Last Monday was one of those days. I had been on the road for 3 days but now I was home, seated in my comfortable recliner. It was “Perry Mason” time. The TV looked dim and unfocused. But It wasn’t my TV, it was me. I had suddenly lost vision in my best eye—my left. It was out of service. It went out like it had just been turned off. I calmly informed my favorite squeeze, Pat, about my situation. She apparently didn’t relish being married to a oneeyed man and went right to work on my problem. I called my eye doctor up in Oklahoma City immediately. He was not as alarmed about my “one-eyed-ness” as I thought he should be, but he did invite me to come on up.

Not much time went by before Pat had our favorite daughter (at least in Allen), helping us get a few things packed for a quick trip to the VA in Oklahoma City. About the time we drove onto I-40 from HW-99 I noticed that my vision had suddenly returned, about as fast as it had gone. That was my left eye. About a year ago I had had a problem with my right eye. It still had a giant “floater” which the doctors at McGee had been unable to fix.

We got right on up there and soon I was in the ER. They rolled me over into their eye section and suddenly I had three of these VA doctors with “EYE” written on their name tags. I heard the one who seemed to be in charge explain I had trouble with my right eye. I tried to explain, to no avail. They knew what they saw. It was my “right” eye. Soon I was hurried into another place and a scan was run. Another doctor (a neurologist) joined our little group. He, holding a piece of paper in his hand said, “This guy has had a stroke in his optic artery supplying his left eye.”

The three eye guys said nothing. One hardheaded doc decided to photograph this offending artery in my right eye. He still didn’t have the “word.” Yet it was me who had to undergo this unpleasant and painful ordeal. Time passed and they finally gave up and accepted that they are messing with the wrong eye. They finally (at 3am) decided to send me up to a room up on the sixth floor. It had been a long day—a day not yet over.

About half of day two was spent with me giving unasked for lectures on which was my left and which was my right eye. Not to mention I was simultaneously falling into the regimen and worry that goes with hospital life. When a large male “teacher” came in with six neurology students in tow for learning (off me) I quickly learned the location of my eye problem was a mystery. We finally figured my left eye was it. Tiring quickly of their quest, they said one more scan and I could go home. This made me happy, but I was not to see Allen that day.

The next day my Neurology guy (accompanied by six of his neurology students) looked me right in my good eye and said this: “Mr. Bullard is 89 years old, set in his ways and is thinking ‘my life style got me this far in life, so why change?’” He went into a quick review of the evils of eating beef, pork, and just about everything I treasure in food. Then he turned to me. “And what do you mostly eat now, Mr. Bullard?” I replied, “Roast beef, beef steaks, pork chops, bacon and hamburgers.” He turned to his minions and said with a snarl, “see?” They left and I turned my attention back to a matter of far more importance. My out of order toilet. I called in my nurse. She called in maintenance, (who looked like he had just left his home in a nearby homeless camp). He did, however, flush the stool several times, said “stopped up” and left. Never saw him again and when I left (the next day) the stool remained out of order. I finally did get back to my dear old Allen, where my stool works real good.

See you in church Sunday, I think.

Wayne Bullard, DPh cwaynebullard@gmail.com