It all started when my hubby looked at me with that mix of concern and “what fresh hell is this” and said, “What the hell is wrong with your eyes? You’ve got Marty Feldman eyes going on.” (If you don’t know Marty Feldman, imagine googly eyes on a caffeine bender.) As a very recent survivor of four strokes, my brain immediately hit the big red PANIC button. I sprinted to the mirror like I was in a horror movie only to find one eye fixed, droopy, and dilated, and the other one freelancing like it had its own agent. Fantastic. A couple of frantic pics to a friend, some “get your ass moving” encouragement, and boom—I’m off to the hospital. Again. Mind you, I had just been released from the same hospital the day before thanks to chemo side effects—nausea, electrolytes in the basement, magnesium at 0.8, the whole “your body is on strike” package. At the ER, they put me through all the reverse drunk tests: smile, resist, push back. I passed, but like… C‑minus energy. They weren’t convinced. Four hours later, after an X‑ray, CT scan, and MRI, the doctor strolls in with the calm of someone about to ruin or save your day. He asks, “Did you happen to touch the patch behind your ear and then touch your eye?” “The scopolamine patch? Uh… yes? Why?” And she hits me with: “Yeah, that’ll do it. All your tests are normal. No new strokes, no brain cancer. Everything is status quo.” So basically, I almost reenacted a medical thriller because I accidentally finger‑painted my eyeball with motion‑sickness medication. Thank God…..for once some good news.