either sat in someone's lap while they drove, or stood on the seat beside them. I guess my driving career might be over. Good thing I liked to ride around in the back seat and talk to the grandsons , or look for pictures to draw, while someone else drives. Still, riding in a car is not that fun anymore, with all the distortion and strange things I see. I hadn't been driving since I didn't have to go to work anymore, and, even then, I preferred to have my daughter drop me off at work. And, when my knees started bothering me, I quit driving. Still, not having a license is not a good feeling-just in case I should need to drive and my eyes were better. Maybe, if the eyes and knees get worked on, I can drive again.

It was like one more thing had been taken away from me. One more stone in the path to the end of life. I tried to stay as cheerful as I could reminding myself that it was better to let someone else do the work while I enjoyed looking for pictures, taking photos, drawing, talking to the kids. Still, I knew that, if I just wanted to take myself for a ride, or I needed to go somewhere, I had to wait until other people could, or would, take me. Sometimes it's easier to just stay at home.

I hope that this one goes through. I've had trouble "publishing" or posting the last three posts. I finally got the first one to work. I gave up on the one I was going to send today, about Saturday nights, and will try that some other Saturday. I had to delete what I wrote about for this one, and I'm rewriting it shorter. I think the problem comes when my internet can't find the server, or something of that sort. Computers are a mystery to me. I did print and save the original story, so I have them to keep with my pictures.

The painting today looks like some sort of Egyptian design rather than an eye chart. But, that's how it appeared to me.

Today, I heard an interesting program on tv with an author who has a book out on a man who was blind since age 3. The blind man has had surgery which restored his vision somewhat. Colors and patterns were fascinating to him, but he didn't have the depth that he needed. So, he was having trouble with 3-dimensional things, like faces. I am putting a link to the author on my page in the Authors and Artists section.

Enjoy, and pass my address on to anyone who you think might be interested.

Vision-After The Shot

Today's painting may not be so easy to look at. I wanted to give a little warning, just so you will know. Actually, it's very colorful, if you look at it from that standpoint, rather than to think of the subject matter. I'll put the painting at the end, this time, just in case you can't bring yourself to look.


It was Friday. The day the doctor spent at another office out of town. No appointments for that day here, of course.
I got up, put the cool drops in my eye, took my medicine, and settled down with a cold washcloth on my eye on the couch. When I went into the bathroom to dress, I looked into the mirror as I washed my face. Something I had tried to avoid doing. I didn't like seeing my eye with the lids drooping a little, and a bit pink from irritation.
"Oh my goodness!" I gasped when I saw my eye. The white part was bright red and looked like it was almost hanging out. The bottom lid was red, sagged, and had a "bag" underneath. The top lid was also drooping and hanging at an angle. The corners of the eye looked as if they were about to pour out blood, they were so red. The green iris almost glowed as it stood out against the contrasting red background of my eyeball. There was little light reflecting from the lights above the mirror, just a couple of dots of light on the edge of the iris. The pupil was dark and enlarged.
I thought that, if the eye was going to turn red, from the doctor hitting a blood vessel during the injection, it would have happened right away. But, this was something different, I thought. Several days had passed. At least that is what I understood from what they had told me in the office the day I got the shot.
I called the doctor's office, realizing that he wasn't there. But, they had told me to call right away if it turned really red.
"Oh, that's very common," the receptionist advised. "I've had three other calls today from people who told me the same thing. Just put cold packs on it and take some Tylenol if it hurts too much. You have an appointment to get it checked next week. We'll see you then."

I was not comforted. I guess things were not as urgent as others made me think they were. First, the Opthamologist had wanted me to get in to see the Retina Specialist right away. He said my eye was not bleeding yet, so it was imperative that I get in to see a Retina Specialist immediately. He made the call himself, to make sure I got in to see someone before blood started leaking. Once that happened, he said that it couldn't be fixed. Right now, there was just fluid, which was bad enough. But, that, too, was Friday and the specialist was out of town. They didn't seem concerned in the other office and Monday would have been fine. All weekend I wondered and worried about what was happening to me. Was my eye going to start bleeding? Was I going to be blind by Monday? I didn't know what to expect. Anxiety had time to set in.

And, now, after being told to call right away if my eye turned really red, I had called and been told to just take some Tylenol if it hurt. Another Friday, and the specialist was in his other office in another town. Of course, things always seem to happen on weekends, when doctors' offices are closed.
Tylenol and those new medications don't do a thing for me. If it hurt too much, I would take some old reliable asprin. But, it didn't hurt any more than it had been -more annoying than pain. I just kept trying to brush away pieces of hair that felt like they might be hanging in my eye. The cold cloths and cool eye drops seemed to take care of that. It was uncomfortable to bend over, but that was more like pressure than pain. I would just try to stay quiet, still, watch tv, put the cold cloths and drops in my eye, and wait. And wonder.

After The Shot 8" x 12" watercolors

The yellow shows up more in this painting on my blog. The orginal doesn't show this much yellow, but, instead, has more orange, pink, and flesh tones. This was painted on 140 # Strathmore watercolor paper using Winsor Newton watercolors.

Vison-Ready To Go

Ready To Go

8"x 12"

Watercolors

and acrylic

The darkness faded away to boiling clouds of smoke-colored fog that filled the room. I could see the cabinet with a chair beside it, the door frame, and the mirror where the eye chart reflected. And, I could see my feet with my black walking shoes on the foot rest of the examining chair, poking out from the fog.

I could see the letters on the eye chart, just like they had appeared when I had looked at it during the exams. The letters were not clear with shadow images appearing behind and to the right of each letter. Smaller letters toward the bottom were blurred and were indestinguishable. Still, the doctor had said that my eyesight was good enough to pass the eye exam for the driving test.

