If you know my story at all, you have probably heard that I have cataracts. They are a result of the high doses of steroids I had to take to treat and recover from meningitis when I was six. They were diagnosed ten years later by my ophthalmologist, who was a family friend. He actually didn’t tell me. I had to hear it from my godmother. Again, if you know me, you know how angry I was even then. But that’s a different story.
Most people who have cataracts have surgery fairly quickly to replace the affected lenses. My dad had surgery years ago, even though he was diagnosed a lot more recently, but I have been stubborn. Shocker, right?
It all comes down to not wanting to lose my accommodation, which is the natural autofocus that comes with younger, more flexible lenses. There was also that thing about not wanting a scalpel near my eyes.
I had a plan. I was going to wait until science caught up. I even found an article about contact lenses that could be controlled by your eyes. I knew it was a long shot, but I really hoped advancements like that would become available before I had to jump into something I didn’t want.
That was five years ago.
Cataracts usually grow glacially slowly. But eventually, lane markers started disappearing when I drove at night. And this was the second year in a row I had to rely on memory and fake community responses at the only religious services I attend. The print in the prayer books was too small for me to read without extra light, and I am too proud to whip out the flashlight on my cell phone around a bunch of strangers.
Forget driving—messing with my ability to read is THE LINE. Recently, I had allowed myself to start using ebooks, something I refused to do before now, so I could maintain the illusion for myself that I could hang on a little bit longer. As my grandfather used to say, denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.
So, I’m caving. In my usual fashion, I let the admission that I needed surgery sit in my head for a couple of months until one day I suddenly picked up the phone and made an appointment with the eye surgeon.
(I already had one identified, the only one recommended by my ophthalmologist, who I trust implicitly, and I had seen her once in 2006 and once in 2014 while dipping my toes into the surgery water, so I was already comfortable. Of course, she is out of network, so I may take you along for the billing and reimbursement adventure in a few months.)
That was the day after Christmas. Again, I had to let the idea sit in my head for a month until I made myself pick up the phone and schedule the surgery. Well, surgeries. The usual approach if you know you need both eyes done, is to have the second eye done two weeks after the first, so now I have six appointments over the course of a month: surgery, immediate post-op, midway check, second surgery, second immediate post-op, and final check. Seven if you count the pre-op clearance from my GP. The earliest I could get was March 27, and I am not sure whether the six weeks are good so I can get used to the idea, or bad because I will inevitably psych myself out. I’m an expert at that, and my friends are already on notice.
Either way, here we go.
* The Gambler by Kenny Rogers, 1978