My Baby Brother had eye surgery this week.  Years ago, he suffered some damage to his right eye when his mask fell off while he was arc-welding . . . and apparently the laser procedure that he underwent not long afterward didn’t quite do the trick.  In recent months he’s suffered a loss of peripheral vision and other symptoms, so a surgeon had to go back in to repair a couple of retinal rips.

He’s going to be fine, so long as he follows doctor’s orders and lies still for a few days.  But that’s going to be tough for him.  Of the three Denton boys, Baby Brother was the one who was most often running full-tilt and getting himself racked up as a result. 

Once he fell from a tree and broke his leg.  He was back in the same tree before his cast was off. 

Another time he went over the handlebars of his bike and hit the asphalt face-first, which resulted in temporary memory loss and a frantic trip to the Emergency Room.  (To this day, that’s still the most blood I’ve ever seen that wasn’t in a plastic bag.) 

Yet another time he tried to punch a piece of angle iron into place because he thought the weld was still soft.  But it wasn’t, and he broke his hand.

To be fair, not all the damage he suffered in his youth was entirely his fault.  Since he was the youngest of three, it’s possible — mind you, I’m admitting no guilt here — that his two older brothers may have been partially responsible.  On occasion.

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