Leaky Eye Disease

By Dick McCullough

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A freak of nature, that’s me.  A worthy sidebar in the New England Journal of Medicine.  A bit player in the Cirque du Soleil of life.  My claim to fame: I have Leaky Eye Disease.  And it’s inconvenient, to say the least.

Every morning, as part of a routine to combat a bad back, I take a leisurely walk through our neighborhood.  Past the giant, ancient oaks, the beautiful well kept homes, I stroll through my very own American pastoral.  I greet my neighbors, pet their dogs.  As idyllic a scene as Rockwell could ever hope to paint.  And once in a while, I discover the snail track of eye water traveling vertically down my cheek.  I’ve got to be quick to spot those tracks before the neighbors do.  They’ll think I’m going soft in the head.

I drive a new car, filled with amenities more appropriate for a Shah than a guy like me.  But I’m not going to question my good luck.  Leather seats, polished wood trim, engine and transmission so smooth and quiet you’d think it had an electric motor, not a gas engine.  Wrapped and pampered in automotive luxury.  The vehicular equivalent of a massage and hot tub.  When taking my daughter to school, or a dance, or to a friend’s house, CD playing some slow, mellow ballad, my eyes sometimes start to fill up.  I quickly toss on my sunglasses and say a brief prayer of gratitude for tinted windows.

Those sunglasses are hard to explain at night, though.  I think my kids are going to have me committed.

Just this week, I was sitting outside eating a burrito.  At lunchtime, across from my office, there parks an aluminum-skinned truck full of Mexican fast food.  The most delicious fast food in the world.  It’s a national tragedy that MacDonald didn’t come from Latin America.  Our country would be much improved if he had.

By the side of this truck are a couple of plastic tables and some chairs.  After ordering the smallest burrito they have and then renting a forklift to take it over to one of the tables, I sat down to savor the special blessing that is Mexican food.  The sun was shining, warming the forehead that grows larger, higher, shinier each year.  Life was good.  It just doesn’t get better than a good burrito on a warm, autumn day in California.  I, as they say, had it made.

Then, without warning, Leaky Eye Disease struck again.  Almost instantly, my eyes began to water.  It’s embarrassing.  I looked around to see who might be observing a grown man cry because of a few Mexican spices.  I mean, really.  It wasn’t that hot.  I grabbed a couple of napkins, threw away the last third of my burrito and headed for the nearby wetlands.  What a pain!  I wasn’t finished with that burrito.

The wetlands near my office are a natural wonder.  They are a giant, saltwater marsh filled with dozens of varieties of birds.  The wetlands boil with life and are streaked with walking trails for those lucky enough to walk through them.

I take hikes through the wetlands often, sometimes as a break from work but mostly as a break for my back.  The rich green and goldenrod colors of the wetlands reeds and grasses, trimmed by the dark chocolate brown of the mud banked waterways are a stunning backdrop for all the birds that live or visit there, especially the stark white Great Egrets and American Pelicans.  It’s positively Disneyesque.

Often, I’ll stand on a promontory, overlooking this grand landscape.  Typically, at the height of a serene moment, my eyes will once again fail me and the scene will begin to blur.  My eyes are capricious teenagers rebelling against the establishment.  My eyes: the James Dean of body parts.

I’m nonplussed.  Do I have allergies?  Is this an aging thing?  Is it hereditary?  Have I had some sort of cerebral prostatectomy, causing ocular incontinence?  Is there a Depends for the face?

What is this peculiar affliction perpetually poised to attack, striking always at my most unsuspecting moment?  It’s not like I’m actually crying.  Don’t you have to be sad to cry?  I don’t feel sad.  Most of the time, I don’t really feel anything at all.

I should ask my dad.  He’d know.  I should ask him if he ever had this happen to him.  If it runs in the family, maybe.  I’d like to ask his advice, lean on his wisdom and his strength, like always.

But my dad died a few months back, leaving a gaping, black hole where the glowing, giggling sun of his personality used to be.

But if he were here, he’d know what to do.  He’d know how to fix this Leaky Eye Disease.

I think it must be allergies.  I better call a doctor.

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