I was chopping onions for dinner one night when a clump of hair fell into my eye. I tried to brush it away but it wouldn’t go. I ran to the mirror. Nothing looked amiss.

I pulled my hair back. Fine black filaments waved as if caught in a current. But only I could see them, in the private proscenium of my eyeball.

A thin strip of blood shimmied by, then another. A seam of bright light flashed, as if the door to a room filled with stadium lamps had cracked open.

In another life, I edited a health section very much like the one you are reading in this week’s River Reporter. The experience has instilled in me a number of very healthful habits. It has also turned me into a minor hypochondriac.

I knew these symptoms. I racked my brain—something something something—“Torn retina! Must act immediately!”

I went back to my chopping. No need to panic. I was probably just tearing up from the onions. The murky soup in my eye will clear up once dinner is over.

It didn’t. That night I woke up once every hour to make sure my eye was still working. I imagined my retina hanging by a thread that the merest head movement would shake loose.

The next day, my vision grew worse. Thousands of tiny black motes swam into view. Some were circles, some solid dots. It was like looking through a dirty windshield. The black filaments continued to wave and beckon. The little blood strips kept up their dance.

‘Not a retina guy’

My ophthalmologist did a deep dive into my eyeball. It’s what I suspected, a retina problem. 

But he told me he’s “not a retina guy,” like a mechanic might say he’s “not a muffler guy.” 

Health care is all about parts and service. I retain an army of highly trained experts, each dedicated to a separate body part. I thought I had “eyes” covered by “ophthalmologist,” but not really.

The same medical practice does have a retina guy, but he couldn’t see me for three days. And since I was considered to be high risk for a tear or detachment, his nurse suggested I look around. She gave me a list of the three other retinologists practicing in Orange County. But when I called, they weren’t able to see me for another month.

So—there are four retinologists serving the half-million people who live in Orange and Sullivan counties? How is that possible? It wasn’t as though what happened to me is so rare. The top risk factors for a retinal tear or detachment are exceedingly common: age and nearsightedness. And getting the problem fixed in the early stages is quick and painless, while waiting could mean a complicated surgery or even blindness.

My ophthalmologist who is not a retinal guy assured me I’d sought help early (see “minor hypochondriac,” above). Early? When all the advice on the internet says not to wait, even if it means going to the emergency room?

Many people wait, apparently. According to my doctor, they wait until their sight diminishes significantly. They wait until blindness strikes. Sometimes they walk around that way for months before seeking help. At that point, restoring sight is much less of a sure thing.

I understand how this can happen. What if you were a farmer in the middle of haying season, with rain clouds drifting into view? What if you were caring for a sick child? What if you have an impossible boss? Ignoring a condition that produces a bunch of annoying floaters but is essentially painless would be easy.

Jersey to the rescue

My husband drove me down to Jersey, our home state. You can find everything you need in New Jersey, stat. That’s what it’s for! I knew that if I called a retinologist’s office in New Jersey, they’d say, “Stop dicking around and get down here.” And that’s what happened. 

Driving down Route 23 we saw every kind of store offering every kind of thing that we’ve had to do without in the Sullivan County wilderness. Lamborghinis, pedal harps, pet spas, pet catering, Thai food, private detectives, a “wedding castle” that would make Versailles blush.

My eye felt better already. Don’t worry, my faithful little orb! We’re going home.

A bronze plaque outside the door listed all the doctors in the practice. I counted eight. Eight! A regular retinue of retinologists slipping the private equity noose to offer abundance.

After a bit more rummaging around in my eye socket, my retinal guy sized up the situation. The blood was from a hemorrhage—not as bad as a tear, although it could be trending in that direction.

He explained the whole mystery: Your eye is like a bowl of Jell-O. After a few days in the ‘frig, it pulls away from the bowl. That’s what happens to everyone sometime between the ages 40 and 70. For most people, the separation happens without their ever knowing it. For others, the vitreous substance is sticky and can pull part of the “bowl” with it. In my case, the sticky stuff snagged a blood vessel. 

I was lucky. The snag might have torn the retina itself—the eye’s innermost, light-sensitive layer of tissue—or even detached it.

After a few zaps with the doctor’s wondrous laser machine, I was good to go.

I looked around the eye-zapping room for some swag. I was hoping for an eye patch—something black, yes, and elegant. But I found only gloves, masks and some cotton swabs. You don’t need a patch after a laser zap, just some sunglasses to protect your artificially dilated eyes as you leave the office and head for Thai food.

I asked my new BFF why there weren’t more like him. He said it just takes so much time to become a retinologist. They perform exacting surgeries on tissue thinner than a butterfly’s wing. The specialty requires 14 years of intensive study and training, which discourages many would-be doctors from entering the field.

I told him about my difficulty tracking down his kind in the Sullivan County woods. I told him about the long waits. I told him the locals stumbling around half-blind.

“Hmmm,” he said, very interested. “We should open a practice up there.”

“You should!” I said.

And when we come to you with our floaters and our motes, we’ll be so grateful. But we probably won’t be driving Lamborghinis.