So far, I can't say that 2008 has been my best year. It's not even in my Top Five. Problems and bad news seem to seek and find me. The most recent event, which I'm about to share with you, might change my luck. In fact, depending on the outcome, it could turn 2008 into the best year of my life, or possibly the worst one. So here goes....

In January, I started having problems with my eyesight. It seemed to be deteriorating rapidly and I started experiencing weird optical illusions. The first time it happened, I was at work. Without any warning, the vision in my right eye started to shift. I couldn't focus on anything, everything kept moving in this bizarre, kaleidoscope-like fashion. Even when I closed my eyes, I could still see the shifting shapes against my eyelid. It lasted for over an hour. When it ended - as suddenly as it had started - I was in a severe state of panic. I immediately made an appointment to see my optometrist.

I'll spare you the details of all the visits I had with the eye doctor. Suffice it to say that they spread over four months and involved a lot of stinging drops and blinding lights and were far from being pleasant! The weird optical illusions kept coming back and were diagnosed as ophthalmic migraines, which are annoying but apparently harmless. Only my migraines presented some unusual symptoms that my doctor wanted investigated further, so she referred me to an ophthalmologist.

The visit with him (early August) was more of the same: stinging drops and, you guessed it! More blinding lights!! Also, lots of questions:

"Do you experience these migraines in both eyes?"

-Nope, only the right one.

- Are you sure it's only the right eye?

He seems suspicious.

- Yup. If I close my right eye when I'm having a migraine, I can see perfectly fine with the left eye.

- Ok, let me ask you this again: Are you absolutely certain, without the shadow of a doubt that it only happens in the right eye?

He sounds like Dr. House and he's starting to make me nervous. When I close my right eye during the migraines, I do seem to see fine with the left one, but I can still see the shifting shapes from my closed right eye. Or is it my left eye also?

"Yes, I am absolutely certain that it only happens in my right eye", I say, self-assured. Never let them see you sweat.

He doesn't seem happy about this answer. I feel I have failed him somehow.

More questions:

-Having trouble sleeping?
- Well, yes.

-Feeling dizzy even when you're not having the migraines?
- Now that you mention it, there have been a few times where...

- Having problems concentrating?
- Not really, I mean sometimes I...errr...what was the question again?

- Headaches?
- A little more than usual, yes.

- Have you lost weight recently for no apparent reason?
- I'm not sure I like where you're going with this but, yes. Twelve lbs in the past five weeks is unusual for me.

- I'm going to put you on the list for a CT scan. I want to go see inside your head, he says, matter-of-factly.

- Excuse me?!? I say, stunned.

- You know, just to make sure you don't have a brain tumor or anything that's putting pressure on your optic nerves and causing those migraines. Those are not regular ophthalmic migraines; they last too long and they occur only in one eye. They usually occur in both eyes at the same time.

The room starts spinning lightly. He keeps on talking but I'm not hearing him. I'm still trying to make sense of what he just told me.

"...don't wait by the phone."

- Wh...what?

- I said the waiting list for a CT scan is long so don't wait by the phone. It could be a couple of months before they call you with the appointment.

The next day, the hospital called me to make the appointment for the next Wednesday. At first, I was relieved that I got an appointment so quickly. Then I started thinking that maybe it meant that my condition was more serious than the doctor let on. But then again all these symptoms that I was having could also be associated with stress, right? Although I don't feel stressed out, considering the year I've had so far, it wouldn't surprise if I was! Right then and there, I decided the culprit was stress and I wouldn't worry about it until I knew for sure. That conclusion helped me get through the week.

But on my way to the hospital on the day of the appointment, I started feeling more and more anxious. When I got there, I parked the car and walked the path to the hospital entrance.

As I neared the hospital doors, I couldn't hold back the tears anymore. I suddenly realized that if the results of this test were positive, my future would hold a lot of going through those same doors, again and again, and I didn't want to go through them alone. I didn't want to be scared and alone. The few friends I have, I know I can count on. Same goes for my family. But what I longed for at that moment was the comfort that can only be provided by a significant other, namely, a boyfriend. Since I lack one at the moment, I did the only "sane" thing I could think of: I made one up!

