Eye, Eye! How To Get Rid Of A Chalazion...

For a while now, I have been suffering with a chalazion. As you can see from the picture, it is basically a cyst in my left lower eyelid. Unlike a stye which is on the outer lid, a chalazion occurs inside the eyelid and is caused by the blockage of the meibomian gland (where an oily substance is produced to prevent tears from evaporating amongst other uses). Painless, yes. Annoying, also yes.

Small lump under my left eyelid

Yesterday I had an operation to remove it. Painless? On the whole, I can't complain too much. Annoying? Extremely.

I first noticed of an irritation back in July 2010, shortly before I was due to meet up with some friends from university. Imagine my frustration, having not seen my friends for about six months, knowing full well there would be cameras and photo opportunities as we'd pose for the same shots we did back in our uni days, only now we're all grown up and smarter and GOOD GOD what's happened to Tom's eye?

The day before I went I visited a walk-in centre, where I was diagnosed with having  a stye. These can be caused by sleep deprivation, or by rubbing the eye. I was prescribed Chloramphenicol, an ointment to apply inside the eyelid. Easier said than done, trying to get a small tube like that close to your tear duct, and squeezing the contents along the lid. You have to blink copiously to spread the ointment evenly and in doing so, it blurs your vision and results in quite a gooey mess. Trying not to rub your eyes when they're like that is like trying not to touch a tenner you've found on the pub floor. You know you shouldn't, but you're the only one at the bar and no one's looking, go on, pocket it. Then Big Angry Mike walks in, furious that he's lost a note. He must have dropped it by the bar, he had it two minutes ago. He stares at you accusingly and the pub goes silent. Oh, nuts. Why couldn't you just keep your hands to yourself?

However, my will power must have been strong as after applying the ointment for a few days, the swelling subsided and the stye seemed to vanish.

Fast forward to September and now a bigger stye had returned with a vengeance, same eye, same place. Only this time there seemed to be more swelling under the lid, like a build-up of fluid. I was given the same ointment but by now the swelling wouldn't go. This is because the a stye is treatable with this treatment, they usually only last between 7-10 days. Now the infection had spread. Now I had a chalazion, and they do not resolve themselves so quickly. Some of them can take years to heal.




One recommendation was to use a warm damp flannel and gently massage the area, encouraging the cyst to disperse. Sadly this did not work, but my GP reassured me that chalazions can go away on their own accord, given time. "Usually, they can go away after three months," he told me. I didn't fancy sitting around twiddling my thumbs, just waiting for one day to look in the mirror and saying, "Well fancy that! It's gone. That's fortunate!" Seeing as mine had been present for close to six months, I asked for him to refer me to a consultant. I was fed up of people asking me what was wrong with my eye. Enough was enough. It was time to get the bastard removed.

The cyst hadn't really affected my eyesight (touch wood!) as on my various trips to doctor's rooms over the last year I've passed various tests with flying colours. I've never had any problem with my eyes except for maybe a bout of hayfever or two, where the pollen count can make them irritable. No glasses, no contact lens. I must admit, I take my good eyesight for granted. However, it's on an aesthetic level where the chalazion has struck me. Yes, I'm basically saying vanity. Of course not everyone looks at my eyes the way I do every day when I look in the mirror, but when something is on one's face, the situation becomes somewhat magnified. If I had to choose between a wasp stinging me on the backside or on my nose, I'd say backside every time. It might be an inconvenience to itch on the train, but a minuscule percentage of the people I meet get to look at my bare buttocks. Whilst one hundred percent of people I meet would see my nose and would therefore see the red, throbbing bite.

And so the day finally arrived. Of course it was destined there should be drama. Call it thrifty or call it bad planning, I decided to walk to the clinic. A quick check on Google said it told me the clinic was in Combe Down, about three miles from my house in Bath. No problem, I'm fit and healthy, three miles is nothing and I'd get to see a different part of the city I'd never been to before. My appointment was at 10.00, it should take me just over an hour but I left my house at 08.20 just to be sure. I didn't want to miss the appointment. I'd waited long enough.

