That particular Saturday, there was almost no indication that my eye was about to stage a coup. In fact it was a perfectly beautiful day, that last day. We spent the day at the beach in Follonica. The water was clear and calm, the sky was blue, the breeze was balmy and the sun was bright. 
We ate Nutella sandwiches and chocolate milk for lunch, followed by ice cream. It was a yummy sweet day. 
In retrospect, there were perhaps a few clues. On the way home, my eye watered, and it ached a little. The ache increased when evening came. I went to bed early, tired out from the sun and sand. I awoke in the middle of the night because of an explosion. My eye had exploded. It was swollen to three times it’s own size. It was red, leaking, and there was intense pain.
And that was how it began. From that moment forth, most everything I knew about myself ceased to exist, and I became only an eye, a big swollen, painful eye. My eye pushed away everything else and took over. Only it mattered. It was huge, my face misshapen. This explosion had left nothing else of me. My eye — its needs, wants, desires, pains, foul moods, and endless secretions were all that was left.
Sunday and Monday remain a blur of darkened rooms, intense pain and a throbbing eye. I self medicated — chamomile tea compresses, ice to soothe the pain, I ate Advil like candy. I washed it gently every hour to release the matting, the secretions that wove it tightly together in a matter of minutes. One mantra repeated itself, over and over: eye, eye, eye, eye.
Tuesday the pharmacist in our village of Impruneta walked us over to the Doctor’s office, and he looked at me with concern. “Pronto soccorso oculistico” he pronounced. The emergency room, or more specifically, the emergency for eyes at Careggi.
I was led there, blind, eye still weeping. After an hour of waiting in a corner with my head in my hands, the Doctor was ready to see me. “We are admitting you for intravenous antibiotics, and you will likely have permanent visual damage as a result of this infection.”
I spent six days in the hospital. My hospital room had green walls and a cross with Jesus and no machines in it. A tall doctor with impeccable english helped me. A short doctor with a firm handshake sent me warmth with his smile. A nurse in green leaned close and dropped medicine in my eye. 
The days in the hospital blend into each other. Mornings spent eavesdropping on conversations that I could not understand. Learning the word for pain in Italian – dolori.
My whole world, then and now, is an eye. I am one giant pulsing eye. An eye with a personality: “Intensely shy, does not like light, melts with a soft touch, cringes with roughness.” My eye likes to weep. It is like on of those magically weeping statues of the virgin Mary, that cries and cries without stopping.
My eye is bright red, swollen, and oozing. My eye is an ugly thing, but it doesn’t care. it has no vanity.
For two of my five nights in the hospital, I was the only patient on the hall. I spent hours listening to the various sounds of silence. The click click of the ceiling fan, a faint buzz from a fluorescent light down the hall, the far off conversation of the nurses. Sounds of the highway, sounds of the wind. On occasion the sound of the elevator, or a cart rumbling down the hall. 
When they let me go, after six days in room number seven, I was in heaven. It was too bright, but nonetheless, we went to a cafe for a cappuccino and a croissant. It was pure delight, and the breeze felt so nice on my skin. I kept my eyes closed.
Fourteen days later, I am still in bed, (with an occasional outing to a cafe, for that coffee and that breeze). I am still mostly only an eye. Corneal Ulcer. I visit the hospital every other day, “A little best, –a little better” my doctor says. My eye still weeps. Still pain. I still like it dark. These things take a while to heal. So I wait. 
