Enough About Love

STAN AND SIMON

• •

“SO, DOCTOR, IS IT SERIOUS?”

Simon’s voice bears the lighthearted imprint of a long-standing friendship. Anna’s younger brother hopes he comes across to Stan as hard, impassive, but the way he rubs his thumb against his index finger betrays anxiety. Stan is scrutinizing the two angiographies on the screen: a dull, dark patch in the middle of the left retina leaves no room for doubt. The surgeon does not answer, enlarges the image, traces the scar line. He would like to find something reassuring to say. But nothing looks more like a Fuch’s spot than another Fuch’s spot.

Shit, Stan thinks, shit, Simon, how fucking stupid of you, how fucking stupid, you’re always trying to be the best, the alpha male, always waiting till the last minute, you should have called me earlier, should have come immediately, this left retina’s had it now, kaput, and microsurgery might have been a bit of a long shot, but I could have tried something, could have clawed back, I dunno, a couple of diopters for you, two diopters isn’t so bad, it’s better than blind, my poor brother, and what can I tell you about the right eye, because it’s not looking good, nope, not looking good at all, having that first localized hemorrhage on the left retina, and let’s have a closer look at the right retina, fuck, I can’t believe it, you’ve got slight vascular weakness on that one too, there, right next to the optic nerve, it’s a little bit too puffy, the bastard, you’ve got a one-in-four chance, let’s be generous here, let’s say one-in-eight that your other retina packs up in the next ten years, that gives us a one-in-three or — four chance you’ll be blind by the time you’re fifty, fuck, what do you want me to tell you, Simon, what do you want me to tell you, learn Braille, take up the piano again?

Stan sits down slowly on the corner of his desk, gives Anna’s brother a wide smile: “Right … Simon … No need to panic. Look at this discolored area on your left retina: that’s called a Fuch’s spot. It’s a pretty rare problem which occurs in the very nearsighted, like you or like me: I’m minus eight, you see, almost as bad. I’ll explain: in nearsighted people the eye is too large so it exerts constant mechanical pressure on the retina, if this gets to be too much then a blood vessel can burst. That’s what’s happened. Because it was a large blood vessel — a small artery, you can see it here — the hemorrhage has damaged the macula, that’s the part of the retina where the eye focuses.”

“A busted artery,” Simon says, adding sardonically, “alas, ’tis all in vein!”

Stan is still looking at the screen, does not hear the pun.

“It explains the gap in the middle of your field of vision. The good news is it won’t spread, it’s starting to cauterize. It never really spreads.”

“Can it get better, heal up on its own?”

“It’s healed, Simon. The eye has repaired itself. Well, as much as it can. It did it by scarring, and now the light-sensitive cells — you know, the rods and cones — that were starved of a blood supply have necrotized.”

“But … Stan … Can you do laser treatment? Anna says you’re the best surgeon in France, you work miracles, you have patients from all over the world, New York, Buenos Aires …”

“Oh, and why not Shanghai? Your sister really is unbelievable … Listen, it’s true, you can treat it by injecting verteporfin and then using lasers, but that only works in the first few hours, maybe the first few days. But this has been going on for at least three weeks, the scarring is permanent … Anyway, Simon, I wouldn’t have risked laser treatment, the cure would have been worse than the complaint. Here, can you see that little fluorescent green zigzag? The vascular tear occurred two millimeters from the optic nerve. It’s so close that I’d have risked touching it with the beam.”

“What about retinal grafts? Can’t you …”

“Stem cells? Listen, Simon, I don’t like being pessimistic, but in my lab we follow new advances really closely: we won’t be able to rely on that for another ten or twenty years. I’ll be the first surgeon in France to know how to do it, I swear to you. What we can actually graft right now are retinal cells … in mice. But the stupid cells can’t work out how to adapt themselves to connect to the optic nerve. You could say it’s like having a new retina but the brain has no idea it’s there. You’ll have to learn to live with this. You’ll still have peripheral vision in your left eye, and even though it will be tough at first, with your right eye correcting, you’ll end up getting used to it. But Simon, the most important thing now is if you notice the slightest alteration in your field of vision, wavering, blind spots, changes in color, flashes of light, you don’t fuck around, you don’t wait two weeks before coming to see me, you call me and come to whichever hospital I’m at. And if I’m not around, because you never know, you ask for Herzog and say I sent you, he’s very good. Actually, you know what? Go and see him. For a second opinion. I won’t be upset, I can just imagine what you’re going through right now.”

