Pedestrian View

First I must correct factual information in my previous entry.� I don’t know what blogger etiquette is, but instead of actually editing the entry, I’m doing it this way.� I thank my mother, Phyllis, and my brother, Karl, for filling me in on this early period of my life beyond the scope of my memory.

Dr. William H. Knobloch, contrary to said misinformation, did NOT conduct my eye surgery in 1966.� I’m not sure that they did in this first surgery, but it was done by a Dr. Brochhurst of Boston.� My dad was attending Brown University on an NSF scholarship and we lived for a year or two on Ruth Avenue in Rumford, Rhode Island.� After completing his Masters there, my dad moved us to Thief River Falls, Minnesota to take a job at Northland Community College in its innagural year.� He actually travelled to TRF ahead of the family, and my courageous mother travelled by bus and train across the country with three children – Karl (6), Ruth (4), and me (2).� Family legend has it that she actually attached a leash to me for the majority of the journey.� Since that time I’ve always responded well to any training accompanied by treats – dog or otherwise.� I also answer to, “Here, boy!”

The “buckle” was added in a second surgery in 1968 in Madison, Wisconsin by a Dr. Davis.� I remember this journey.� My mother and I took a train from TRF, switching trains in the Twin Cities.� I remember the hospital stay.� There was a large and well stocked playroom, and I built a pretty impressive house of wooden blocks with my roommate.� His legs were in braces and didn’t move much.� He would push himself around on the glossy tiled floors with his hands, his stiff legs stuck out in front of him.� I built him into the house.

There was a fish tank built into a wall and I could see a conference room on the other side (the surgery was clearly a success since I was seeing at all).��I remember watching the angel fish flutter slowly past, and suddenly recognizing my mother and a doctor facing each other across a table on the other side.� They appeared to be in deep conversation.� I pressed my face against the glass, waving wildly (in my memory), but neither my mother, the doctor, nor the angel fish�took any notice of me.� I don’t know how long we were there, but it must have been a good week.

I have another peculiar memory of the return trip.� My mom does not remember this, so I doubt it somewhat, but it’s always been a pillar of my early memory canon.� The train stopped in the middle of a rural area, and someone�rushed through our train car asking for a doctor because a child on the tracks had been run over, cutting off his legs.� I remember seeing this boy in my imagination.� He was my disabled roommate, his legs now gone, being carried by a doctor from car to car.

I suppose I could sleuth out whether such an accident really happened between Madison and St. Paul in 1968.� Real or not, it’s always been a stark image that my mind returns to when I think of my earliest years.

Yesterday I spent some time with my eye doctor, Dr. Herbert Cantrill.� I live with a congenital condition called juvenile retino-schesis.� Among many things, this means I visit Dr. Cantrill annually.� To be honest, it had been three years.� My condition is pretty static, so I’ve been lazy.� My laziness was rewarded with a demotion to “new patient status.”� It wasn’t until the good doctor directed a screaming white light through my pupil to peer at the retina slouched against the back wall that I noticed recognition return to his voice.� “Ahh, yes…”� He never forgets a retina.

Back in 1966, Dr. William Knobloch, the only retina specialist in the midwest at the time, performed surgery on my eyes.� My retinas were detatched, and a “buckle” was buckled.� I always envisioned a shiney belt buckle�glinting in the back of my eye, proping up the slouching retina.� I’ve been imagining this for 40 years.�

Dr. Cantrill and I got to discussing my condition, and I brought up Dr. Knobloch and the buckle.� He said Dr. Knobloch died this past summer.� He’s something of a giant in the world of retinal medicine, and was a big part of my youth.� My whole family made annual six-hour trips from Thief River Falls to the University of Minnesota Children’s Hospital.� There, Dr. Knoblock and his lackeys would wrestle me down to a table and�stab the piercing light into my�frantic eyes.� My older brother Karl,�who has the same condition, would get them warmed up first, so they were always ready for me.� Even today,it’s truly the thing I dread most.� Homeland Security operatives, when they�detain me, will surely have better success with this than with water boarding.� Anyway, thanks to Dr. Knobloch, my condition has never really changed over the years.� God Speed, Dr. William H. Knobloch.

It’s the buckle, however, that got my attention.� Dr. Canrill said, “The buckle is really high.”

“What does that mean, the buckle is ‘high?'” I asked.� I was thinking about a brassy buckle scampering up to the roof of my eyeball.

“Do you want to see a picture?” he replied.� I did.�

It turns out that the scleral buckle is really a silicone belt wrapped around my eyeball, like a belt.� Actually it reminds me of those little rubber hands that kids with braces used to play with on their desks at school.� Since the buckle’s application, my eye has grown, “giving your eyeball an hour glass shape,” continued Dr. Cantrill.

Who knew?� Clearly after 41 years it was time to find out.� Turns out it as only one google search away.� Check it all out if you want to know more @ http://www.eyemdlink.com/EyeProcedure.asp?EyeProcedureID=52

And to think this procedure really hasn’t changed in 40 years!� More later.