Floater
I had a floater. Well, a few actually, still do, but one in particular that had me worried. For those of you who are unaware or have never experienced them, floaters are tiny bits of harmless detached tissue naturally occurring in your eye. They float in your field of vision, sometimes off to one side, and they move when your eyeball moves. Conversely, if you stare straight ahead, the floaters will sink because of gravity. If you dart your eyeball one way or another, they will follow the path by inertia. This is all fine and well; your brain gets used to them, and you forget they’re there most times. Here’s what they usually look like:
The other day, I was reading in my backyard. It was a pleasant day, especially nice for reading, so I brought a book and an iced Arnold Palmer outside—the drink, not the person; I don’t want you to think I’m some sort of masochistic golf enthusiast. So, I was sitting there reading; everything was fine, and I noticed a bird off to the side. I shifted my eyes to look at it (hey, I like birds, why not?) and it scurried off before I got a chance to see it. Do birds scurry? Birds are easily frightened—I understand they’re nervous creatures—so it was back to my book. A couple of minutes later, it happened again, exactly as I described it, and yet again after a few moments. This is one skittish bird, I thought. Well, the annoying bird (it was becoming annoying by then) made several more semi-appearances, all without me making eye-to-eye contact with the stealthy creature. I decided to go inside.
The thing with floaters is, you detect right away when there’s a new one. It’s like when you were younger and a family moved into your neighborhood and their kid had a better bike than you had. You notice these things. It didn’t take me long to understand there wasn’t a bird in the backyard. Well, there were birds, but not the skittish, annoying one I thought I had seen. I went into the bathroom, took out my 5x magnifying mirror, and examined my eyes. The left one (my left) looked perfectly fine, and so did the right one. Floaters are tiny, and even though they live in your eye, you can’t observe them by looking in without specialized equipment, but you can see them looking out. So, as I was conducting my eyeball inspection, I saw the bird again, or whatever it was, out of the corner of my eye, not in the mirror. It moved when my eye moved, so it was difficult to make out its exact shape. But I knew what it was; like I said, I’ve had a few floaters. Here was the new kid in town, recently moved in, riding a shiny, black 13-speed mountain bike with oversized tires. In other words, it was a big one.
The following day, I went to work. It should have been a normal Monday, but I had spastic eyes. I kept moving my head and twitching my eyes to catch a glimpse of my new friend and ocular occupant. It had crept out of the corner and was now traipsing away in my left field of vision full-time. I opened my eyes wide and moved my eyeballs around in circles in an attempt to see it more clearly. I think my co-workers were concerned with my well-being, and I had to say “I’m fine” more than a few times.
A bear. Forget the bird thing I mentioned before; this new guy looked like a bear. There was no mountain bike, but from what I could see without actually seeing it, it was bear-shaped. I don’t know about you, but I maintain a strict no-bear policy when it comes to my eyes, so I called an ophthalmologist… or optometrist… or orthopedist—I can never remember the difference. The nice lady at the eye specialist’s office said I could be seen (get it?) in October. I was currently enjoying life in August, so I was a bit perturbed by the long wait, but I made the appointment anyway. Teddy and I would simply need to get along until then. I didn’t give my eye inhabitant its corny name—Alice in Commercial Sales did when I explained to her I had a bear-shaped floater. Alice, as it turned out, names all her floaters.
Here’s what my bear floater looks like:
Over the course of the next few weeks, the bear and I began our relationship in earnest. I talked to it, sometimes lovingly, sometimes in a serious manner, as we discussed our future together, and on occasion, I screamed at it when it interrupted my reading. I bought fancy eye drops for it, but the ursine floater was not impressed or appreciative; it merely scurried around faster than its usual scurrying but settled back down after a few minutes. I tried watching Terms of Endearment in an attempt to cry it out, but apparently, my bear is more into action movies and thrillers. Luckily, the doctor’s office called, and I was able to move my appointment sooner due to a cancellation.