Sure enough, I get there in great time. I get out the letter they'd sent me which was from CircleBath clinic. Hmmm. That's odd. This building looks different to the one on the letter, and his one doesn't mention that title anywhere. My fears are heightened when the receptionist kindly tells me that I'm in the BMI Bath Clinic. "Oh no!" she says. "CircleBath? Why, that's in Peasedown St. John." Which happens to be six miles away...

I've got half an hour to get there before my allotted time, fifteen minutes if I want to get there in time to register properly. Into a taxi I jump, all the while giving a gritted smile to my friendly cabbie, who didn't know I walked three miles out of my way just for him to chauffeur me to the actual hospital. He makes all the usual cliché small talk, before casually slipping into conversation that CircleBath is a private clinic, and asked me how much my consultation would cost. At this point I really started panicking, this seemingly easy operation was quickly turning into a nightmare. I'm a struggling writer! I can't afford extravagant taxis and private hospital fees!

He drops me off outside the clinic and I jog inside to a modernistic, open hall and freeze. This doesn't look like an NHS clinic to me. Three enormous white silk sheets are draped around some hanging lights from the ceiling above a black marble reception desk. A complimentary fruit bowl greets me as I hand over my booking appointment to an extremely friendly lady who is dressed more like an air stewardess than a nurse. I couldn't look more out of place with my woollen hoody, stubble and fingerless gloves. Not to mention the fact I've been sweating - remember I'd done a three mile uphill walk not long ago. This is definitely a private clinic, and I don't have any money on me. I'd given it all to the taxi driver.

The receptionist offers me a free coffee token to use at the Deli counter and I join the other patients who are waiting on the classy black leather sofas. The elderly lady opposite me gives me a look, and then goes back to her cup of Earl Grey. I force a smile then head for the gents. Inside, a man in a black suit is staring into the mirror, running water through his hair. I presume he's a fellow nervous patient. Once he's gone, I try and freshen myself up a bit with some emergency deodorant I've got in my rucksack. Then I sit back down on the leather sofas in the huge aircraft hangar-like waiting room and count down the minutes until the small hand hits ten.

Suddenly Nervous Black Suit Man walks past me holding an Spanish classical guitar, takes a seat and starts playing an acoustic version of Human by The Killers. I tried to read some of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo but I couldn't focus on it because all I had in my head were the annoying lyrics "Are we human? Or are we dancer?"

By now I'd almost forgotten what I was even doing there. The live music was pleasant and I can understand that it is meant to be relaxing for patients as they wait but it was making me nervous. I was more concerned about having to pay than I was about the operation itself. It didn't make matters any easier when it became apparent that the clinic was understaffed that day and my appointment was forty-five minutes late.

Eventually I was seen by a polite doctor and within five minutes I was lying on an operating table. It's not like lying in bed, or lounging on the sofa. It's difficult to know what to do with your hands, especially when your mind is on other things. The nurse was probably trying to be helpful by asking me if I was nervous but I think it came out a bit patronising. I politely told her I'd had an operation on my lung in the past. This was child's play in comparison. I wasn't concerned about the procedure. It was an interesting experience, though. You can watch the procedure here, or read my review if you're feeling a bit squeamish.

At first the surgeon put some droplets in my left eye, and after a few minutes it felt quite heavy, as if it were drooping. It creates quite a scenario of paranoia when you can't see what's happening to your body. If it's your finger or knee that's gone numb you can touch it and see it's still there. When it occurs to your eye, you're essentially blinded. Next I received an injection to the skin tissue under my eye, which stung a little bit, but anaesthetised the entire area. The surgeon then gripped a clamp around the chazalion, flipping my eyelid inside-out, revealing the lump. From there, she was able to make an incision into the skin, and insert a devise for extracting the granulomatus tissue that was blocking the gland. It was over in about five to ten minutes.

