You’re making breakfast when Pamela Anderson poofs into your periphery.
Is this hallucination related to teenage fantasies, circa “Baywatch”? Is it a side-effect of surgery for diabetic retinopathy? Or is it both?
You have to love the British press. With the possible exception of Japan, their obsession with the weird is peerless. Consider a headline in the Mirror this week: “I Couldn’t Stop Seeing Women with Large Breasts After Laser Eye Surgery.”
The man was identified as Mark Bryan, who is somehow both 45 and a retired teacher. I’m shaking my head right now. After recently crunching CIBC numbers, I have come to the grim conclusion I can’t retire until age 137.
Isn’t Scott Galloway in town this weekend for the Pivot podcast tour? He needs to come over and sort my finances before I have MC Hammer hallucinations.
Mr. Bryan had a medical procedure this summer to remove scar tissue from his right eye. Then came the busty apparitions: “But just six days after the op in August, he got a surprise while frying sausages when he caught sight of a pair of breasts in the corner of his right eye. Mark kept seeing the same image — which he nicknamed ‘Taloula’ — for 10 days straight and said it was like having ‘Pamela Anderson pinned to my face.’”
I’m pretty sure this possible side-effect isn’t listed in the brochure at the Bochner Eye Institute: “There is a chance you will see Sofia Vergara handwashing a Volkswagen Beetle in her bikini.”
I first learned about strange medical syndromes in neuropsychology class. Phantom limb syndrome. Burning mouth syndrome. Exploding head syndrome. Musical ear syndrome. Foreign accent syndrome. Alien hand syndrome.
I do not recall a lecture about Pam Anderson syndrome.
It seems the loss of vision in Bryan’s eye prompted his brain to fill in the blanks. Those blanks were boobs. He was reportedly hallucinating while watching TV, brushing his teeth and when his good eye was shut.
Taloula even appeared when the poor bloke was at Burger King.
Imagine going out for a Whopper and getting an areola.
As Bryan told the paper: “Although it was hilarious it scared the crap out of me as well. It kept popping up and wouldn’t go away. It was like 10 days of someone jump scaring me.”
Better to be jump-scared by Sydney Sweeney than Silver Banshee.
Bryan was eventually diagnosed with Charles Bonnet syndrome. Hallucinations from this neurological phenomenon are usually flashes of light or geometric patterns. But our brains are mysterious grey blobs.
Some patients have reported fantastical hallucinations over the years: moving walls, glowing faces, prancing unicorns, floating chairs, translucent butterflies, Mark Carney balancing the budget.
Or as Halle Berry, my AI assistant, sums up Charles Bonnet syndrome: “It’s like your brain is dreaming while you’re awake, but only through vision.”
Meaning, Bryan’s hallucinations were a silent movie. Ms. Anderson was not making come-hither purrs or propositioning him as he prepared Sunday roast.
The surgery involved putting an air pocket in his eye to promote healing of the macula. But this bubble “wobbled about,” which in turn made the breast illusions “very animated” — an optical snafu that increasingly dismayed his wife.
The only thing that helped him over 10 terrifyingly buxom days was to concentrate intensely or swear loudly: “Emily Ratajkowski, I told you to (bleep) off! I’m trying to (bleep) eat my (bleep) bangers and mash and you are (bleep) up my (bleep) tea!”
His ordeal finally vanished from view: “As the bubble in his eye gradually reduced, the size of the breasts decreased.” Soon: “Taloula looked more like a topless man.”
Hopefully, it wasn’t Doug Ford riding a unicycle.
I wish Mark Bryan a speedy recovery and lifetime of good sight that only involves seeing his wife’s chest. But this story worries me. I am concerned teen boys with 20/20 vision will now rush out to get laser eye surgery.
Yes, Taloula “scared the crap” out of Bryan. But he also joked with his wife about running away with Taloula. That’s not a surgical complication — it’s a fantasy!
It is irresponsible for the media to report on awesome side-effects. I want to know if that invasive procedure may compromise my internal organs — not if I may later see Tyra Banks doing cartwheels in the kitchen as I juice grapefruits.
Otherwise, go ahead and amputate my leg.
What’s next? Will the Mirror run a story about how a woman had her gallbladder removed and then kept hearing Chris Hemsworth singing “The Lady in Red” as he sprinkled rose petals while drawing her a bubble bath?
The health-care system across the free world is already overburdened.
We don’t need patients waiting for Pamela Anderson to sprint across the beach.