My eye doctor, who I now know is an ophthalmologist, introduced herself to me as Dr. Risotto. A quick glance at her embroidered lab coat confirmed this fact—Dr. M. Risotto—but I believed she was telling the truth concerning her tasty name even without seeing the red stitching. She was a tall doctor, as my history of female doctors suggested, and probably measured in at a few light-brown hairs south of five-eleven, although, to be fair, she was wearing short high-heeled shoes. I come in at six feet (when I’m not checking my phone), so looking at her eye to eye, with only a slight variation of the x-axis of our line of sight, was both pleasurable and disconcerting. Dr. Risotto’s eyes were ethereal in impact and were hard to look away from. The irises had a blue-green, almost teal, hue and had tiny streaks of gold embedded in them. Her cheeks had no evidence of makeup and were naturally rosy. Her nose was of the two-nostriled variety. A small cleft in her chin completed and complemented her facial structure and made me think of Karen Allen, the actress from Raiders of the Lost Ark, although Dr. Risotto and Karen Allen otherwise share no resemblance.
“You know, you remind me of…”
“Jessica Chastain,” Dr. Risotto interrupted. “I know, I know, I get that all the time.”
“Oh, right. Okay. I can see it now.” I couldn’t see it.
“What seems to be the issue today?” She looked at my chart, which wouldn’t have contained much info since this was my first visit with the altitudinous doctor.
“There’s an annoying floater in my eye,” I said. “I think.”
“Yes,” Dr. Risotto said, clicking her pen repeatedly with her thumb. “Those are normal.”
“It’s shaped like a bear,” I said. “I think.”
“A bear?”
“I think.”
”You think a lot, Mr. Consta… Constig…” More chart inspection and more pen clicking.
“Constigan,” I said.
“Well, I can certainly take a look at it to rule out anything… abnormal.”
A few minutes later, I was in a semi-darkened examination room, sitting in a lavender-colored faux-leather examination chair. Dr. Risotto donned a blue surgical mask, which effectively covered her cleft chin, her normal nose, and her warm but professional smile. She administered numerous routine eye exam tests and procedures—for a baseline reading, she informed me. Following the electronic part of the exam was the quaint eye chart recitation. I said, “Printed in Germany,” when she asked me to read the bottom line. I could tell she had heard that particular joke only a few hundred times.
“Lean back,” she instructed, and I heard a mechanical noise as the chair reclined. My new favorite ophthalmologist sat next to my head in a squat, backless, rolling chair, and I was once again staring into her blue, probably bear-free eyes. I noticed she had on a light, tasteful application of mascara and eyeliner, which made her eyes seem larger and even more three-dimensional, as eyes go. She had a minty aroma, and I could also smell her sweet herbal shampoo, unless she had mangoes for breakfast. “Okay, which eye are we concerned with today, Mr. Conti…?”
“Constigan,” I repeated. “You can call me Joe, Doctor.”
“Joe Doctor?”
“No, just Joe,” I said. “The left eye. The left side of my left eye.”
She examined both my eyes, first without any gadgetry, then with a small magnifying device. She adjusted the chair back to an upright position and had me look through the… I don’t know what it’s called—I looked through one end of the bulky device and she looked through the other. Unfortunately, I couldn’t see her eyes; it was too bright. “Hmm,” she said, probably unconsciously.
“Is that a good hmm or a concerned hmm?” I asked.
“I want you to come with me to another office. I see something, but I want to double-check with a newer machine.” I followed her down the hall into another room. It was larger than the first room and had two examination chairs and more equipment. “Make yourself comfortable, Doct… I mean, Joe.” She exited the room, and instead of sitting, I perused some framed artwork on the wall. One of them was not a drawing but a newspaper article about the opening of the medical building in which I was currently standing. There was a crowd of people in the corresponding photo, several of whom were wearing white lab coats. Dr. Risotto was among them, and the caption listed her as Dr. Margarita Risotto, MD. I smiled when I read the delicious name. I must have known her full name when I made the appointment, but evidently, it had successfully escaped my short-term memory’s filing cabinet.
