Tears

Grief is exhausting, and it's hard on a body. That's obvious. But I'm still learning about all the ways it's affected me. Yesterday I learned that all the crying I've done in the past year may have left its mark on my eyes.

Glasses shape our perception of a face.
I've put off getting new glasses in large part because I fear
change.  With new glasses, will I be a different person
than I was with Sandy? It's taken me
ten months to make my peace with the idea.

I last had my eyes checked in November 2008. I've needed new glasses for some time because the lenses are scratched up and my frames are both outdated and structurally unstable. So I figured it was time for an exam and it made sense to have a current prescription before I buy new glasses.

Last time I'd seen an eye doctor, I expected to learn that my eyes had gotten much worse, so I was puzzled when he said they were about the same. As we talked then, he realized that I was having trouble seeing when my eyes got dry; essentially, he told me I'm getting older.

This time, I volunteered that my eyes have been dry and that they've felt gritty after some bike rides. Painfully gritty, eyelash-in-my-eye gritty. I started using drops after cycling and that's helped. He applauded my use of eye drops and then examined my tears using a yellow dye. He didn't see anything structurally wrong, but did see some bumps at the bottom of the eye or inner eyelid (I'm not sure which) that he said were probably causing the discomfort. He told me that sometimes tears wash out the fluids that we need in our eyes, that there are 40-some components in tears and only a couple of those are replaced with eye drops.

And that's when it occurred to me that my eyes have had a rough time of it this year, too. I've known, of course, that they get tired after I keen, sob, or even just weep. But I hadn't realized that I should be taking better care of them in light of the additional stress, despite knowing to give extra care to other parts of my body. When I told the doctor about Sandy's death and my grief, he nodded and said that makes sense. Later, the phrase "I cried my eyes out" popped into my head: I haven't cried my eyes out — I'm pleased that they're still here — but I have apparently cried my tears out, including nutrients that my eyes need.

All the big stuff was fine. My prescription has changed only minutely. There's no sign of glaucoma or cataracts (in fact, my eye pressure is 12, which is at the low end of normal). He observed that I have light skin and next to no pigment in my eyes, so should wear sunglasses regularly, but I always have glasses that automatically turn dark, so that's covered. And those bumps he observed shouldn't be a big deal, and may even be reversible. He recommended that I use eyedrops every morning and evening, no matter how my eyes feel, to give them a chance to heal. And as the months wear on and my grief manifests in less tearful ways, my eyes are getting a chance to recover from their overwork.

My eyes will be fine, with time and some attention. As will the rest of my body. But just as caregiving provided some challenges, and grief has made its demands, it's clear that recovering from grief will be its own journey. By the time life just becomes life again, I suspect some other complication will arise. But maybe this continuously changing set of challenges is life just being life.