Diplopia

It’s called diplopia. The simultaneous perception of two images of a single object. There is only one watch, of course, but slightly to the left of where your wrist should be you seem to perceive another, slightly faded wristwatch. It’s called diplopia, and it’s usually the symptom of something else.
My wife would say that I am lazy. She is now telling me that I should see a doctor. Afterall, it’s been more than three weeks. The blurry, faded wife on the left mimics her every movement. My wife’s mouth goes up and down, and her ghostly twin copies her. It’s called diplopia, and I never wondered why was it that the faded image would keep moving it’s mouth for a little while after my wife would stop talking.
It was another week before I started noticing the second voice.
My wife would say something about omelets or SUV’s or light mayonnaise and another voice would join her, kind of in a duet. A unison. Both my wives, the real and the ghostly image, talking to me. The same voice, the same image. Duplicaded. It’s called diplopia. The simultaneous perception of two images of a single object.
And still that faded, blurry wife to the left would keep moving her mouth a little while after they both stoped talking, but no sound would come of it.
The doctor’s faded image told me it was probably from my migraines. Or diabetes. In any case, he had me take a bunch of tests. He told me the results would be ready in a week, and offered me two sets of hands for me to shake. My hand and it’s ghost sister shook them and I returned his smile. All that time with him, and I never heard that second voice this time.
It became very hard to read. Or watch TV. Anything involving the use of sight, really. Mostly, I’d spend my time listening to music. And there, in the middle of the third movement of Beethoven’s fifth, or maybe during the second solo in Comfortably Numb, I would hear them calling me. John, said both my wives, original and phantom. Come to the kitchen.
Please.That last part was only my original wife.
I rush to the kitchen, dodging both real and imaginary furniture, to find my wife holding a knife.
Oh, please don’t make me that clichê.
“Is something wrong, honey?” I would ask, slowly moving towards her.
“No, babe, why?” Said both their voices, and still I could see her faded-ghostly-reflection-totally-not-real self moving her lips to some sort of silent message I could not identify. Kind of like someone muted the TV.
“Well, you called me.” Maybe I ask, moving a little closer still.
“I did? Oh, I guess I forgot. Dinner will be ready soon. I will die.”
That was just the image. That mouthing, that lip-sync. I will die.
My wives turned their back and started chopping onion by the kitchen sink. I didn’t move.
My cellphone beeped. A new message.
My wives ghostly image, standing there, right beside the real deal. Or at least I think. They both look real, and they both look faded now. One of them drops the knife. The other one picks it up. Diplopia. It happens when both eyes are still functional but they cannot converge to target the desired object.
My wife turns to me. The one without the knife. Her eyes are red and teary. Those damn onions.
Help me.
She said that just as the other one turns around, a big smile on her face. Hope you are hungry. She says. They both look at me. They smile and they cry and they have a knife. They said they would die and they asked for help. And I love my wife.
I kiss her, the one without the knife. Because this isn’t real. This is a result of impaired function of the extraocular muscles. And that is all.
“How do you know you chose right?” We are still hugging. I’m not sure which one said that.
Help me.
I will die.
Help me.
How do you know I’m her?
I’m her.
Help me, please.
We will die.
What’s this in your hand?
Help me.
We will die. Come with us.
Honey, please, drop this.
You fucked up.
Don’t let me die.
I’m better than her.
Honey, please!
You will die.
How do you know I’m her?
Honey, don’t...
Somewhere, David Gilmour is playing his final chords in a guitar. The sound of Beethoven’s strings maybe waltz in the room, very low, echoing from my room.
My wife’s reflection is on the floor. My real wife is nowhere in sight.
Or is it the other way around?
That sound again. New message. I carefully step over her head and arms and start walking towards the music. These footprint stains will be hard to get off the carpet. Emily will probably complain when she sees it. She always makes such a big deal of everything.
Three new messages.
John, it’s doctor Harper. Call me as soon as you get this.
It’s really hard to read with these eyes.
“Hi, this is John Pitt calling for Dr. Harper. He said he needed to talk to me.”
I hate being put on hold. I wonder Who sent those other two messages. Where’s Emily?
“John? Hi, this is Dr. Harper. I’m afraid i have some bad news. I want to run some tests again just to make sure, but, unfortunatly, it appears as if you have a brain tumor located in your amygdala. It’s probably the cause of your double vision. Are you experiencing any other strange symptons lately? Hallucinations, Seizures, abnormal pulse and breathing rates, changes in sensory perceptions or changes in your personality?”
It’s called diplopia. The simultaneous perception of two images of a single object. It is usually the result of impaired function of the extraocular muscles.