I obviously was given an eye-patch by her, and was told to try and keep the eye shut for a substantial length of time. Obviously she could not apply stitches to the incision she had made, as they would scratch my cornea, so by keeping the eye closed it should heal quicker. I then had the embarrassing problem of telling her that I could not wink with both eyes. I can only close my right eye, not my left. I've never been able to do it, when I try I just end up blinking. However, if I were to do that I'd be completely blind, so she suggested I just keep a little bit of pressure on the eye-patch, to keep the eye closed. Great. As if wearing a huge white eye-patch wasn't enough to attract attention. And that's the other thing. As soon as the surgeon mentioned I' have to wear an eye-patch I didn't mind too much. I had it in my head I'd look at bit like Jeff Bridge's character in True Grit. Oh no. Big white bulky surgical patch for me, stuck on with industrial adhesive tape. 

Eye instantly after eye-patch removal

The doctor said good-bye to me and I was free to go. No fee to pay. Apparently I was 'sponsored' by the NHS. It did make me appreciate the health system in Britain. There was a twelve week waiting list at Bath's Royal United Hospital, but only a three week wait at CircleBath. Yes, I was naive and maybe screwed over by Google Map, having to pay for a taxi to get there. But the consultation was free and hopefully my eye will heal.

One thing that won't heal will be my pride. Gingerly walking out of the hospital, I asked a porter if there was a bus stop nearby that would take me back to Bath. He gave me directions and off I went, into this scary new world with only 50% vision. Ironically, I couldn't find the bus stop. I had to go back inside and ask another member of staff, who told me I'd just missed a bus and would have to wait another hour and forty-five minutes. By now Nervous Black Suit Man had moved onto a black piano and was playing Maroon Five's She Will Be Loved. I couldn't see, but at least I could listen.

You don't realise how much you use both eyes until something like this happens to you. Try covering an eye with your hand and walking from A to B in an office, or a supermarket. Suddenly there are obstacles that jump out at you that you quite literally didn't see coming. It's scary. Objects could be inches from your face yet you might not see them without turning your entire head. The other thing I noticed is that people all notice the fact you're wearing an eye-patch and look at you with sympathy, especially if you bump into them. For a twenty-four year old man, suddenly I felt like an eighty-year old. A poor old grandpa, lost wandering around the fruit and veg aisle. Not a pleasant experience, I can tell you.

36 hours post operation

I made it home all right on the bus and now I've just got to let it heal. There is some bruising, of course, and the lower lid is still a bit swollen but that is to be expected. I've been given some more Chloramphenicol to apply twice daily to the eye, and hopefully within a week it should be back to normal. It's been a strange thirty-six hours. I'm glad that I've learnt how much I should appreciate my eyes. I know it's tough to rank senses in order of importance but a blind world is a frightening one.

I definitely won't be dressing up as a pirate any time soon, that's for certain.

 

Muddy Good Win - Acorn F.C. - 1, My Washing Machine - 0

Yesterday my 11-a-side team played in the Bath & District Sunday football league. The mighty Acorn F.C. battled to a 4-0 win to stand firmly at third in the table - second if it were not for our inferior goal difference.

Considering I'd been out celebrating with old friends the night before I thought I had a reasonable game, for the sixty-odd minutes I was on the pitch. In the first half I was a constant thorn in the opposition's right-back's backside (must have been all the Red Bull still in my system keeping me going) won a penalty (not converted!) and later got an assist. In the second half I think the dehydration really caught up with me and my muscles seized up: cramp - a footballer's old nemesis. I had to hobble off the pitch but with my head held high, I'd done my bit and we came away with the three points.

But I'm nervous about meeting my team mates for the next match. Why?

The pitch-side camera operator, the defensive midfielder, the kit-man... What do they all have in common? They are unrecognised, unappreciated and unfortunate heroes within the world of football.

It's not fair, really. There's little to no glory doing any of these tasks in comparison to other members of the sport. The only time they get mentioned is when they make a mistake. If they do their job correctly, nobody notices. It's only when the defensive midfielder's passes go astray or he isn't tight enough to his man that fans say he should be dropped when in reality, the other 95% of the time the player is busting a gut running the midfield. Just because he isn't getting goals and assists every week and not making last ditch tackles or saving penalties, he's never the hero.

By some freak chance the camera operator cannot keep up with the action or the signal fails, viewers turn off in disgust and often frustration. The infamous incident is of course Everton v Liverpool in the fourth round replay tie in the 2009 FA Cup, when ITV cut to an advert break two minutes before schedule, missing crucial match play in extra time. Everton rather conveniently scored a goal during that advert break - the only goal of the game! But how many times does this actually happen?

