I felt the weight of the day rush over me as we drove into the Damon parking lot for our 5th trip to Mayo Clinic in eight months. It’s surprisingly easy to become accustomed to illness, to disease, to the crazy and hard things of life, but then there are moments that wake you to the reality at hand.

This is not ordinary. Not. Ordinary.

We drove past our “normal” parking spot in Damon. Full today. All the way up to 9th floor for one open spot. We exited the vehicle quickly and made our way to the closest elevator.

As we turned the corner to wait for the elevator, I noticed a young amputee waiting with crutches. He was shaking a bit and holding some sort of therapeutic device I didn’t recognize. All I could keep thinking was how handsome he was, and why in the world do bad things happen to good people? When we stepped in the elevator, I noticed the amputee’s wedding ring. Thank God. He’s been blessed. He moved to the side, gesturing kindly and graciously to others who entered. Hardship humbles a soul.

An older woman entered in front of me, then adjusted to my side. She breathed deeply, loudly, audibly, wore a cardiac necklace and leaned into her walker. “Ay ay,” she whispered in-between audible breaths out loud. She breathed that way all the way down nine floors. I wanted to put my hand on her shoulder, ask her if she was okay and if she needed help from this place to the next. I should have. But I didn’t. We were running late for my husband’s 3-month check for eye cancer. Our day was pre-filled with five appointments, and I didn’t want to start our day later than we already were.

We made our way down the hall, past the metal sculpture I admired and the information desk I needed our first days here eight months ago, past the insightful, delightful piano player accompanied by two singers and a full house of patients and caregivers. I wanted to stop so desperately, to hear and see this holy glory, but we were late. So we pressed onward to the elevators.

All the rushing for nothing.

We checked in and proceeded to wait a half hour for the appointment for which we were late. Waiting gave us time to breathe again, to reflect on the day ahead. Seth sent a text to his parents. I kept thinking about the piano and how I needed to get down there with the healing and the holy. Then I half-woke to reality of a husband with eye cancer and broke out Amber Haines’ Wild in the Hollow, the book I’ve been trying to finish for two weeks. “Will you pray for me before I go in?” asked my husband unexpectedly. “Sure,” I said, continuing to sit and stare forward, blankly like an idiot. “Right now?” he asked. “Sure,” I said, “right here in the waiting room?” as if BEFORE the appointment was some other time than NOW. So I prayed out loud right there in the waiting room. That we’d receive news that the tumor was shrinking this time.

Finally, he was called in for his first appointment. It was brief, 10 or 15 minutes tops.

We were directed to another waiting room where we waited some more.

Part way through the waiting, a couple in their late 40s was escorted into the waiting room. I was trying to figure out which one was the patient, and nearly commented to Seth how handsome the couple was when her phone rang. “I don’t feel like talking right now,” she said. I intentionally stopped listening in on her conversation, but couldn’t stop observing her body language. She was clearly distraught. Distressed. Very upset. And so was her husband. When she got off the phone, a Mayo employee came and told them they’d have to wait longer for their next appointment, that they needed to get some lunch, that they should check back in at a certain time. He sighed, head down. She was about to lose it. I nearly cried for the two of them across the room. Seth told me he’d heard more of the conversation. This was their first appointment. She’d just received the same diagnosis as Seth, choroidal melanoma. They were clearly still in shock.

By the time Seth got into his second appointment, we were 55 minutes behind schedule. But we made up for any time lost with another quick appointment.

When Seth got out, he was worried. The photographs he saw of the medium-sized tumor in his eye didn’t look different than any other visit. The tumor didn’t look smaller. I reminded him he wasn’t a technician. I reminded him he wasn’t a doctor. I reminded him there’s no need to worry. The prognosis is good. I reminded him that I’m hopeful and there’s no reason to believe anything but good.

It was time for lunch. Two hours until his next appointment. So we made our way back to the atrium, back to the piano, my favorite, most holy place in all of Mayo. Jane and the singers had just finished performing. There they were, chatting and hugging, readying for parting. Seth ran up to 9th floor to grab his prescription sunglasses out of the vehicle; his eyes were dilated and uncomfortable. I stayed with hopes Jane would sit for one more tune at that piano. But no such luck. I waited for Seth’s return.