Dr. Risotto returned, and as she backed into the room, she was writing in my chart. She motioned toward one of the chairs, and I sat like a good boy. “We recently purchased this,” she said cheerfully as she rolled a rather hefty machine over to the chair. “I was waiting for a chance to use it.” She instructed me to look through the peepholes, as I had done before.
“Still has that new ophthalmologist equipment smell,” I commented. She smiled—I think; she was still wearing her mask.
“Okay, let’s see.” She was fiddling with some controls on her side because what I was viewing changed with each new sound of the machine. “Please look to your right,” she ordered, “but don’t move your head.” Since I always do what masked women tell me, I looked to my right.
“Is there something I’m not supposed to look at on my left?” I said. I wondered what kind of sense of humor Margarita Risotto possessed. Was she goofy without her white lab coat? Did she get home and kick off her short high-heeled shoes and do the chicken dance in front of her cat? Or was she the type of person who says, “That’s funny,” but doesn’t laugh?
“Okay, now look to your left,” the doctor ordered. I looked to my left. After a minute or so, she said, “Now look straight ahead.”
“Can I get a magazine or something while you do all these tests?” I said.
“Oh,” the doctor said.
“Oh?”
“Hmm…”
“Another hmm. Is there something I should know, or is there a song playing in your head?” I quickly found my doctor was not especially forthcoming in her findings.
“I think my colleague should take a look at this. Please try to remain still and try not to move your head or your eyes. I’ll be back in a jiff.” With a click of her pen, Dr. Risotto left the room, and I contemplated how life would be without the use of my left eye should there be something majorly wrong with it. Would I develop enhanced vision in my right eye? Or maybe it would progress into a superpower, and I would be able to see through solid objects like brick walls and embroidered white lab coats and any flimsy obstacles behind those things. I could develop my own show in Las Vegas and date showgirls, or at least talk with them between sets. This could be the beginning of an entirely new life for me. Possibly, Margarita and I would go on tour demonstrating my new awesome powers. She would arrange for audience members to place a personal belonging inside a steel box, and I would announce, with utmost certainty, its identity. The crowd would cheer with disbelief and astonishment. They would give us standing ovations each night, with Dr. Risotto smiling at me with pride and, dare I say, lust in her eyes. She would still be wearing her white lab coat, but underneath, a short skirt and a tight, sequined tube top, and below, fishnet stockings and high high-heeled shoes. After the show, in our limousine, she would find it hard to keep her hands off me and
“... Joe? Mr. Constigan? Sir?” I was startled back to reality with such suddenness, I bonked my eye sockets on her brand-new machine.
“Oh, hi, Doctor. I was uh… I thought I could see Neptune through this contraption.
“Joe, please remain as you were. This is Dr. Docker; I want him to take a look,” Dr. Risotto said.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Docker,” Dr. Docker said in a low-pitched, throaty growl. I imagined he was bear-shaped, similar to my floater, only wearing a white lab coat with red stitching declaring his profession and surname.
“Dr. Docker, give me the news,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Dr. Docker said.
“Never mind,” I said.
The two eye doctors looked at my eyeballs through their fancy new machine, trading places like excited kids around a backyard telescope as their father finally focused on Saturn. There was Dr. Risotto’s familiar hmm, followed by Dr. Docker’s ooh, and there was undeniably a distinct wow. In between, they mumbled their ophthalmologic-speak in hushed tones. Every so often, I heard words such as membrane and vitreous and surgery. (Wait, surgery ?!) Dr. Docker said something baritonally, and I heard Dr. Risotto’s pen click as she hmmed and noted his opinion in my chart. Or maybe she was writing their lunch order; I may have heard one of them say pepperoni.