“No, Stan, I won’t disturb him, I have faith in you.”

“No, I want you to: go and see Herzog. I really don’t want you thinking I’m being all reassuring because you’re my wife’s brother and a friend.”

“Thanks. I understand. But I won’t go. And … isn’t there some diet I can follow? Or food supplements? To nourish the retina? What about lusein? I’ve heard that—”

“Lutein. Avoid all those parapharmaceuticals … If you really want some lutein, you can get it from spinach, kiwi fruit, pretty much anything green … you can always fill your boots with that. For night vision, eat plenty of blueberries, like airline pilots. It works.”

“Is there really no preventive treatment? Is there nothing I can do?”

“Nothing. Take a rain check on strenuous sport: soccer, squash, weight lifting, anything that rapidly increases pressure in the eye. Lose a bit of weight, do some cycling, some walking, that doesn’t do anyone any harm. Anyway, you’re only thirty-five, high blood pressure’s not a problem.”

Simon says nothing. He closes his right eye, looks in front of him, reaches out his arm and watches his hand disappear, swallowed up by the gray hole that the Fuch’s spot has carved out in the middle of his vision. He leans his head back, takes a deep breath … Stan takes him by the shoulders.

“Simon … everything’s fine.”

“I’ve got this heavy weight crushing my chest, it’s terrible, I can’t breathe properly … If this happens to my right eye now, I won’t be able to work anymore, or read, I won’t be able to see Nadine’s face, or the children’s, I—”

“Don’t worry, your right retina’s absolutely fine. I know you’re just as nearsighted on both sides, but it’s pointless worrying. The risk of bilateralization—”

“The risk of what?”

“Of the same thing happening in the other eye … is very low.”

“How low? I’m sorry to go on about this, Stan, but one in a hundred, in ten, in two?”

“I promise you, it’s very rare, no one has reliable statistics. I have hundreds of patients with a Fuch’s spot in one eye, and hardly any of them are affected in both.”

Stan is lying. Sufficient unto the day …

“I’m going to give you a prescription. For some sedatives. I want you to take them, I haven’t known a single patient who hasn’t been depressed for a while. I’d expect it. Losing an eye is a shocking loss, these drugs are there to be used. I can even recommend a psychiatrist.”

“No, come on.” Simon is indignant.

Stan smiles and does not press the point. “Listen, Simon, I’ve just had an appointment canceled, let’s have a closer look at the pressure in this right eye, because you’re worried about it, and afterward we can have lunch in the hospital cafeteria. They may have some kiwis …”

Kiwis they have. Simon eats three of them.

That evening, Stan is on duty at Quinze-Vingts Hospital. Anna is worried, she calls him.

“Professional secret, my darling,” Stan says, hoping he sounds casual. “It’s like I thought, vascular damage. He’s lost the central vision in his left eye.”

“Permanently?”

“Yes. There’s nothing I can try. But it’ll be okay. Simon’s very brave. I told him to go and see Herzog, but you know what your brother’s like, he refused. Mind you, Herzog wouldn’t have said or done anything more.”

Anna does not reply. Stan keeps his most cheerful voice, wanting to dispel her sadness: “Are you still going out this evening, darling? Are you going to Christiane’s?”

“Yes. My parents are here. They’re going to keep an eye on the children at home.”

“Are you going out on your own?”

“With Maureen. And another friend.”

“Who’s that?”

“Yves.”

“Beaudouin? You’re taking your manager to Christiane’s party?”

“No. Yves Janvier. Someone Maureen knows. You don’t know him. Bye.”

“See you in the morning.”

Anna hangs up.

She called Yves two days before, asking if he would like to join her for this party. Maureen served as an alibi, because Anna was not altogether lying: her cousin does know the writer, but hardly, having interviewed him a few years ago.

When Yves picked up the phone, she immediately forgot how to behave properly and her very first sentence burst out subconsciously: “Yves? On Friday, my husband’s on duty …” Later, while they talked, Anna slipped in: “Maureen’s single at the moment.” She had a painful longing for him and Maureen to like each other so that Yves, having become Maureen’s lover, would stop being a possibility. Yves did not grasp this. He suspected her of playing matchmaker.

Outside, Anna hears the dull clunk of the door to the elevator. She hopes it is Yves.