This week I had cataract surgery on my left eye. It’s my second round; the right eye got done three years ago, and the original plan was that I would get the left one done a few weeks later. What took three years? I hate change. It’s the same reason I still drive a beat-up SAAB that sometimes gets standing water in the footwells and smells like it needs to get dunked in a vat of fluconazole, and why I truly believe that there has been no new music created since “Love Shack” in 1989. Plus I was consistently amused by the fact that I saw two different color spectra between both eyes, such that sometimes I would sit in the supermarket parking lot looking out from the car, winking one eye and then another like a railroad crossing just for the effect, until the puzzled stares of the Cart Cowboys interrupted my reverie. But when the cataract gets so bad that you miss the end of the suture, you can only blame it on the patient moving so many times.
I should mention
at this juncture that I’m gun shy about doctors, and ophthalmologists are no
exception. It’s because I know at least
one person of any given specialty found on the floor after a medical school
party. So when I think of
ophthalmologists, I think of them not as a fine clinicians, but as guys
hoisting themselves up on the rim of the toilet, a scalpel in one hand and a
bottle of vodka in the other. I was also
afraid that this particular ophthalmologist, who by all indications is an
excellent citizen, holds grudges. Apparently
last time I was sedated, I got kind of mouthy and suggested he had an unnatural
relationship with his mother. That’s
probably not a good look.
(My
reactions under sedation also bode poorly for me if I ever get any frontal lobe
dysfunction. I’ve always been of the
opinion that when you lose frontal lobe regulation of your behaviors…be it from
acute encephalopathy, stroke, or dementia…you become more of the person you really
are. So those people we think of as
“pleasantly demented” are truly nice people at heart. For me, well, it looks like I may as well be
a Haldol drip on the GeriPsych Unit. But
on a positive note, the ophthalmologist did note that at age 58, I was
considered part of his “pediatric population.”
So there’s that.)
I spent the
few days before surgery reminding myself, and especially the Beloved Dental
Empress, that whatever I saw or did, it might be the last time before I
died.
“Look at me,
I’m holding the puppy. This might be the last time I do this before I die.”
“You’ll be
fine.”
“Look, I’m doing the dishes totally
unpromoted. I want you to have a final memory
of me doing my share of the housework before I die.”
“You’ll be
fine.” She’s having none of this. Her gaze is fixed on the Facebook page for
Mommy Dentists in Business.
Maybe
something romantic would do the trick. “Okay, maybe I won’t die, but this might be
the last time I gaze upon your beauty with both eyes before they rip one out.”
“You’ll be
fine.” And then she said I was being
dramatic. Imagine that.
(Did I
mention that I saw one of our closest friends, who happens to be in the same ophthalmology
practice, the day before? Told him his
partner was going to rip out my eyeball the following day. “Well, good luck with that,” he said
cheerily. “You know once we take it out
we don’t put it back.”)
The last
thing I saw the night before surgery was half an episode of the Real Housewives
of Salt Lake City, so I really hoped I wouldn’t die, because a forest of duck
lips would be an awful thing to have burned into your retina for all eternity.
At 9:15 the
next morning, I marched into the Surgery Center. I was wearing scrub pants and a sweatshirt
that said “I Dream Of A Society Where Chickens Can Cross the Road Without
Having It’s Motives Questioned.” I
figured if I died, the guys who transport the body may as well get a laugh out
of it. That’s me, always thinking of
others.
The Surgery
Center itself was pretty slick. It was almost like Disney, where if the Carousel
of Progress stops, it starts up again at the very word they left off no matter
how long the outage. The nurses have
their routines memorized to the point where if you interrupt their patter, they
simply push their internal play button and resume talking. They put a “safety dot” over the eye that’s
going to be worked on, then get you to lay down the cot, start an IV, have
three rounds of eye drops, and cover you with a blanket up to the neck like
every sci-fi movie you’ve ever seen.
After a few
moments of either quiet mediation or abject terror…you make the call…another
nurse comes by and takes you to the Laser Room, and now you’re thinking the
Laser Room in Goldfinger, which is why this is when they give you the first zap
of Versed. Then the ophthalmogist comes
by and draws something with a pen on your eyeball (probably some version of an
arrow that says “cut here”), and now the Versed kicks in, and you seem to
recall a discussion about someone confessing to a murder under sedation. Then I’m looking at a ring of six lights, and
the Star Trek nerd in me wants to shout “THERE ARE FOUR LIGHTS!” I recall
seeing some pink stuff being moved around my eye against a yellow background, and
then I’m being helped off the stretcher and into a chair behind a small wall to
hide the post-op people from the pre-op crowd so the latter don’t run off
scared. Then I’m drinking a mini can of
Coke from a paper straw (Save the Planet!) and then I’m in my bed with no idea
how I got there.
***********
We know that
work tends to be a family, mostly because nobody else knows what you do and
you’ve got to talk to someone. So when I
got home, as a courtesy to my friends and colleagues I texted:
“nor dead
cant spell love Versed lors”
(The one
word I got right was Versed. That
suggests some kind of pathology, right?)
**********
The rest of
the day was admittedly a blur. What I do
know is that I tried to be a good patient.
I was docile and well-behaved. I
took my eye drops at the right times, took my Advil and Tylenol, and stayed in
bed. For her part, I recall the Empress
as a benevolent presence. This must have been difficult for her. Did I mention that she’s a dentist? And she and I have discussed the need for her
to attend Consolation 101. Until
recently her best gesture of sympathy was a gentle whack on the scalp and an
inquiry as the soothing nature of the blow.
It’s a work in progress.
Which led to this morning, post-op day #1. I was feeling well enough to get up and fix the morning brews.
“No, I’ll do
it,” she offered.
“It’s really
no problem.” I’m perpetually helpful
that way.
“I WANT TO
BE CARING.”
Part of me
wanted to ask what kind of Shih Tzu of Altruism had seized her brain and shook
until the compassion came loose. But
then I realized that my query would probably get me punched in the eyeball or,
as Ron Burgundy says, in the ovary, even though I haven’t got an ovary, because
dentists really don’t know who’s got what anywhere below the mandible.
So our
lesson today is that when someone wants to be caring, it’s probably best not to
question why. Especially when there’s
firearms in the house, and only she knows where they are. At least she thinks the new reading glasses
from the Dollar Store are cute. Small
victories when you can find them.