My eye muscles were becoming strained from looking right and left and straight for such an extended period, so I suggested we take a break from all the fun they were having. The two professional peeper pokers requested I hold on for one more minute while they tried to figure out how the photographic function worked on the new machine. I sighed and began to daydream again as I imagined Margarita and myself back at our hotel after another successful show, her lab coat on the floor, her sequined tube top pulled
“Alrightee, all done,” Dr. Risotto announced a little too quickly for my liking, sadly back in her real-life attire. For the unenlightened, this is how a sequined tube top looks—without a svelte eye doctor inside:
The three of us made our way to Dr. Docker’s office while I dizzily traversed the swiveling hallway. His desk was massive, and the walls were decorated with tastefully framed Dali and Magritte prints. There were large bookcases on either side of the office, with what appeared to be medical texts on one side and hard-cover science fiction novels on the other. Dr. Docker sat behind his prodigious desk while Dr. Risotto and I sat opposite in a pair of matching blue leather-upholstered accent chairs. When I could finally regain my focus, I got a good look at the esteemed doctor, who didn’t look at all as what I had imagined. He appeared to be in his late sixties. He was a tall, slim man, but broad-shouldered with longish arms and spindly hands attached. His hair was fluffy white, and he sported a trim white goatee. I also noticed he and his colleague, the lovely Margarita (now unmasked), were not bespectacled, which gave me a calming but probably deceptive sense of their academic proficiencies.
“Your situation is rather interesting, um…” Dr. Docker checked his notes, “Joe. May I call you Joe?”
“You can call me Candice if you wish, but I may not answer right away.” I gazed down at the nameplate on his desk—it read: Dr. Derek T. Docker, MD. I wanted to ask him what the T stood for, but I kept my mouth shut.
“Joe it is. Well, we found… Dr. Risotto and I… found something in the left vitreous humor, the area of your concern,” Dr. Docker explained.
“The vitreous humor is a clear, jelly-like substance behind your pupil,” clarified Dr. Risotto. She directed this at me since apparently Dr. Docker already knew this factoid. “It fills up the inside of your eyeballs, keeping them spherical.” She smiled at me and clicked her pen.
“I don’t find anything funny about that,” I said.
“However, unfortunately, what we see is not a floater as is commonly associated with this type of inquiry,” Dr. Docker continued. “Those are stray bits of collagen, and they cast shadows on your retina.”
“Floaters are benign in most cases,” Dr. Risotto said. “If this was a floater, you would probably be on your way home already.”
“So, if it’s not a floater, what is it?” When the two doctors who are handling your case stop talking and look at each other, you know some bad news is saddling up the palomino. Dr. Docker had his hands clasped on his desk, tapping the tips of his forefingers together. Dr. Risotto started writing something in my chart, but I saw she was drawing circles within circles and then scribbling them out. “Okay, if no one is going to tell me, I’m going to start reading The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.”
Dr. Docker cleared his throat and said, “Joe, we think… well, we’re pretty sure… what I mean to say is we are almost certain you’re carrying a tardigrade in your left eye—also commonly known as a water bear.” He tapped on his tablet several times and came up with this illustration of a tardigrade, which he proceeded to show me:
“So you’re saying there really is a bear in my eye?” I knew they were kidding, but they weren’t smiling or laughing. “C’mon, what is it? Seriously.” Dr. Risotto clicked her pen repeatedly, so I looked in her direction.
“It’s not a bear, Joe; it kinda sorta looks like one, but with eight legs,” she said, touching my knee with a comforting pat. “It’s a teeny tiny creature, almost microscopic, and it can survive almost anywhere—apparently, even a human eye. Yours is quite large for a tardigrade, but it’s still pretty small.”
“Yes, the bugger is approximately three times the normal size for this kind of micro-animal,” Dr. Docker chimed in. “We believe it’s feeding off the vitreous, your uh… eyeball jelly, and it has grown quite a bit. He must find your eye especially tasty indeed.” I noticed Dr. Risotto glanced over at him with a disapproving glower.
