Eye, Carumba!

"You'll be the first among your friends to have cataracts," my ophthalmologist told me several years ago.

Diane: OMG, looks like a tea strainer!

Of all the firsts I had envisioned in my life, this was not the one I'd aspired to.

During each subsequent annual appointment, I was tested to see if my cataracts were ripe for harvesting. Last month, I was told surgery was in my very near future.

And so it was that Tuesday morning I was lying in a hospital bed hooked up to an IV, blood pressure monitor and heart monitor, waiting my turn in the conga line for cataract surgery. Lots of drops were placed in my eye, a strap attached to something that looked like a ping-pong ball was placed over my eye and the nurse and doctor both put magic marker dots on my forehead to make sure they operated on the correct peeper.

As I lay there, mildly terrified and thinking worst case scenario (placating myself by musing Peter Falk and Sammy Davis, Jr. each did okay with one eye), I listened to conversations taking place in the beds to the left and right of me. After 45 minutes of waiting, I felt I knew my fellow soon-to-be-cataract-less travelers.

At one point, I panicked a little because it occurred to me that, in spite of a visit from the anesthesiologist, I didn't feel doped up. The nurse assured me I was fine.

Then it was my turn to be wheeled into the operating room.

Prior to this, I'd asked around for reassurance. Almost all of the stories had positive outcomes. My brother-in-law said he watched YouTube videos to understand what the surgery entailed, but when I pulled up the first one and there was a picture of a long needle and an eyeball, I decided ignorance was bliss after all.

As it turned out, this was the right way to go.

The surgery lasted about 10 minutes. I was afraid I'd be able to see the doctor working on my eye, but all I saw was a bunch of flashing colored lights. Then he said I was done, and off I went to the recovery room, where they put me in a chair and offered me graham crackers and a beverage.

Mr. Ginley joined me there. He'd already spoken to the doctor, who said it went very well with minimal anesthesia. So I was able to go home in short order.

The following day, I went to the doctor's office so they could make sure everything was healing okay. I got the all-clear indication, and my sight was good in that eye. Then we went over to the optician, who popped the right lens out of my glasses.

Whoa.

There was two of everything.

"It will take your brain awhile to adjust," I was told. And so it was.

The next day, there was only one and one half of everything, and by Friday, we were back to one.

Because I wasn't confident of taking to the road, Mr. Ginley drove me to work and picked me up both Thursday and Friday. (Have I mentioned how wonderful he's been through all of this?)

Today, I hit the road with Mr. Ginley in the navigator's seat, just to make sure I was ready for prime time. I did fine.

Assuming my next follow-up goes well, I'll be back in the operating room for eye #2 the week after next.

The eye patch will be with me for awhile, I guess. (I have to wear it at night and when I shower.) And Mr. Ginley will continue to feed the cat and clean out the cat litter. (I'm supposed to minimize bending over and carrying anything over 15 pounds. Maggie is very confused about the change in routine.)

I will be very glad when I have two good eyes, working together again. And the doctor assures me that cataracts are a one-time thing, so I won't have to deal with this in my dotage.

Also, I'll be able to see to drive at night again.

All good stuff.  Please remind me of this when the bills start to come in!