Everyone's nervous. National pride is at stake. After the national anthems have been sung, the crowd roar with anticipation and the England team take off their training tops to reveal sodden, mud-caked not-so-white kits. It's laughable, because it's ridiculous. It doesn't happen. Which is why I'm a little apprehensive.

It's my turn to clean the kits this week.

They are absolutely filthy. Now, we're a physical team. Most of the lads love a sliding tackle, I certainly do - I nearly got booked for challenging the goalkeeper - but the key word in there is sliding. On mud. In a green and white kit. Why couldn't we just have a chocolate brown coloured top and shorts? Suddenly choosing the stripes of Celtic's home strip is looking like a bad idea.

It's Monday night as I write this and since yesterday afternoon, I've washed the socks once, and the shirts and shorts four times and there are still some stubborn stains on there. I'm using the classic tablets that dissolve - two in the drawer and one extra in the drum itself and it's slowly working, but surely this can't be how semi-professional teams do it? What if they've got three matches in one week? After all, clubs like my local team, Bath City, who ply their trade in the Conference, can't have the luxury of churning out hundreds of duplicate kits when they need to like Manchester United or Liverpool. It isn't exactly cheap.

The other problem one has is drying the irksome things. I've got fourteen outfield shirts and shorts and twenty eight long socks to hang, and it's February. The weather isn't great outside to air dry them, and I don't like the idea of leaving an entire team's football kit in my back garden for the day as I poodle off to work. I have my own personal wash load to do as well don't forget, so for now the lounge, hallway and landing have a number of clothing hung on any peg or corner possible. I can't exactly invite friends over for  a wine and cheese evening.   

The great thing is, I know who the main culprits are with the muddiest of the shirts as I can remember the squad numbers (luckily my top is almost clean after 3 washes!) but the shorts are anyone's guess. I'm definitely going to have to wash them again tomorrow. If that doesn't work, I'm going to resort to hand washing them with a huge wooden spoon like Mrs. Bucket out of the original Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory film.

Have I learnt my lesson? I can't change my own game, sliding tackles are too satisfying. But for starters, if I ever pick a kit for a future club, it will probably be black. I'd cheekily try and offer to clean the kit during the horrible winter months when the ground is hard, therefore not as muddy and there will have been less sliding because of this. And lastly? Be a goalkeeper. Most purchased amateur football kits don't come included with a goalie's kit, so you'll provide and wash your own!

I now have the utmost respect to kit managers, especially to those amongst the lower divisions of semi-professional football. I'm stressing about it and my team isn't playing until the 20th March. That's three weeks between matches. Some teams have less than three days.

Circle March 8th in your diary - we've got one hell of a second leg on our hands...

Who would have thought it...

Arsenal just beat the unstoppable force that is F.C. Barcelona, the team Wenger wants his troops to emulate in terms of style and success. Nobody gave them a chance in hell of winning. I certainly didn't.

Lionel Messi gave a warning to the Gunners inside fifteen minutes with a delightful dinked effort that couldn't have been more than half a foot wide of the post. Rookie keeper Wolciech Szezesny must have been nervously cracking his knuckles watching that one glide over his shoulder, knowing he had another seventy-five minutes to put up with this.

It just had to be one of the big three up front for Barcelona who opened their account at The Emirates, and David Villa did not disappoint when he latched onto a Messi through-ball after 26 minutes. Arsenal's defence seemed too preoccupied with watching Messi, which to be fair is forgivable, but in doing so they allowed Villa to gain an extra yard and they paid the price when he slotted home.

It should have been two-nothing before half-time when a Messi header was ruled out for offside, when replays looked to show the Argentinean being level after Pedro's blocked shot fell to him. Like last season's 4-1 drubbing, it was starting to look a bit like men against boys. It was starting to look unfair.

It's no secret that Arsenal's defence is the weakness in Wenger's outfit. For all their beautiful passing and movement, you need a solid, no-nonsense back line and unfortunately injuries have taken their toll this season. Tonight's selection didn't look too clever on paper, but what choice did Arsenal have?

