An Eye for an Eye
Prologue – 18 months ago
"Aw, c'mon, Jess," Steve grumbled as he set about clearing the debris from Bob's numerous tables, "I have just finished three months undercover, I have ten days off and all I want to do is relax."
"Working with your hands can be very relaxing," Jesses coaxed, "Think of the satisfaction in creating furniture from planks of wood, nails and a hammer."
"Think of the backache, the blisters and the earache," Steve retorted.
It took a moment for Steve's final words to penetrate Jesse's brain and then he said, "Earache?"
"From listening to you extolling the virtues of 'working with your hands'," Steve responded, shouldering the kitchen door open before disappearing through it.
"Fine." muttered Jesse, turning away in disappointment, "Don't worry about all the extra shifts I've worked over the last three months. Don't worry about all the times that I have stared death in the face. I can manage to make a bookcase on my own."
Steve's voice sounded in his ear, causing Jesse to jump at least six inches into the air, "Don't worry, Jess, I won't."
"Aw, Steve, c'mon," Jesse pleaded in an unconscious echo of his friend, "It'll only take a few hours. I have everything ready."
Steve Sloan was a man with an extremely strong personality, but even he wilted under Jesse's infamous 'little boy lost' look. He sighed, "Okay, Jess, I give in. Tell me when and I'll show up."
Two days later
'So," said Steve, standing on the deck of Jesse's brand new house, "what do you want me to do?"
True to his word, Jesse did have everything planned and very soon the two friends were hard at work. Several hours later, Jesse stood back and admired their handiwork.
"I think we can be very proud of our labours today, Steve," he said, looking over his shoulder at his friend who was clearing away the tools.
"We sure can, Jess," he replied, "and, much as it goes against all my principles, I have to admit that you were right. I do feel relaxed."
Never one to let a moment go past, Jesse grinned, "Told ya!"
As he turned to help with the clearing up, Jesse didn't see the one nail that Steve had missed and, as he stepped on it, his ankle twisted and he fell forward catching his friend off balance. Instead of being able to stop his friend from falling, he too found himself crashing towards the floor.
"Damn, that hurt!" exclaimed Jesse, as he sat up rubbing his elbow.
When he received no answer from Steve, Jesse looked around at his friend and was horrified to see him lying, unmoving on the floor, blood trickling from his left temple.
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"I keep telling the both of you that I am fine," Steve uttered in frustration when, for the third time both Jesse and Mark had refused his request to go home.
"I just want to keep you here overnight for observation." Mark explained patiently, "You took a real knock there, Son, and I don't want to take any chances."
Looking back and forth between his father and Jesse, Steve decided to give in gracefully. To tell the truth, his head was throbbing. Resting back against the crisp, white hospital pillow Steve said, "Okay, I'll stay….just 'til the morning and then I am out of here."
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Present day
"So, Steve," Jonathan Harper, Consultant Ophthalmologist, spoke cheerily, "it's that time of year again. Your annual eye exam."
"Mmmmm," was Steve's only reply. He always hated his eye exam, especially the drops, but this time he came to it with an added level of anxiety. He had noticed, over the last few months, a subtle change in his vision. Straight lines had begun to appear wavy when he looked at them.
"Any problems?" Jonathan's voice broke through Steve's thoughts and he frowned a little when he heard what Steve had to say.
"Could it be serious?" Steve wanted to know.
"Could be any number of things, Steve." Jonathan answered, "All changes in vision is something that needs checking out and there is no point in speculating. Let's get on with the exam and we'll talk afterwards."
Fifteen minutes later and the part of the exam that Steve hated the most arrived. Jonathan reclined the chair so that Steve was at a 45 degree angle. He reached into a drawer to his left and extracted a small phial.
"Must you?" Steve asked.
"Yes, Steve, we must," Jonathan was patient, as he was every year, "and given the 'wavy lines' you have been experiencing it is important that I check out the back of your eyes."
Snapping the top from the phial, Jonathan held open one of Steve's eyes and then the other, carefully placing a couple of drops into each one. Blinking rapidly, Steve was aware that his mouth had gone dry, whether due to the drops or anxiety he wasn't sure. Leaning over his patient, Jonathan carefully examined each retina. After a few minutes he put his ophthalmoscope down and returned Steve's chair to its upright position.
"Okay, Doc," there was a slight tremor in Steve's voice at the look on Jonathan Harper's face.
Jonathan, who had known Steve and had performed all his eye tests since the tenth grade, took a deep breath before he spoke.
"There are some opaque deposits behind the retina in your left eye, Steve. I would like to admit you for a few tests."
"Is it serious?" Steve asked again.
"As I said before, Steve," he began, rummaging on his desk for his appointments diary, "there could be any number of reasons and the tests that I would like to run with clarify the situation. Can you come in the day after tomorrow?"
"That soon?" like most basically healthy people, Steve was a little freaked out at the possibility that he might be ill.
"The sooner the better, Steve." Jonathan responded, "The quicker that we find out what the problem is, if indeed there is one, then the quicker it can be sorted."
"You can sort it out then?"
