Showing posts with label Optic neuritis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Optic neuritis. Show all posts

Monday, November 11, 2013

Glasses Half Full

I'm in a funk. I've been struggling to find the happy. So today, I'm going to give myself a day of sad. A day-long pity party. Then I'm going to reset tomorrow, shake off the funk, and find my happy.

I realized this morning that I haven't skated in a week, and I haven't posted anything Derby related in longer than that. Life got in the way, and today I will remedy both problems by going skating with Sara and writing this post.

Let's talk about glasses.  The ones for your face, not the ones for your bourbon.

Since the sixth grade, I have been wearing glasses.


We can talk about the kick-ass mullet in a later post...

My eyes got a little worse each year. They got so bad that I literally could not function without glasses. If I was out and broke my glasses, I would have not been able to get myself home. Then, about 8 years ago, I had PRK vision correction surgery. That laser reshaped the back of my eye to be capable of 20/20 vision. But, the doctor warned me, the surgery only reset my vision. My eyes would continue to age and my vision would continue to degrade.

And that is exactly what has been happening. Aging eyes with a dash of MS. My Optic Neuritis--the symptom that initiated the MS diagnosis--has left me with a permanent cloud in my right eye. It's a bit like looking through a smear of Vaseline. I am constantly taking off my glasses to clean them, only to remember that it was actually my eye that needed cleaning.

I now need glasses to see the actors on a stage or the address on a street sign. I cannot drive at night without them. And I can't see clearly across the derby track.


And that presents a problem. Several Derby Girls wear glasses while they play. But it can be dangerous. Very recently, a fellow DG posted about her experience playing with glasses. She took a legal hit that knocked her down and broke her glasses. The broken frame of her glasses became razor sharp and sliced her forehead, barely missing her eye.


So these are my vision alternatives when skating. I can chance it wearing my glasses, hoping they don't break or don't injure me. I don't want to spend money on new glasses or plastic surgeons (for fixing glasses-caused scars. I will happily use plastic surgeons for other maintenance issues).

I can get contact lenses. They irritate my eyes, and they are expensive and easy to lose or break. They also can hurt if they slip off into the corner of your eye or you get some dirt in there. I know this from experience, that would be the last thing you would want to happen in the middle of a jam.

There is the no-glasses option, but that leaves me with a bit of a blind spot to my right. That will not help me bring my A game.

I'm not anywhere near being a good enough skater to scrimmage yet. But when I am good enough, I'm going to get myself a pair of sports glasses with a high impact rating.


Sexy, no? Actually, I don't think they are too bad. Just nerdy enough for Velma. Safe enough for solving mysteries.

Speaking of Velma... There is a common pop culture trope that involves putting glasses on the hero somehow serves a disguise. Sometimes a superhero hides behind those specks. Sometimes a nerdy, bookish girl becomes beautiful when the boy she has a crush on removes her glasses.


I never liked either of those literary themes. Here's something that most of us eventually learn through life experience. Don't hide your hero. And nerds are sexy.

Glasses are hot.  Trust me.


Friday, July 26, 2013

41 Is a Prime Number

My Year 40 was a shitty, shitty year. I was stuck in a bad job that continued to get worse with a long commute and an asshole boss. I had some "female" troubles in early 2013 that resulted in a hysterectomy and a week in the hospital. Relationship troubles plagued me, and hurt my very scarred up heart. There were chickens loose for years that were coming home to roost. (Said chickens will be named in future posts, I'm sure.) I was certainly not feeling especially happy or optimistic.

Then April happened. That month started with this weird, funky light flashing in the corner of my eye and ended with me sitting in a neurologist's office with him explaining that I had MS. I had 18 "holes" in my brain--areas bright as a dying star that were evident on my MRI. Life was about to change dramatically because of the golf course being constructed in my head. Well, fuck...

My good friend Sara did something then. She made me join her one Saturday for tryouts. Roller derby tryouts. She dragged me to the warehouse that contained the track. She strapped skates on my feet. Feet that have had no wheels on them for 30 years. She grabbed me by the hips and launched me forward into the pack of incredibly cool women that all harbored the dream that I had secretly had since I first learned about Derby. And I fell. And I fell again. I was fighting the side effects of a medication that I was taking that was making me shake. It was making me dizzy. And I tried to balance on 8 wheels.

My endurance was terrible. I couldn't skate forward. I couldn't stop. I was completely drained after a single lap. My legs burned from the exertion of muscles that had long since retired into a quiet existence.

Exhausted, shaky, and drained, I sat on the bench and watched these amazing women skate. And fall, and get up, and skate some more. I couldn't hold the tears back. Trauma, the team medic, gracefully skated over and sat near me on the bench.

"I'm not hurt," I told her. "I'm just frustrated."

"No you're not." Trauma looked at me and said, "You're pissed off. Your pissed that your body has betrayed you."

She told me to stand up, and try again. Then try again, then do better next time.

Biz, the Fresh Meat mama (that would be the veteran who is in charge of teaching the rookies how to skate), called me aside. She looked over my tryout sheet with notes about my woefully pitiful test scores. She asked, "Do you want to do this?"

I wanted to do this. Hell, yes I wanted to do this. If I had to go through the Fresh Meat class ten times, yes, I wanted to do this. I wanted to take my body back. I wanted to get strong in preparation for the days ahead when my physical abilities might be tested. I wanted to know that if I was in the emergency room, it was because I took an elbow in the nose while blocking the other team's Jammer. Not because by brain was being rebellious.

Biz made the announcement. We were all invited--I was invited--to begin the Fresh Meat training. Sara leaned back and gave me a wink.

Fuck you 40. Fuck you body. This is going to be epic. 41 is a Prime number.