I never know which Emmanuel Eboue is going to show up. He is an athlete, for sure, but his temperament tends to let him down. The defensive partnership of Djourou and Koscielny is promising but let us not forget a young one, with the Swiss lad susceptible to injuries which has ruled out a decent run in the team and the Frenchman has very little Champions League experience. This time two years ago he was playing Ligue 2 football with Tours FC and it is a big step up. Gael Clichy has been here before, but put the four of them up against the likes of Messi, David Villa and yet another Barcelona starlet in Pedro, all of whom are being fed by Xavi and Iniesta and logically there should only be one outcome.

Wrong.

Somehow, Arsenal did it. Somehow, they defied the odds. They were 16-1 to come back and win at half time, in case you were interested. I wasn't tempted to even consider opening up my online Ladbrokes account. Yes, Walcott looked bright in patches, Jack Wilshire is growing into his role with ease in the heart of midfield and didn't look out of depth, van Persie is in a rich vein of form at the moment... But Arsenal had squandered chances in the first forty-five. You can't afford to do that against a team like Barcelona, because as well as their enviable, effortless passing ability, they will hustle teams off the ball and recycle possession right back at them like a charging bull. And eventually that bull will ram you. 

But Barcelona seemed to slow up a little in the second half. They looked to be contented with a one goal advantage, and an away goal at that. However, Arsenal's grit shone through. Robin van Persie rammed home from an unthinkable angle with twelve minutes left to play, setting the game on fire. Victor Valdes was surely expecting the Dutchman to square the ball, but instead watched in horror as he was wrong-footed, committing the cardinal sin of allowing a near-ball shot bend in. Now we had a game on our hands.

The goal shook Barcelona, and suddenly it seemed to be Arsenal's tie to win. Sure enough, momentum took them through and five minutes later Samir Nasri, a doubt before the game and only selected by Wenger an hour before kick-off, latched onto a hopeful ball down the right flank. He found substitute Andrey Arshavin, who has been low of confidence of late but not here. Connecting first time, he drilled the ball around the panicking Catalan defenders, who were being played at their own beautifully flowing style. Barcelona pumped men forward to find an equaliser, but to no avail. 2-1. Game over.

However, the tie is far from over. The away goal is vital to the Spanish giants, who will surely score in their own back yard. Barcelona still haven't won on the road in the Champions League this year, but their performances at Camp Nou are intimidating. These knockout ties always come to life during the second leg, and I expect no different from this one. Despite Arsenal clinching a late victory today, I still firmly believe on today's evidence alone that Barcelona are the favourites to reach the quarter finals.

This was a beautiful match to watch, and a superb advert for football. No doubt UEFA were rubbing their hands with glee when the draw was made; matches like this are what the Champions League was introduced for. The best footballers trading tricks and zipping passes about like it's a casual training session, with 60,000 fans absorbing all the fun.

But one player who won't be joining in for the second leg is Gerard Pique, who is suspended for the reverse fixture with a accumulation of yellow cards. Pique has been ever-present in the Barcelona team since his move in 2008, and whether stalwart captain Carlos Puyol will be fit to replace him is uncertain. This could well be crucial, as Arsenal may have to adopt a different approach of quicker, counter attacking football when they enter the lion's den on March 8th.

Wenger will try to keep his team grounded after what is a superb first leg result. But my prediction for the sequel? Barcelona to win 3-1, which looks like 4-3 on aggregate. Good luck, Arsene. You're going to need it.

I Don't Know, I'm Making This Up As I Go!

Hello there, welcome to Truck? What Truck?! Hopefully I'll be able to keep y'all entertained with some of my creative content, as well as some punchy journalism. It's going to be balls to the wall honesty, fierce as a sleep-deprived squirrel with a flick knife and right up your alley. Hopefully. If it isn't any of those things then moan at me - my guilt will drive me to find some funky nugget to cheer your moody self up.

I'll write about whatever you want. Go on. Pick a topic. Anything you like. Anything at all. Challenge me, I'm up to it.

Hopefully...