We ate at a pizza place, the first quick serve restaurant we happened upon. Two pieces each. And a soda. We talked about our son who’s about to get braces, who he was and who he’s becoming. We talked about plans and dreams, things that may or may not happen in upcoming months. Life’s a constant surrendering and releasing of what was, what is, and what’s to come.

He wanted Dairy Queen for dessert. I wanted piano. So we stopped at Dairy Queen on the way back to the atrium.

We had another hour to wait. Funny, we were worried about not having enough time in-between appointments for lunch. Now we had more than enough.

The piano was still empty. So we walked through the glass door to open air seating. The temperature was perfect. The garden was gorgeous. I took a seat and a few pictures of Seth to mark the moment. He seemed worried. Sad. Or maybe he was tired. He kept mentioning how he wished he could nap.

We rested. We read, although I more, as Seth’s eyes were still fully dilated making reading uncomfortable. And we recounted the remainder of the day’s schedule.

It was 2:00. Time to head up for back-to-back ultrasound appointments. Seth checked in. I broke out Wild in the Hollow and read a couple paragraphs. Seth was called in for his appointment, so I immersed myself deeper in reading, then writing. Before I knew it, Seth was back in the waiting room. It was time for our long-awaited appointment with Dr. G, the world-renowned doctor who’s been leading Seth’s case since the beginning.

We were called into the examination room at 2:50 p.m. Hallelujah! 10 minutes early.

One of Dr. G’s fellows arrived promptly at 3:00. He clicked open all the records from the day. Clicked open all the records from our last appointment in May. Looked at a bunch of images. Scratched the back of his head. And made a few notes in the records.

“So it looks like it’s shrinking,” he uttered calmly and confidently.

The fellow continued with an exam of Seth’s right eye, the eye with the cancerous tumor. “Look left. Look right. Up and left.” Etcetera. He double checked the left eye too, the eye that required laser eye surgery in late June. “The laser looks good,” he said. “There are no other breaks or tears in the retina.” After making a few additional notes in the records, he bid us farewell and let us know Dr. G would be in shortly.

15 minutes later, Dr. G whisked in and out with med student, Ine, from Belgium. They were going to look through the eye photography and would be back soon.

I overheard Dr. G explain from a room down the long hallway. “This is the top.” His voice was muffled, so I stopped listening. But later in his explanation to the med student, his tone was as jovial as a world-renowned doctor could be.

As he walked down the hallway towards our room, he gestured “shrinking” with his hands. Perfect timing for his arrival in the examination room when he announced “It’s shrinking! You’re just a slow shrinking kind of guy. It’s shrinking. It’s just shrinking slowly.”

In January 2015, the tumor was 4.6 mm.

In May 2015, the tumor was 4.6 mm.

Today, the tumor is 4.03 mm.

A 12% reduction in the height of the tumor. “We’re going in the right direction,” said Dr. G!

Dr. G examined Seth’s eye closer, just like he’s done every other visit. “Yep, you can see it’s falling backwards, which is the direction we want.” Then, in an unexpected turn of events, Dr. G called the fellow back into the room. Dr. G pulled up one photograph of Seth’s eye from May, noted some things for the fellow, asked him to take a second look at Seth’s eye, and wanted him to answer the question – “How has this part of the eye changed since May?” Dr. G pointed out this blood vessel. Then that vessel. And another one or two. Dr. G reminded the fellow not to be deceived or distracted by that vessel there, to focus in on this one, right HERE. How were they angled? How were they positioned? The fellow examined Seth’s eye even closer and responded, “Yes, I see.”

“One sees what one knows,” said Dr. G to the fellow.

It was brilliant.

I loved it.

So much wisdom in that little room.

So much wisdom for now.

And the future.

One sees what one knows.

Yes, Dr. G.

Yes.

Seth shook Dr. G’s hand. Or maybe it was a high five.

