Illustration by Jan A. Igoe
By the time we’re 80, half of us will have cataracts. That means your vision will get cloudy and driving at night will be frightening. Maybe not for you, but for the other drivers. It’s also nature’s merciful way of protecting the wrinkled from magnifying mirrors.
My eye doctor recently whispered those dreaded two words: “It’s time.” Time for a kid like me to schedule cataract surgery? Impossible. I’m not 80. I don’t even play bingo.
For me, denial started at the gym years ago. Standing in line behind a Greek god waiting to register, my eyes wandered across his massive shoulders and rippling biceps. (It’s OK to look.) Then I heard him give his birthdate, which was a few years after I graduated college. That’s when reality hit me like a brick: I was old enough to be a full-grown stud muffin’s mother.
Then there was the open house at my daughter’s school. Her teacher shared some photos of my adorable kid, but who was that frumpy woman with the enormous glasses and ghastly perm standing behind her? When I asked, the teacher’s brow furrowed as she replied, “That’s you.” (There was no screaming like last time, just a brief tantrum, new contacts and next-day overhaul at the salon.)
And now, cataracts. The idea of anyone coming near my eye with a sharp object has been a lifelong fear, dutifully instilled by my mother. She had a long list of ways one could “put your eye out” that went way beyond running with scissors. Ophthalmologists with scalpels were no exception.
I don’t remember much about the surgery. One minute I was begging the doctor to start the joy juice. The next, my friend Julie was driving me home. There must have been a conveyer belt running from the operating room to the parking lot that skipped recovery altogether. They were herding us out like groggy cattle.
But that afternoon, I landed in Oz. Like magic, colors became bright and clear with delicious purples and shimmering greens; luminous yellows and mellow blues. Munchkins were dancing and the wicked witch was dead. This must be how Dorothy felt.
The following morning, the eye doctor’s waiting room looked like it had been seized by pirates. Everyone had an eye patch and satchel of priceless booty—several bottles of exorbitantly expensive eyedrops. Some of my fellow buccaneers brought parrots.
Three weeks later it was time to fix the other eye. After the IV went in, my blood pressure dropped and I turned green, according to Mary, my designated accomplice. She took off down the hall, screaming for a crash cart. I didn’t want to fuss, but Mary reminded me we weren’t requesting extra butter at the Waffle House. “You’re paying a fortune for this,” she scoffed. “Don’t be a wuss.”
When it was over, Mary didn’t like the post-surgery express to the parking lot, either. “Oh no. She’s not getting in my car like that. Charge the paddles and wake her up.” Mary can be pretty intense, so the nurses brought refreshments. “Take a sip, sweetie,” one said as she put a straw in my mouth. It didn’t compute, so I blew as hard as I could and drenched us in ginger ale.
After a platter of fresh fruit and cheese, Mary agreed to take me home. “Can I trust you to rest?” she asked.
Maybe. Assuming the munchkins will keep it down.
Jan A. Igoe would have gotten cataracts sooner if she’d known how great the surgery is. No more trifocals, contacts, solutions or lost glasses. One other thing should be perfectly clear: She is not 80. Join the silly at HumorMe@SCLiving.coop.