If I told you all that happened to me since January, you wouldn't believe it. OK, maybe you would -- it was ME having trouble believing, since I still have problems adapting to any sort of glitches in the life program.
I had spent most of January in New York, riding the subway and working out of the main office. It was .... not horrible, but definitely less comfortable than my LA routine. So I returned to the West Coast. My life is just easier to manage on the West Coast, despite it being far from my kith and kin, offering a shallow wading pool for dating, and growing ever more expensive.
So there I was in February, still living with friends in Cali after four months with most of my belongings in storage, trying to adjust to the stunning revelation that no, I was not going to be moving in glory and triumph to the East Coast after announcing this intention to all and sundry. I was looking desperately for a new LA apartment to get out of my friends' hair and re-establish my life here. Seems landlords these days are much more greedy about what they charge for rents, and much more discriminating about who they rent to. They can be, because every piece of decent property in the county is being bought up for condos, and rental units are scarce. If you choose to rent anywhere near the city center you pay through the nose, and not before doing a major ass-kissing dance beforehand. Despite all my credentials, the fact that I paid Macy's late three times in 2004 became a black spot on my credit report that potential landlords used to screen me out. Applications were rejected, doors slammed in my face, one old bee-yotch gave me a lecture about my spending habits and I wanted to kick her in her 80-year-old racist shins. Freakin' unbelievable!
On top of that, I had taken on a staggering amount of freelance work in order to further finance my move East, and now had editors and others burning up my phone lines, inquiring as to when they would receive their due. Yours truly was scampering about, burning the midnight oil, going without food or sleep in an attempt to complete projects, all the while juggling the full-time gig and the apartment hunt. By March--with no apartment in sight and pressure from all sides-- I was both desperate and despondent, convinced my relationship with my current hosts was ruined forever and that I'd never be independent again. February segued into March. Much hand-wringing, hyperventilation, and weight loss ensued. In hindsight, it's easy to see how a major breakdown was already in the pipeline.
After a late-February trip to celebrate the anniversary of the only black-owned hotel and casino in Las Vegas (it's Fitzgerald's, by the way), I noticed problems with my eyes. I've always been horribly nearsighted, and ten years ago postponed the inevitable decline with lasik surgery. My vision was improved by the procedure, though not perfected. I still wear glasses, just not the Coke-bottle kind. And if I take them off, I can still find my way around without assistance. But I do experience the halos and bad night vision side effects that come with the operation.
In mid March, I was in Pasadena to cover an awards show. I spent a miserable day constantly polishing my glasses, complaining that they were dirty. It soon occurred to me that it wasn't my glasses--it was my EYES that were cloudy. As I mentioned, problems with my eyes have always been a constant. But now I was developing lightning flashes at night, dark shadows during the day, squiggly floaters obscuring my vision round the clock--amazingly, stuff I ignored. Then I woke up with hundreds of tiny black dots floating around in my left eye. While I was surprised, this development still didn't alarm me. I figured I needed some eyewash and some sleep. I didn't have time to deal with it--I had deadlines.
A friend convinced me this was serious. I consulted the Internet and learned that these symptoms signaled a dire condition that required me to seek medical assistance immediately. I bolted from my desk at the office just after lunch and headed to nearby UCLA, where they have a highly regarded eye clinic. I was seen by no less than four specialists, who damn near popped my eyeballs out of my head and blinded me with ridiculously bright halogen torches through a series of lengthy examinations. They announced that I had detached the retinas in both eyes-- the left eye being worse than the right. "You need surgery immediately -- TONIGHT," intoned the retinal specialist. "Not tonight, I'll come back," I said. "No, TONIGHT," they said.
I freaked out. Majorly.
More in Part 2...
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