I shook Dr. G’s hand firmly. “Thank you very much.” And the med student’s hand, too. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

The nurse who’s been in attendance at the end of every appointment we’ve ever had with Dr. G bid me farewell, “Have a great weekend, sweetie.” I’ve noticed she’s noticed me and appreciated the caregiver gesture.

The day was done.

Before we left the floor, we stopped to make our next set of appointments for mid-late December, but they weren’t booking that far out yet.

Seth made a work call he’d needed to make all day. And I took a moment to release, to breathe, to photograph what was below and above.

Downstairs, we walked freer towards our car, freer past that piano where a young woman played softly. Waiting on shrinking. Healing was beginning.

 

Dear You:

Thank you. What more can I say?

Sure, we’ve crossed paths a few times. But truth be told, I don’t know you all that well. We’re mere strangers in the daily reality called life. Heck, you’re nearly my neighbor, but for some reason, our paths primarily cross online, in this place, my blog.

When you approached and hugged me at the gas station that day, the day before we left for a week of radiation in the hospital, my heart was blessed. Thank you for your hug. Thank you for your warm welcome. Thank you for your sweet smile. Thank you for taking time to stop and see how things were going. Thank you for asking how I was handling it all. Thank you for being you, right then and there at the gas pump.

And then that afternoon, when the kids discovered a bag and your card on our front doorstep? Oh, man. What a sweet surprise that was. What a blessing and delight that was. Who does that anymore? Who delivers goodness straight to someone’s doorstep without seeking an ounce of recognition?

Your words. That card. I’ve read it many times already. It’s stored in my Bible to remind me that people do care, that people do love, that people do understand the quiet power of words, prayer, empathy and sympathy in times of need. I love how you wrote it all out, all your thoughts, all your feelings, all your questioning and wondering, all your wishing and praying for me and our entire family as we faced my husband’s eye cancer treatment. Thank you. Thank you for your words.

And that necklace, that powerful display of faith and beauty? Simultaneously broken and beautiful? That’s what life’s all about, isn’t it? Broken and beautiful. We’re all that way, yes? We’re shards of broken glass, our innermost places filled with painful experiences, haunting memories, things we wish never had to happen in the first place. But those broken pieces come together to create us, to form us, to make us into better, more compassionate people. We are broken. And we are beautiful. Yes. God intended it that way. So we are humbled. So we trust more in Him. So we surrender to His plans, His desire for our greater good. Cancer or no cancer.

That second surgery, the one where the gold bottle cap plaque filled with radiation was removed from my husband’s eye? I wore the necklace that day. I knew I needed the extra strength. For the unknown. For what was yet to come. For peace and comfort knowing I was broken, that my husband’s eye was broken, but our lives were still oh so beautiful.

“In surrender, God can use our burdens as an avenue for His grace.”

Surrender. Oh yes, girl. You got it. I have learned to surrender. I am not in control of this life. I do not have the power to heal my husband’s eye cancer, nor do I have the might to fabricate and maintain any sort of perfect life. The weight of the world is not on my shoulders. But surrender. Yes. Surrender. When I surrender, when we surrender, God steps in. His grace abounds. We need not work ourselves to death. We need not worry ourselves to death. We need not fear the worst possible outcome. We need to trust, hand it over to a higher authority. Surrender. Yes. Surrender.

You must know. This is the last thank you. I’ve been holding off on writing your thank you because words haven’t seemed adequate. I’ve been holding off because I wanted to wait until the time seemed right. I’ve been holding off because my thanks seem small compared to the grace and gratitude I felt upon receiving your beautiful gift.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

 

The day started like any other. Or maybe not so much.

Like any other day, we woke up early and got the two oldest ready for school.

Unlike any other day, they took a few pictures with daddy before getting on the bus.

Like any other day, Seth spent a bit of time on his phone, then a bit of time doing “a little” work.

Unlike any other day, I flew around the house, maintaining strict attention to what remained on the morning’s to-do list.

Clean powder room. Check.

Spot clean disgusting blotches of food and gunk off the main level floors. Check.

Clean main level floors. Check.

Clean windows and glass in whole house. Check.

Put clean sheets on Cooper’s bed (a.k.a. guest bed). Check.