The technician had told me, as we were signing papers before the injection, that they would give me some eye drops to take home with me and to use them every 4 hours, as directed. He said it would help if I kept them in the refrigerator. They would be soothing to my eye, if they were cold. He also advised me to use cold washcloths on my eye if it started to be uncomfortable. He explained that some people said that they felt like there was something in their eye, like a grain of sand. And, he told me that my eye may turn very red, if the doctor hit a blood vessel when he gave me the shot. But, that was nothing to be concerned about. It was normal. He also said that I might experience pressure on my eye, but it would not hurt to get the shot. They were doing lots of deadening. (Of course, I had not really believed that. My heart was pounding. I felt hot, anxious, a little sick at my stomach. I may faint. Even after the shot.)

Dressed in blue sweat pants (I guess they were scrubs but they looked like some kind of excercise outfit, to me, instead of a professional looking nurse uniform) and a patterned smock top, the nurse came in the room. She took a small, round object from the cabinet and came over to me. She put the insrument on my eye and quickly removed it. She turned back to the cabinet, put the instrument down, and walked to the door.

"Okay, you can go now," she said as she walked out the door.

I thought that was a little odd. She wasn't very friendly now. Before the shot, she had not been exactly warm, but she had been sort of in the background, with the techician and the doctor closer to me. She could have, at least, asked me how I was doing, or commented on something like the fact that it was all over and I was doing just fine.

I stood up slowly as my daughter arrived at the door. "Ready to go?" she asked.

"I guess so," I answered. I thought the doctor might have appeared to reassure me, but the hall was empty. I had to use my walking cane for a little while since my knees bothered me after sitting. We walked to the reception desk. Water ran from my eye and I used the tissue to blot the tears on my cheek.

"Here's your card for your next appointment," the receptionist handed me a card, which I couldn't read. I thought it was from my eye watering. I handed it to my daughter. I thought that, maybe, this is why they wanted you to pay before seeing the doctor. You might not be able to write a check after seeing him. But, of course, the person with you could take care of that.

"He wants to see you in a week to check how your eye is doing. If it turns really red, call us right away." She turned to talk to the person working beside her.

We went out to the car. My daughter was driving.

"The drops!" I said. "I thought they were supposed to give me some drops. I didn't get anything."

My daughter went back into the office and returned with a small bottle of eye drops.

I had read, online, about someone who had a shot in their eye. They said that, after their injection, riding in the car really bothered them. They finally solved the problem by just closing their eyes for the trip home. Now I understood what they meant. Things seemed to just whiz by, if I looked out the side windows, almost making me seasick. Light reflected off the back of parked cars like big, bright, half rainbows. The bending and distortion of objects also tended to make me a little sick at my stomach. I closed my eyes and held the tissue over my eye. I didn't like to ride this way, unable to see where I was going and what was around me.

At home, I put the drops in the refrigerator and fixed a cold washcloth to put on my eye. I walked to the couch in the den, sat on the reclining section of the couch, took off my shoes, and put my feet up. I turned on the tv to watch an old movie. I would spend a lot of time here, with the cool washcloth on my eye, listening to an old movie, in the next few days.

I didn't have nerve enough to look at my eye until later. At least we knew the answer to what would happen when they put a needle in the eye. It didn't deflate, fall out, or have all the juice inside to run out. I remembered being cautioned so often about standing on a chair and holding a coat hanger. I was told that an older girl had put her eye out when she was on a chair, with a coat hanger, and fell. So, wouldn't a needle also make one have to get a glass eye?

I couldn't help but think about the rhyme we used to say as children. "Cross my heart and hope to die; stick a needle in my eye." This was about the strongest promise one could make. I never dreamed anyone actually would do that, for legitimate reasons. But, I had just had a needle stuck in my eye.

When I finally did get the courage to look at my eye, I was horrified to see the bottom lid drooping some, and the top lid hanging a little. It was only a little pink in places, so I was sure that the doctor had avoided hitting a blood vessel. I guessed that it would clear up quickly. He had done a good job. The drops and cold packs would probably tighten the lids up again, and make my eye clear up soon. It did feel a little like something in my eye, like a piece of hair, perhaps. So, I kept pushing hair away from my eye-some of it real, some of it just the way my eye felt.

I had survived the shot and now looked forward to going back to the doctor to get it checked in a week. Hopefully the extra blood vessels would have stopped forming, the bleeding avoided, and my vision would start improving. I tried not to think about the injections that had been scheduled for every four weeks during the next year-possibly two years. I needed to think about the positive, and the "right now", and not dreading the rest of the shots. Hopefully, they would all be as easy as this one had been. Still, I was a bit uneasy about how long it might be before the discomfort would go away and I could see better. It was manageable for now. Soon, I may be able to continue drawing, painting, writing, and riding in the car with less distortion.

"Okay, You Can Go Now" was painted on 140 # Strathmore watercolor paper using Winsor Newton watercolors. Acrylics were used on the eye chart.

I hope that you will share this with anyone who you think might be interested. I am curious as to what others with AMD, or similar problems, experience. My original idea in starting a blog was to share what I have experienced so that others might be better prepared when it happens to them, or that others might relate to what they, or those they know, have already experienced.

Other subjects and memories will be posted on my blog, but I thought it best to post my AMD experiences in order, as they happened. You can see some of my other art work on my Google group, Art -By-Cecelia. I hope you will jon that group and get updates when I have added something to my blog or pages. Also, take a look at the interesting Authors and Artists, and Interesting Sites section of my blog. Check back when you have time, and enjoy!