Jonathan grinned, "Let's wait until after the tests, okay?"
Having arranged to present himself at the ophthalmology department on Friday morning, Steve onto the precinct where he began, what turned out to be, a marathon twenty four hour shift due to a very high profile murder. It took a lot of fast talking, and a not considerable amount of lying, on Steve's part to get a couple of days off out of Captain Newman, but eventually he gave in.
Steve had told Jonathan that he did not want his dad to know about the tests so, consequently, on Friday morning he left the house very early and made his way to Community General. He took the service elevator up to the fifth floor and booked himself in.
Saturday afternoon
Steve sat in the chair next to his hospital bed watching the television, clicking his tongue in irritation. He reached out for the remote and began pressing the buttons on it until the colour balance was as he wanted. So intent was he on this occupation that he didn't hear Jonathan Harper come to stand in the doorway of his room. Looking in the direction of the flickering screen, Jonathan frowned a little at the highly garish colours which jumped out at him. Inhaling silently, he walked into the room bracing himself for a conversation that he would do anything not to have.
Hearing footsteps, Steve looked up into his doctor's face and felt like someone had punched him in his abdomen. Steve had seen that look on his dad's and Jesse's faces enough times to know that the news was not good. He placed the remote back onto the bed and clasped his hands together so as not to betray the barely visible shaking.
"Give it to me straight, Jonathan," he said, mildly ashamed to hear an audible tremor in his voice and hating himself for it.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Jonathan spoke, "It's not good, Steve. You have a condition called macular degeneration."
"Macular degeneration? What is that? What does it mean?" Steve threw questions out like he was firing a gun.
"Technically, macular degeneration is the physical disturbance of the centre of the retina called the macula," Jonathan paused, just long enough for Steve to jump in.
"Now that you have given me the dictionary explanation, tell me in words that I can understand."
"The macula is a part of the retina. If you were to look at a standard text book, it is the size of a capital 'O'. It's the part of the retina which helps with our detailed vision, for reading, driving watching television etc."
"That I understand," Steve replied, "but what causes it?"
"We are not totally sure," Jonathan replied, unhappily aware that this was not the answer this, or any patient, wanted to hear, "What I can tell you is that there are two types – 'wet' and 'dry'. Most people have the dry version, but a minority have what is known as the wet version, which is the sort I believe that you have. This involves bleeding in and under the retina, opaque deposits and eventually scar tissue formation. It is this kind which accounts for at least ninety percent of all cases of legal blindness in macular degeneration patients."
For a long moment, Steve was silent as a myriad of thoughts crowded into his brain. Eventually he looked up, "So from those stats, I guess I have a nine in ten chance of going blind."
"Of your sight deteriorating to a state where you would be classed legally blind, yes." Jonathan answered.
"How did I get it?"
"By and large it is an age related condition," Jonathan informed him, "but with you that is not the case."
"Why?"
"Because you aren't old enough."
Despite his overwhelming fear at what the future held for him, Steve managed a weak grin and said, "Can I have that last comment in writing please? Jesse is always telling me that I am getting old. So what do you think caused it?"
"We have discounted heredity, diabetes, nutrition or infection in your case, so the only major cause left is head injury."
A furrow crossed Steve's brow as he said, "But I don't recall suffering a head injury for ages."
"I've checked back in your hospital records and I think that I have pinpointed the cause. Do you remember coming in with an injury to the left hand side of your temple about eighteen months ago?"
"Vaguely," Steve answered, "and I am sure it wasn't that bad."
"From what I can gather from Jesse…………." Jonathan only managed to get that far in the sentence before Steve interrupted him.
"You have spoken to Jesse!" he exclaimed, "I thought I told you that I didn't want anyone to know anything about this?"
"I needed to clarify a point in your medical history, Steve and to do that I had to talk to your doctor," Jonathan answered, a slight note of asperity creeping into his voice at Steve's implied criticism, "For the record, I did not talk to your dad and Jesse knows that the conversation we had was confidential."
He paused for a couple of seconds to allow the admonishment to sink in, before continuing, "I think it's time you told your dad."
"I will." Steve responded, somewhat distractedly, "So what do we do now?"
"Do?"
"What treatment is there to make it better?"
Jonathan heard the childlike plea in Steve's voice and hated the reply he had to give.
"There is no cure," he said.
In all the brushes with illness and injury that Steve had had over the years, there had always been a cure for whatever ailed him. He was momentarily stunned to hear that, for once, he wasn't being handed a 'get out of jail free' card.
"Go home, Steve," Jonathan counselled, "talk to your dad. We will get together in a couple of days and talk some more. Ring my office in the morning to schedule an appointment."
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Mark Sloan pottered around his large, beautifully appointed kitchen preparing himself a casserole for his evening meal. He hoped that Steve would be home from his trip in time to join him and was making enough for two. Standing at the large kitchen window, Mark looked out at the magnificent view, a thought flashed through his mind and he frowned. It was a little odd for Jim Newman to have sent one of his senior detectives on a relatively minor assignment, especially with the huge manhunt that was taking place in LA at the moment. He shrugged philosophically, who was he to question the motives of Steve's superior? Moving away from the window, he grinned as that was something he had done on a very regular basis over the years.
