I see figures in my windows, shadows sentinel in the courtyard below. I peer for shifts of light at the crack beneath the front door. Every building carries its own complement of shades; what some call “ghosts” may only be the occasional blur, flashes of color in the periphery with no discernable source.
Dr. Hu calls the cloud drifting on the line separating pupil and iris a scar, permanent gauze ruining my cornea. What looks like a contiguous mark is likely a collective, though, innumerable tiny cysts built by the army of amoeba occupying my eye. The cysts protect their makers from the typhoons of antibiotic poisons flooding their habitat four times a day.
The cysts are the amoeba’s last line of defense, trenches protecting the enemy army. These are the havens where they retreat during any hardship, drought or danger. Until the cysts are destroyed, my eye–and my vision–are still at risk. The doctors confer and agree: Three months of the same regimen I’ve been on, four medications throughout the day, should eradicate the invaders permanently. I nod and smile at their confidence. We’ll see.