Finish cleaning the kids’ always disgusting bathroom. Check.

Like any other day, I didn’t feel adequate for this housekeeping job. I wasn’t sure it’d meet any Good Housekeeper’s stamp of approval. By the time we got to finish cleaning the kids’ always disgusting bathroom, I was exhausted and had to call for Seth’s help. He changed the lightbulb over the kids’ shower, set 3-year-old Maisie up with supplies and assigned her to clean the toilet. She did a decent job, but I pointed out the fact that she didn’t get the base, that this would still be disgusting for any guest. “Ahhhh,” he said. “Big deal,” as he walked out of the room. Considering we were soon headed out for two days of follow-up appointments at Mayo Clinic for eye cancer, I had to agree. But I cleaned the toilet base anyway.

Unlike any other day, grandpa and grandma arrived promptly at 10:30 a.m. We showed them around, detailed the next two days of kids’ events, and left the house by 11:10 a.m.

Like any other day, we stopped to get some gas.

Unlike any other day, Seth bought a bottle of Propel water for lunch. Clear liquids only for four hours prior to his MRI. 20 minutes later, we stopped for Jimmy John’s. Real lunch to go, for me only.

Like any other day, we chatted the whole way there. Mostly about work. A little this and that.

Unlike any other day, we knew our way to Damon Parking Ramp, Mayo Clinic. No directions needed for this fourth trip in five months. We arrived perfectly on time for his MRI. One minute early, in fact. Seth went straight in. I sat, breathed, listened to a webcast on Iraq, and hand-drafted a blog post inspired by the lady across the way on a Mayo note pad.

Unlike any other day, we made our way to our hotel, checked in, and left within 15 minutes. We hadn’t gone on a date in more than FIVE. MONTHS. Did we need a date night, or what? After sharing a piece of bunny cake and peanut butter cheesecake at Canadian Honker, we walked a half block down and spent the next hour and a half working and blogging in peace at a coffee shop. That was followed by dinner, a trip to wander the aisles of Aldi (okay, not so romantic, but neither of us have been there before), and a movie of Seth’s choosing, Mad Max.

Like any other day, I wasn’t excited about a violent, non-stop action movie. But I’d left most of the day’s decisions to him. After all, he’s the one with eye cancer, not me.

Unlike any other day, we scored two 3D movie tickets for $17.00!

Like any other day, Seth LOVED the violent, non-stop action movie. I didn’t love it so much, but did appreciate its artistic value, especially the drum and guitar playing dudes battling in the desert.

Unlike any other day, we went back to the hotel.

Like any other day, he went to bed before me.

Unlike any other day, we woke up in the morning, got ready, checked out of the hotel and headed over for another round of adventures at Mayo.

Like any other day, Seth picked up some coffee. I didn’t.

Unlike any other day, Seth had several back-to-back appointments. Blood work. An eye examination. Eye photography. And an eye ultrasound.

Like any other day, I worked on my blog when Seth was in each of his first four appointments. A twinge of guilt ran through me each time I broke out the computer, like I should be giving my husband 100% of my undivided attention. But those appointments were really just for him anyway. And he reassured me, “go ahead and work on your blog, stay here, there’s no reason you need to come in with me.”

Unlike any other date, we ended this fourth trip to Mayo with another visit to Seth’s specialist, Dr. G. He popped his head in the room to say “The systemic testing (MRI) came back okay.” Then he left for further analysis of the morning’s testing. We waited. Waited. And waited some more.

Unlike any other day, Dr. G had the news we’d been waiting for since Seth was diagnosed with eye cancer in January, the news we’d been waiting for since Seth went through week-long radiation and hospitalization in February, the news we’d been waiting for since he took a whole month off work recovering and recouping. Is the tumor shrinking? Or is it NOT?