The casserole was finally cooked and he took it out of the oven, placing it on the side ready for the evening. Mark decided to pour himself a large mug of coffee and relax for a while. Moving through to the lounge he picked up the book he was currently reading and, sitting down on the sofa, opened it up and was soon lost in the Victorian London world of master detective, Sherlock Holmes. So deeply engrossed was he, that Mark didn't hear Steve's car pull up and the slow, heavy footsteps trudging up the wooden steps to the deck. It was only when a shadow crossed his book did Mark look up. Immediately, he knew that something amiss but, not knowing where Steve had really been over the past thirty six hours, he put it down to a problem at work.
Taking his glasses off and laying them on the coffee table in front of him, Mark said, "What's the matter, Son? Did you trip not go well?"
"I haven't been away, Dad." Steve answered.
Mark was confused, "But you said……………."
"I know what I said, Dad, "Steve snapped then, sighing, he continued, "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to know where I was because I knew you'd worry."
"Worry?" Mark's anxiety was growing by the second, "Steve, what is going on?"
Moving away from where his dad sat, Steve stood by the door that he had recently entered as he, too, looked out over his beloved ocean.
"I've been at Community General having some tests done," he admitted quietly.
Mark's reaction was exactly as he had known it would be, he leapt to his feet. "Tests! What tests? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't tell you because I knew that you would react in exactly this way and I didn't want to worry you needlessly," Steve responded.
"Who was conducting the tests?" Mark asked, knowing that he would be able to gauge the nature of the problem by hearing the name of the doctor.
"Jonathan Harper," Steve replied.
"Jonathan?" of all the names that had been hurtling around Mark's brain, this was one which would have been way down on the list, "Have you been having eye problems?"
"Just straight lines looking wavy and colours not looking right," Steve replied.
Mark Sloan was a highly intelligent, well read man who had the information about a great many medical conditions at his mental fingertips, but the relevance of these symptoms, for the moment eluded him.
"So what does Jonathan think it is?" he asked.
"Something called macular degeneration," replied Steve, turning to look at his father.
Mark was not totally familiar with the condition and, unfortunately, Steve was unable to fill him in as he had not totally taken in what Jonathan had been saying to him other than the fact that his sight was going to be permanently affected.
"What does Jonathan suggest now?" he wanted to know.
"I have got to make an appointment to see him in a couple of days, "Steve answered, "I think he wanted me to talk to you first. I need to be on my own for a while, Dad, I'm going downstairs. I will see you in the morning."
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Mark stayed up late that night, frantically perusing his medical text book and many, many Internet sites. At the end of his research he sat back in his chair and rubbed a hand across tired, scratchy eyes. He had come to the inescapable conclusion that Steve's life was going to change, irrevocably. Although, at the moment, the symptoms were relatively minor they would progress and worsen. Steve would eventually have a permanent blurry area in the centre of his eye, a situation that would inevitably affect both eyes. He would no longer be able to continue as a front line officer, in fact, Mark wasn't sure if he would be able to stay on the force at all. A flutter of panic began to make itself felt in the pit of Mark's stomach, a flutter he firmly quelled, he would be of no use to Steve if he fell to pieces. The father in him hoped that the information he had found was wrong, whilst the doctor in him knew that it wasn't.
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Steve found it impossible to sleep that night. Somehow, he did not want to shut his eyes. Logically, he knew that he would still be able to see in the morning but, when your life has just been turned upside down, logic often flew out of the window. He found himself wandering around his apartment, looking at and touching things, but also subconsciously moving the furniture around so that there was always a clear route to and from everywhere. He felt a little silly doing it, but he acknowledged that it was his way of dealing with the news he had been given. . Tapping the back of one his armchairs Steve stood for a second thinking about the time, a few years before, when he had been temporarily blinded by a gunshot wound to the head. He remembered how helpless he had felt then and it frightened him to think that the situation he now found himself in was permanent.
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There was a third person unable to sleep that night. Dr. Jesse Travis. He had been a little surprised that morning to be approached by Jonathan Harper for, as far as Jesse could remember, he hadn't referred anyone to Jonathan for quite a while. When he realised that it was Steve that Jonathan wanted to discuss, Jesse was shocked especially when it emerged which particular incident in Steve's long and diverse medical history he wanted to discuss. Jonathan had been very clear at the outset that the conversation they were having was highly confidential. Jesse had initially bridled at the implied criticism of his professional integrity but, as the conversation progressed, he understood why Jonathan had been so assertive.
As Jesse, too, paced the floor of his lounge he suddenly came to a halt next to the bookcase which he and Steve had built on the day of the accident. A surge of anger, mainly at himself, suddenly welled up in Jesse for coercing Steve into helping him. If he hadn't been so intent in getting the damn bookcase built, Steve would never have had the accident and his eyesight would not now be permanently compromised. Unable to stop himself, Jesse reached out and pulled as hard as he could on the bookcase and as it crashed heavily to the floor the ornaments sitting on top scattered in all directions.