“Sooo, you’re serious? I have a tiny bear-like… thing in my eye,” I said, “and it’s eating its way through it?” I was not happy with the results of my eye exam and wished I was back in my daydream Las Vegas in a suite at the Bellagio with Margarita and a couple of pitchers of margaritas. Dr. Risotto went to the bookshelf—the medical one—and she plucked a volume out and flipped through its pages. After pulling her chair closer to mine, she showed me the page she found. It was a diagram of a human eye. It looked similar to this:
She created a small dot with her pen, right there in the book. “This is approximately how big it is. It doesn’t look too concerning, but it is alive, and it may be growing.” Margarita closed the book with a loud, eye-opening snap (get it?) and placed it on Dr. Docker’s desk. She put her hand back on my knee. “We think it may eventually affect your vision.” I was able to gaze into her teal-blue eyes again, but the feeling wasn’t the same after this ophthalmological nightmare had been presented to me.
“I wonder if he can see the world through your eye as you walk around,” Dr. Docker said, chuckling. “Imagine that.” Dr. Risotto scolded him with her eyes again.
“Please get it out,” I said weakly.
“Yes, of course,” Dr. Docker said, clearing his throat and donning a more sober expression.
“We can certainly correct the issue, Joe,” Dr. Risotto said. “It requires inserting a super-thin pipette, and with light suction, we will extract the foreign object in a matter of minutes.
“You can keep it as a pet!” Dr. Docker announced, a bit too jovially.
“You may experience a few days of slightly blurred vision in your left eye,” Margarita continued, ignoring her senior associate, “but the vitreous body will eventually regenerate and you’ll be as good as new.” She moved her hand from my knee to my shoulder, creating a cool spot on the former and a warm spot on the latter. Her soothing voice and compassionate demeanor calmed my anxiety, and I began feeling a sudden rush of romantic feelings for her—probably akin to Stockholm syndrome, but with my eye care specialist, not a kidnapper. After several more minutes of explanations and more diagrams, we scheduled the minimally invasive surgery for the following day.
“No need for this thing to eat any more of your eye out,” was how Dr. Docker put it, followed by a dangerous-looking (but cute) scowl from Dr. Risotto.
* * *
The next morning, I returned to the same medical building in which I received my abysmal medical diagnosis and became smitten with a certain ocular practitioner who had given me the disturbing news. Although I was happy to see Margarita again, I was not overwhelmed with the idea of a tube being inserted into my eye. There were many legal forms to read over and sign, which gave me no recourse should anything other than a tardigrade be sucked out of my vitreous jelly. I was also surprised to learn that Dr. M. Risotto, MD was planning on performing the surgery with Dr. D. Docker, MD assisting. There were three other personnel on hand: an anesthesiologist, a nurse, and an intern who would be recording a video of the operation. Two other doctors from the practice were present as spectators, and Dr. Docker brought his seventeen-year-old granddaughter, Kerri, along for the experience.
The entire surgical team and I donned sterile medical gowns and gloves and entered the operating suite. I was led to an examination chair, similar to the one from the previous day except for a contraption to keep my head stabilized. An IV was inserted into my arm, and I began to get a typical pre-op woozy feeling. There was some hubbub around me as the staff was preparing, and I had an anxious moment where I questioned my decision to go through with the procedure. This was the main reason why I was given general anesthesia in addition to a topical numbing agent—my anxiety could be “disruptive.” Dr. Risotto smiled down at me, and my infatuation for her washed over me again. Even though she wore a surgical mask, I could tell she was smiling because of the fine crinkles around her eyes.
“Maybe it’s the drugs talking, but after this is over, would you like to go to Las Vegas with me?” I said groggily. “We can get a room at the Buh...la…gee…oh.” Dr. Risotto raised her eyebrows and looked over at the anesthesiologist, who shook her head.