This is how the conversation went as I/we entered the hospital:

Me: I'm scared.
Imaginary boyfriend (who, by the way, looks strangely like Gary Sinise, only taller ): I know sweetie. I'm right here with you.
Me: Thanks, I couldn't do this alone you know?
Imaginary boyfriend: You're not alone. Listen, the test in itself is painless and will be over quickly. We're not going to get any results tonight so no need to start worrying right now, ok?
Me: You're right...

I/we walked up to the reception desk and filled out the proper forms and presented the proper ID and was/were directed to the waiting room. When the technician came to get me, I wanted to ask him if my boyfriend could come with me, but I figured it was best not to, for fear he would take me straight(jacket) to the part of the hospital where they have padded rooms and they spoon-feed you your meals. So imaginary boyfriend (IB for short) squeezed my hand, smiled at me reassuringly and waited until the door was safely closed behind me to pick up the car magazine he had been eyeing since we came in.

Inside the exam room, I was terribly nervous and the technician could feel it. My bottom lip was quivering and I was on the verge of tears again. The poor guy tried so hard to make me feel at ease, cracking jokes, talking about the weather, but he failed miserably. I could tell that my nervousness made him feel uncomfortable.

IB was right, the test was painless and over in about seven minutes. The technician accompanied me back to the waiting room and just as I was walking out the door, he said "Enjoy life!"

As the door to the exam room closed:

Me: Enjoy life?!? What the hell is that supposed to mean??
IB: (reluctantly putting the magazine down) Calm down honey, he probably didn't know what to say...
Me: He's a CT scan technician, it's his job to know what to say and "Enjoy life" is not on the list of acceptable things to say to someone who's facing the possibility of a brain tumor!!
IB: You're right, but you did make him feel uncomfortable and maybe he...
Me: Ok, first, it's not my responsibility to make him feel comfortable, it's more like the other way around. Second, how did you know I made him feel uncomfortable? You were in the waiting room!
IB: I'm your imaginary boyfriend, remember? I'm just a figment of your overactive imagination. What you think, I think. We share the same brain.
Me: Yeah well, you might want to re-think that arrangement, pal! Might want to start shopping for a brain of your own because according to our technician friend here, this one might not be available for long!
IB: You'll be fine sweetie. Come on, let's take you home. I'll run a nice hot bath for you.

When I/we got back home, I skipped the bath and went straight for my pajamas and a bottle of wine! I decided I would allow myself twenty-four hours of utter panic, allowing the darkest, most somber thoughts to reach the surface of my consciousness, acknowledge them, and then move on. Those were not the finest twenty-four hours of my life, and I'll spare you the details. But twenty-four hours is all it took. The next day, I felt better and ready to face whatever is waiting for me. I'm young(ish), I'm otherwise healthy, I have two wonderful munchkins who need their mom around for a long time to come. They still have a lot of milestones to go through and I intend to be there for every single one of them! Not to mention I have a loving, caring imaginary boyfriend who's been there every night to comfort me when it gets dark and I get scared.

It's been a little over a month now since the CT scan and, surprisingly, it hasn't been that bad. Some days I don't even think about it at all until I get to bed at night. One huge blessing that came out of all of this is that I seem to notice and enjoy the little things more; the rich smell of my morning coffee, the delightful melody of my daughter's laughter, the deep dark brown of my son's eyes, the delicious feeling of a hot shower on my skin. We hear it so often: it's the little things in life that make it enjoyable. Yet, it seems to always take a life threatening situation to make us realize it. How sad.

I still haven't gotten the results of the exam, but I haven't experienced one single ophthalmic migraine since June, my weight seems to have stabilized, no more headaches. I'm still sleep deprived, but I think that has more to do with IB than anything else (the man is insatiable!! ).

Getting impatient about finding out the results, I've been leaving messages at the hospital for the past week. No one bothered to call me back. This morning, I decided to show up at the hospital and ask to see the ophthalmologist. It turns out he's on vacation and will not be back until October 15th! It seems that no one but him can give me the results. His secretary explained it all to me. Apparently, the results are in a computer file and only my doctor has the secret code to access it. He could reveal the code to another doctor, but then he'd have to kill him... It's all very James Bond-sy!

I guess I'll just have to distract myself with IB for the next four weeks . Could be worse .

PS: The title of this blog was borrowed from Gilda Radner's memoir about her struggle with ovarian cancer, entitled, you guessed it: "It's Always Something".