Unlike any other day, Dr. G told us he sees “very little change in the SIZE of the tumor, but the internal reflectivity has increased substantially,” which means that next time he sees us, it’s likely things will look better in regards to the tumor size, even great. Dr. G showed us a bunch of graphs of this “internal reflectivity” and how it’s changed since original testing back in January. Sure, the size of the tumor had changed very little. But it was hard to deny the difference in those graphs, the difference in the internal matters and workings of the tumor itself. Dr. G showed us another picture of the front part of the tumor. “It looks like it’s retracting, that’s better, too,” he said. Had the tumor shrunk, we would have returned to Mayo in six months. Based on this visit’s results, Dr. G recommended we return in three months. And he urged Seth to get the laser surgery he needs on his left eye.

Unlike any other day, we made our way down to Mayo’s subway level. A lovely woman was playing “On Eagle’s Wings” on the piano. “I sang that song at my cousin Doug’s funeral,” Seth noted quietly. I leaned against a column and teared up. The news we’d just received was neutral at worst, from all indications trending positive, it seemed. I wasn’t sad at all. Just filled with emotion, if that makes sense. In the comings and goings of wheelchairs and significantly sick people, children and caregivers, the woman played on. On and on, she played. She played with her head up. She observed keenly, with every ounce of her heart and soul, as people passed. She let intuition and the Spirit run straight from her heart all the way through to her fingertips. Yes, I knew it! Pure grace. Divine favor. This was the pianist the elderly woman told me about last time we were here! The woman who plays every Thursday. The woman who plays by heart, by ear. The woman who doesn’t get paid a penny, who plays according to the shifting tones of the room, who turns hopelessness to hope with simple, beautiful tunes.

Like any other day, I cried when I took it all in.

Like any other day, Seth asked why I was crying.

Like any other day, I said “I just really love this.” Yes, 24 hours have since passed. I know why I was crying. The work that pianist does at Mayo is EXACTLY the kind of work I want to do with my writing. She exemplifies my greatest life’s dream. To bring pure beauty in the midst of significant pain.

Unlike any other day, we went back up to the Damon Parking Ramp, got in our car, and drove down and out of this fourth trip to Mayo.

Like any other day, we got another lunch to go, talked, drove, and hugged Seth’s parents and our kids when we pulled in the driveway.

Like any other day. Unlike any other day.

 

Well, friends! I thought I was on sabbatical from eye cancer posts until late May, but no surprise, the story continues to unfold.

Two nights ago, my husband had his first visit with the optometrist since his surgeries and radiation for choroidal melanoma. The primary purpose of the appointment was a thorough post-op vision exam, but it was also a perfect time to look for new glasses. Seth’s prescription was changing, he needed special polycarbonate lenses, and he hadn’t bought a new pair of glasses for more than five years. If there’s ever a reason to buy new glasses, it’s now.

This whole wearing glasses full-time thing has been quite an adjustment for Seth. He loves contacts and hasn’t worn glasses full-time since junior high. He’s walked through a whole host of emotions, and has finally arrived at a place where he seems to have accepted the fact (for the most part) that he’ll be wearing glasses from here on out. If he has to wear glasses, he’s determined to wear them boldly and make a statement!

With that in mind, Seth really wanted to make sure I was along for the optometrist appointment. He wanted my input and opinion on new glasses. So we decided to bring the whole family. Crazy, I know. Three kids in a quiet optometry waiting room for TWO hours with hundreds of expensive glasses at reach? Yep. Crazy.

But honestly, it worked pretty well. We spent the first hour looking exhaustively at glasses. Seth tried on at least 30 pair, narrowed those to 10, and ultimately narrowed again to six. The kids read, played apps on our phones, and took the opportunity to try on glasses for the first time!

Once Seth had the field narrowed to six, he quickly, but thoroughly evaluated each pair for look and fit. Within minutes, he was down to two pair, a black Jack Spade frame and a tortoise Gucci frame. The technician and I agreed, the Gucci frame was the one. But Seth was clearly drawn to the black Jack Spade frame. After a while of analyzing, overanalyzing, and taking photos to see how he looked in each frame, he finally decided to go up front to ask the office staff for their opinion. Hmmm…surprise! They all agreed the tortoise Gucci frame was “the one!” Our technician asked another technician for her opinion. Tortoise Gucci it was! Out came Seth’s optometrist to get him for the appointment. And her preference? The tortoise Gucci frame as well! At that point, everyone was laughing up a storm. Everyone (except Seth) had independently agreed that the tortoise Gucci frame looked best. Still, Seth wasn’t so sure.

