The Crying Game

I am here to report that I have certain issues with the forebears who are most responsible for my sometimes unfortunate genetic heritage.

Not only do I have a hearing loss (for which I blame my dad and his) as reported here recently, but there are a host of other issues that I don't exactly appreciate. Now, I assure you that my purpose today is not to chronicle every single one of said issues, for the simple reason that I must work within the constraints of a not-too-lengthy blog post as opposed to a ten volume serial on The Life and Times of AC and His Many Bodily Issues. However, I do wish to share with you my latest affliction.

For the past ten years, perhaps a few more, I have enjoyed (as if) a relationship with Blepharitis, more commonly referred to as Dry Eye (for which I blame my Mom and hers). Essentially, this condition causes one to produce tears because normal mechanisms don't keep the eye sufficiently moist. I know it sounds odd to produce an excessive amount of moisture because you are not producing enough moisture, but that's essentially what it seems to come down to. Well, that's my unscientific analysis and explanation anyway.

Fortunately, I have been able to keep the tearing under control by applying eye drops in the morning. After waking up with dry and crusty eyes, a few drops are all that I need to get things working more or less as they should. Until about two months ago, that is.

At that time, behold mine eyes dideth commence to watering copiously, and nothing could seem to stem the flow of tears coursing down my face. My doctor sent me to my optometrist who possesses the necessary type of instruments for a up close and personal look at what is going on. In the event, my optometrist has passed my file onto a plastic surgeon ophthalmologist. Let me clarify: she has referred me to such an ophthalmologist, and informs me that with luck I might hear back from him and have a consult with said fine doctor before my earthly days have run their course: or not. Apparently, you see, there are so many needy eyes and so few available specialists that one could possibly expire before being granted an appointment, for as reported in this space recently, I only have until August 2028 to get this done.

My difficulty, as my optometrist explains it, is that my tear ducts have shifted so that they can longer do what we all take for granted: drain the moisture from my eyes. Without that accommodation the moisture builds up until it is forced to simply spill over and run down my face in the form of tears. (For this condition, I blame my bachelor uncle in Singapore and his maiden aunt in Beijing.) Hence, I have taken to carrying a crying rag with me everywhere I go — or so I attempt to do, but I am prone to continually misplacing the thing.) They are rags too: just pieces of soft cloth from discarded clothing, but better than tissues that become ratty and linty in no time flat. If I ever track down real hankies (is there such a thing anymore?), I may purchase some, but these crying rags will have to do until then.



The picture shows what I am now forced to do every few minutes — if I am lucky, because keeping track on that dad-blasted crying rag is easier said than done.

Some people are bestowed with Cadillac bodies, but my progenitors have conspired to gift me with all of their worst parts to the point where my body is more the equivalent of a rusty 1970s Ford. Sigh.

Excuse me. I must dab my drippy eyes.

Oh for crying out loud, where did I put that %&^$ rag?!