Metal In Your Eye

Friday morning, as I hovered near the telephone awaiting word from other family members about surgery my father was undergoing, I noticed that my husband's right eye was red and swollen.

"I think you need to go to the doctor," I said, after he told me he'd gotten some dust in it. "You may have scratched something."

"It'll be fine. I'll use some Visine," he muttered. And his eye did look better after that, and I said no more about it.

My father had his surgery and was doing ok; he would be in the hospital all weekend. I called and texted to keep a check on him.

Saturday, as my husband helped me change the bed, I looked at him closely for the first time (I am not a morning person). "You're eye is swollen. It looks even worse," I said.

"I can't do anything about it, the doctor's offices are closed and I'm not going to the emergency room," he said. Then he told me his eye had hurt all night, that every time he shut his eyelid, he felt pain.

"We're calling the emergency number. They'll have a doctor on call who will open up an office and see you," I said.

He called the number for his doctor's office, and when they sent him to the hospital number, he hung up. "I'm not going to the emergency room," he repeated.

Sigh. Men can be so stubborn.

"Call back and go through and they'll let you talk to the doctor on call. Tell him what's going on." I handed him the phone.

"I'm not going to the emergency room," he muttered as he dialed again. He was put through to the doctor on call. She listened to him describe what was wrong and she said she thought she should check him out. Could we meet her at the office in Roanoke in an hour?

That was a 45-minute drive and neither of us were dressed, but we hurriedly shrugged on clothes, and I hauled him off to be seen. In the meantime, family members were texting me that my father was doing ok. I let them know I was dealing with a little emergency of my own.

We arrived at the Roanoke office before the eye doctor. She was prompt, though, hitting the door at the hour mark. She took us into the shut-up building, turning on lights as she went. She sat my husband in a chair and had him read a chart. His vision in the inflamed eye was poor. She added drops to his eye and some kind of dye stuff, then looked in.

"Flakes of metal. One big one and some tiny ones," she pronounced. "I'll have to get those out there. They will rust and cause even more problems. It's a good thing you called."

I had not considered the possibility of metal rusting in an eye, but it makes sense that it would. She poured more drops in his eye, and fortunately those swept away all of the small particles. The large one though, sat in the middle of his pupil. That one she removed and showed to me. It was no bigger than the period at the end of this sentence, really. But I imagine it felt like a boulder in my husband's eye.

She checked for rust, but fortunately found none. She gave him a prescription for antibiotic drops and sent us on our way. He has a recheck appointment later this week.

The first thing I did when I returned home and got him settled was ask him what his readers are in terms of magnification. He said he didn't wear his safety glasses because he needed to wear his reading glasses to see up close. But they make safety glasses with readers built in. I just didn't know what magnification to purchase.

Turns out, neither did he, so Sunday we made a trip to the local CVS so he could try on glasses and figure out what he needed. Having determined that a 2.50 or a 2.75 would work, I came back home and ordered him safety glasses with readers built in. They should be here today.

It's always something.

My father, meanwhile, is still in the hospital. He had back surgery for severe arthritis in his back. Today is Monday and he's still there. It was a big surgery, and he's 81 years old. So he's where he ought to be.

And my husband's eye is looking much, much better.