He put both frames on the table for later debate, and went in for his appointment.

To our pleasant surprise, the doctor changed the prescription for his glasses “a bit, but not much.” There was reportedly “even a little improvement in his left eye” (the non-cancerous eye). The doctor indicated that the left eye was likely compensating for the cancerous right eye. When corrected with his new glasses, he’ll see 20/20, even in the right eye.

When Seth returned from the optometry appointment, he was fairly sure he’d had a change of heart. He decided on the tortoise Gucci frame. But he tried both pair a few more times for size and style, and we analyzed more pictures. Because you know, we all want to look good in pictures!

There we were. The decision had been made. Tortoise Gucci it was!

But wait…

Seth just purchased high-end sunglasses last summer, but now that he can’t wear contacts anymore and we need to do everything we can to protect his eyes, we realized we were also going to need to buy a pair of prescription sunglasses. Fortunately, he’d tried on a few sunglasses early in the visit and had his sights on a pair that looked awesome right off the bat. He tried those on again and there wasn’t much to debate. We’d found the sunglasses!

It was 7:00 p.m. We’d been there since 5:00 p.m. and the kids were getting a little antsy. The technician offered to send us a quote via email so we could move forward with the glasses and sunglasses purchases at our leisure.

We thanked everyone for their help and they wished Seth well. Off we went to Dairy Queen to pick up the dilly bars and cones we’d promised the kids for being patient for two hours in the waiting room.

Another day, another dollar, and two new pair of glasses.

Yes, we’re grateful for sight.

The journey continues.

Until next time, friends. Signing off ’til May.

 

 

 

This morning, we made our way to Mayo Clinic for round three. It was time for Seth’s one month post-surgical eye cancer appointment with Dr. G. So we woke at 4:15 a.m., got ready and headed down the road for his 7:30 a.m. appointment.

We arrived 25 minutes early. Seth grabbed some coffee across the street at Starbucks, and I went straight downstairs to the piano, my favorite hanging spot at Mayo by a landslide.

I sat down next to an elderly woman who’d just placed a sign on top of the piano. I thought for a minute she might be performing. But she was a patient, and a regular at that. For 10 years, she’s been coming to Mayo for treatment. Heck, Mayo’s like a second home to her. The woman was feisty, brilliant, beautiful, insightful and with it. Whatever 10 years of health problems ailed her had absolutely NOTHING to do with her brain and her psyche. She was amazing. Yes, she was a glimpse of who I’d like to be at 80-something.

We chatted briskly, like time was short, like we just needed to get down to the business of this piano we loved so dearly. She told me about the elderly woman who comes to play every Monday and Thursday from 10 a.m. to noon. She plays by heart, by ear. She doesn’t get paid a penny; she does it because she loves it. She watches doctors, nurses, patients and caregivers pass in front of her, above her, all around on each side. She lets the music flow out of her fingers based on what she sees. If peoples’ tone is somber, she plays accordingly. If peoples’ tone is hopeful, she plays accordingly. She’s witnessed, too many times to count, peoples’ moods shift completely as they pass. Hopelessness turns to hope in the form of familiar words and tunes.

There’s a small group of people who don’t care for the piano music. They want to ban it. Get rid of it. Take that piano out of here. It’s distracting us from our work. It’s distracting for our patients. The sound travels too far. Move it somewhere else.

But people love it. It’s healing. It’s holy. There’s no better place for it.

Move it over here.

Move it over there.

Forget it, man. The acoustics have been tested. The acoustics have been measured. THIS is the place for the piano.

The elderly woman and I ponder the WHY of it all. WHY this place? WHY here? WHY not here? WHY is this so perfect? The three-leveled open atrium? The curved walls? The walls mixed with open spaces for sound to travel and dissipate wherever it may? Who knows WHY, but God? This holy anointed piano is here because God wants it to be. Because He wants to heal HERE. That’s WHY.

A princess donated the piano to Mayo, had it shipped after she’d been a patient. It’s worth $150,000 said the elderly woman as we gazed at its grandeur. “Oh, I imagine,” I said. It’s priceless.