“Joe, we haven’t administered any anesthesia yet,” my charming doctor informed me. I looked at the IV snaking out of my arm. “It’s just saline.” There were a few chuckles from some of the onlookers. Dr. Risotto squeezed my hand and bent down to whisper to me, “We can talk about Las Vegas later.” I couldn’t tell if she had the same feelings for me or if she was only demonstrating her incredible chairside manner. Either way, I was eager to get this thing over with and talk to her eye to tardigrade-free-eye again.
“Oh, okay,” I said.
“We need to do some prep first, and then we’ll get started,” someone said. I couldn’t take my eyes off Margarita.
After a few “preps,” they strapped me to the chair, stabilized my head, applied some goo to my eye (the left one), and the anesthesiologist performed her magic. She instructed me to count down from one hundred.
“One hundred…”
* * *
I woke up in a cheerfully decorated room with yellow walls and several green plants on the sunny window sill. I was still in the lavender-colored operating chair but free of any restraints. A gauze bandage was taped over my eye, and I willed myself not to touch it. The clock on the wall reported I had been out for two-plus hours. I assumed there was a camera in the room because Dr. Risotto burst in no more than thirty seconds after I had awoken. She looked like an angel in her white lab coat and her flowing light brown hair and her golden aura and her angel wings… I soon realized I was still feeling the effects of the anesthesia.
“Hey Joe,” she said, pulling up beside me in a backless, rolly chair. “I wanted to let you know the procedure went perfectly and we caught the little guy.” This was such good news to me at the time; I subconsciously transferred the joyous feeling of relief into sentiments of love and affection for the tall, intelligent woman. Looking at her pulchritudinous face, I wanted to cry, but I attribute that to the drugs. “You may experience some fuzziness or blurred vision for a few days; nothing to worry about. Your vitreous humor needs to regenerate itself, but you should be completely fine in… mmm, maybe a week. You need to drink plenty of fluids. No alcohol, okay?”
I sighed and was temporarily lost in her smile. I nodded. “Listen, I’m sorry if I embarrassed you before about the whole Las Vegas thing,” I said.
“It’s quite alright,” she said while inspecting the coverage and adherence of my bandage. “I hate to break it to you, but I’m currently seeing several men. Fortunately, they’re all patients of mine. Get it? Seeing them?” If this was a behind-the-scenes look at her quirky sense of humor, I liked it. “But I should let you know, I’m not able to engage in… associations with any of my patients outside the doctor-patient relationship.” She pursed her lips, and I got the feeling this situation had come up more than a few times. I nodded again.
“Thank you for everything, Doctor,” I said. “It’s been a weird couple of days, but it was nice meeting you and your staff.” She tilted her head and squeezed my shoulder, and I briefly wondered if I should be reading anything into her frequent physical contact.
“It was quite lovely meeting you as well, Joe. You were my first tardigrade-ectomy!” She laughed, and I was back to feeling like a schoolboy harboring a crush on a pretty teacher. “Oh, I almost forgot.” She fumbled in her lab coat pocket and brought out a test tube with a silicone stopper. Inside were a few ounces of water and what appeared to be some moss. “It’s your little bear. Well, he’s in there somewhere.” She handed me the test tube, and I peered at it with my one exposed eye (the right one). I couldn’t see Teddy, but he probably could see me.
“Thank you, Doctor. It’s a great souvenir. Is he housebroken?” She laughed again.
“I don’t think you’ll encounter any household accidents,” she said, “and please call me Rita.” I liked the implications of that, but I was probably kidding myself.
“You have a lovely name,” I said. We chatted for a while until she was paged in regards to another patient.
“I want you to keep the patch on for the rest of the day and overnight. You might feel an urge to touch it, but don’t bear down on it. Get it? Bear? Never mind. You may take it off in the morning. Your eye may be slightly puffy, and as I said, you might experience some minor blurry vision—all of this is normal. I want to see you for a follow-up in one week. Make the appointment with Lillian before you leave. Unless you need any other questions answered, your sister is in the lobby ready to take you home.” I couldn’t think of any more questions (concerning the surgery), so I thanked her again and said goodbye to the staff, who were all quite friendly and supportive. Even Dr. Docker was a sweetheart once you became used to his style. However, he didn’t request I call him Derek.
