wear & tear

headache
throbbing, left-side
light a
disturbance
logged out
from work early
tried to rest,
couldn’t

a hopeful vision

Photo by Josh Calabrese on Unsplash

an audio narrative poem: a hopeful vision

if you were to tell me
four months ago, I could
be seeing clearer or my
eyes would shift toward the
light and not give me a
headache later, I would have
called your bluff.

it is amazing what insurance
binds us to — how we have to
cater our health to the
possible noncoverage of something
necessary for our mental growth
and overall well-being.

a recommended optometrist,
highly skilled in her field will
takeover my care for keratoconus.
she will now be a part of the
team who will see me twice
a year for an eye disease I didn’t
know I had before
two Februaries ago.

I hope she and my ophthalmologist
can tag-team this life-invader and
direct me onto new paths
concerning my vision.

as I think about the possibilities
coming my way — the mere fantasy
of reading without blurred lines
or double vision or constantly
squinting may soon become
my reality.

when a blockade positions itself
in your path to try to deter you,
a spirit higher and stronger than
it can ever be, swoops right in
to show you another way.

hopeful vision is something
poking me alive daily, and with
its looming presence sneaking
up on me quicker than I assumed
it would, I am overcome with
relief.

maybe, I am one step closer
to seeing what I need to see
and being who I need to be
while living visually impaired.

©2022 Tremaine L. Loadholt Originally published in CRY Magazine via Medium

Monday, August 22, 2022, I will have my consultation with my new optometrist who is in-network with both my medical and vision insurance. My last optometrist (the doctor who first diagnosed me with keratoconus) had rescinded her connection with my insurances — making her an out-of-network provider. I can now proceed with getting the scleral contacts I need to help move me toward a more enhanced vision. I cannot tell you how happy I am about this. Thanks for reading and for listening too.

The Morning Routine

Jernee Timid, my little monster. Photo Credit: Tremaine L. Loadholt

I wake up when my left leg
starts to ache, the shift
from night to morning takes
no time. I feel the sun before
it even peeks through my curtains.
Rainy days offer me tension
and tightness from an
old injury, and I stretch and stretch
and stretch until I feel loose.

The dog pats away at her crate,
ready to be released.
I slip out of bed,
slip into some “for people
who’ll see me” clothes,
wash my face, drink a
bottled water, and harness the
dog for our morning walk.

We brave whatever nonsense
stands before us willingly at
an early hour. We are no
strangers to strangeness, yet
nothing comes that is
out of the ordinary, at least,
on most days.
But we’re ready just in case.

Twenty minutes later, we are
rejuvenated and awake enough
to think coherently.
I feed her, take a shower, eat
breakfast, drink 8oz of water
or almond milk or orange juice,
and brush my teeth.

With my body full and my
mind ready, I endure a workday
or a Saturday or Sunday
full of more of the same or
is it more of the sane?
Time will tell, it always does.


Originally published via Simily on May 22, 2022.

Quarantine 15

Quarantine fifteen settles
in places I’d never introduce,
and I think to myself,
“But you’re still aging well.”

Like I’m a gourmet cheese
or fine wine or those
expensive nails that take
48 hours to remove.

I tell the dog there are
changes to make and my
left leg believes otherwise.
“I AM wearing the weight
well,” as I mind-change
the subject.

I see sweet imperfection
and I love it.

Inspired by words from the incredibly hilarious man with no filter and an awesome gift of gab, Scott Muska. Originally posted via LinkedIn.