We chatted some more, that elderly woman and I. I loved her dear. Such a treasure. Such strength. I’m sure I could’ve sat there all day, but duty called. After all, I wasn’t there to chat with an elderly woman, nor was I there to chat about a piano! Seth had arrived with his coffee and was gently prompting me from behind. “It’s time to go, we have to go.” “Good bye,” I said to the elderly woman. “I hope we see you again, I hope we see you later.”

As we walked to the elevators up to ophthalmology, I told Seth “Twenty minutes in Mayo, and I already found an amazing story. I love this place.” “That kind of thing doesn’t float my boat,” he said. “Oh, it totally floats mine,” I responded.

We arrived upstairs and were called in within minutes.

Over the course of the next two hours, we saw a nurse, a doctor, and Dr. G.

As of this one-month postoperative eye cancer follow-up, Seth had this to report to the doctors:

• He’s continuing to see mild strobing lights in 3/4 of the periphery of his right eye (prior to surgery, the strobing was in 1/4 of the periphery).
• His vision is “not as good as it used to be, but is acceptable.”
• The vision in his right eye seems to have worsened as compared to before the surgeries, but when he has both eyes open and they’re working together, it’s just fine.
• He still needs Tylenol for headaches.
• He’s using wetting drops for his eyes.
• No double vision.
• On the extreme periphery, his vision is not as “trustworthy” as before, but it doesn’t seem to be a major problem.

The doctors checked his pupils to see if they’re working together. They checked the pressure of Seth’s eyes with some fancy device made by Medtronic. They did a quick examination of his sight. They asked a lot of questions and did a lot of “look up, look down, look right, look left.”

As of this one-month postoperative eye cancer follow-up, Dr. G had this to report to Seth:

• Seth is on the upswing now in regards to his vision. His vision will continue getting better, probably for the next year and a half, then it typically gets worse after that.
• He has “perfect mobility!” (Dr. G was VERY happy about this.)
• Dr. G was fairly certain Seth would have double vision given the size of the melanoma, so he was delighted to hear Seth hasn’t had any issues with double vision!
• A few little stitches remained in the eye.
• Seth can do “anything [he] wants” in regards to exercise and lifting weights from here on out.
• Seth is free to see the optometrist for a new prescription, but will need shatter-resistant lenses in his new glasses.
• No eye ointment is needed after today.
• He should use “systane drops” for his eyes for dryness and irritation.
• Dr. G recommends prescription goggles for swimming.
• He should wear glasses all the time to protect the eyes, especially the good eye, even when getting ready in the morning. (Dr. G was most adamant about Seth wearing glasses. Yes, this has been a bit of a struggle as Seth indicated in his guest post, but is something he’ll be working through.)

As Dr. G removed the stitches in Seth’s eyes with a tiny tweezers, I noticed faint classical music coming from the computer. I hadn’t heard it before. Dr. G must have turned it on when he entered the room. The artist was busy with his craft. The art of eyes. The art of helping human beings SEE. The art of restoring VISION.

Dr. G called into an automated phone system and dictated a report in a flash. Amazing. Incredible. Brilliant.

Dr. G shook our hands and smiled.

“One-month check up? GOOD!” he said as we walked out of the room.

Before we left, we made our next set of appointments for May 21st and 22nd when they’ll look exhaustively at the tumor to see if it’s begun shrinking. They’ll draw blood, do a MRI, take an ultrasound and photographs of the eye, and Seth will see Dr. G again.

At lunch, Seth joked about how we’ll make an overnight date of it. How we’ll leave the kids at home with one of our parents. How we’ll go out for a nice dinner just the two of us that first day back at Mayo, round four. How we’ll stay in a quiet hotel and head back for more testing in the morning. Yes, that’s my Seth. An eternal optimist. Always looking at the bright side of life. Even in the midst of eye cancer.

Signing off for now, friends. I won’t be writing about our journey through eye cancer until May when we’re back at Mayo. In the meantime, I’ll keep writing…right here. So join me, will you? Good stuff’s coming between now and then!