* * *
I had been looking forward to seeing Rita ever since leaving her office. I got the idea to bring her a gift when I returned home on surgery day, so I photographed myself holding Teddy’s test tube near my face, bandaged eye and all. I purchased a small frame to put the photo in and wrapped the entire thing in tissue paper. In what had been a bold, last-ditch effort, I had placed a sticker on the back with my name and phone number. The next week, I met with Dr. Margarita Risotto for my follow-up exam and presented my gift to her.
“I love it,” she proclaimed. “I wonder if this is how obstetricians feel.” She turned the frame over, saw the sticker, and looked at me sideways without saying a word, but I thought I noticed a slight smile.
After a brief examination, she told me my eye was nearly 100% back to normal and not to put my face in any swampy creeks anymore. I promised her I wouldn’t and asked if drainage ditches were okay. Dr. Risotto looked at my photograph again and paused. I waited. (When a woman looks at your picture and her face doesn’t morph into a grimace, you don’t interrupt.) “I’m curious. Why Las Vegas?” she said after a few moments.
“It’s a long story,” I said and shook my head, embarrassed over my silly daydream.
“Are you a gambling man?”
“No,” I said, “I had been thinking maybe I would develop superpowers from my… uh, condition.” Dr. Risotto seemed to find my admission genuinely amusing; her laugh surprised me. I managed an insecure chuckle. An image of her wearing a sequined tube top ambushed my thoughts, and I was even more embarrassed.
“Well, you must tell me the entire story one day,” she said with another almost smile. She slid my framed photo into the large pocket of her lab coat. Lillian, the receptionist, knocked and entered and reported another patient was “prepped and ready.” I knew she had to leave me, so I tried to memorize every feature of Dr. Margarita (Rita) Risotto’s face. It might be a while before I had the chance to see her again, unless, of course, Teddy had babies.
* * *
I purchased a large fish bowl at the pet store and laid down gravel, more moss, and some twigs. There was room for a small island, which I created out of clay, and I rested a model castle on top. After adding some water, I emptied the contents of the test tube into the new bowl, not needing to be overly cautious—I had read some scientific articles on tardigrades, and they actually are practically indestructible. Hopefully, Teddy went along for the ride and is now residing in his new kingdom.
Weeks later, I happened to be gazing into Teddy’s bowl, trying to find the little guy, when my phone alerted me of a text: It’s your eye doc, Rita. Coffee?? My thoughts immediately went negative, and I imagined she reviewed my exam reports and saw evidence of a tiny water buffalo chomping away in my eye. I texted back: Sure, call me.
“What’s up, doc?”
“Hi, Joe. Interested in joining me for a cafe latte at Roast Me?”
“Do you mean one coffee for both of us or can I get my own?”
“I suppose we can splurge and get one each.”
“But I thought…”
“Yeah, about that. I felt I was being swamped at work, so I handed over some of my patients to Dr. Docker.”
“I see. And I was one of them.”
“Yes, you happened to be one of them. Well, the only one, to be honest. Purely coincidental.”
* * *
It’s strange to contemplate why and how certain things in life happen. For instance, how a weird micro-animal can get trapped in your vitreous jelly, floating in your eye without a care in the world. Or how you decide to call a certain doctor’s office based solely on her appetizing name and how you invent scenarios around her that lead to an improbable invitation. Or how a day comes when you find a white lab coat with a red embroidered name hanging on a hook in your closet and a pair of short high-heeled shoes parked neatly at the foot of your bed.
As we both stared into the fish bowl looking for any signs of life between the tendrils of moss, or hanging out on a waterlogged stick, or residing in a small, resin castle, one of us said, “Do you think he’s in there?”
“I think so,” the other said.
“Do you think he minds us eyeing him like this?”
“Hmm…”
“Get it?”
“I do.”
