Cataract Surgery... or Seeing Eye Dog

In my role of trailblazer among those of my friends who anticipate cataract surgery at some point in their future, I want to provide an update to them.

My reports the day of and the day after the first surgery were: "The roto-rootering on my left eye (aka cataract surgery) was done this morning. I surprised myself by not consciously freaking out ahead of time; I even slept last night. (We'll disregard fragmented dreams about some woman sticking a contact in my eye (female surgeon, implanted lens).)  Turned out surgery was a non-event.  Although not completely "out", all I remember is colorful, swirly lights. This evening is actually more unpleasant with blurry vision and scratchiness that makes me crave rubbing my eye. (Both known possibilities according to the aftercare sheet.)"  "My left eye was blurry and scratchy last night, so I didn't fight it. I went to bed at 7:30. And woke up around 5:30 to a crisper-than-normal view of the dragonfly mosaic next to the bed. I got home a little while ago from my follow-up appointment, where I was told everything is cool. Because the surgery turned out to be no big thing, I'm eager to "see" the results after they do my right eye next week and both eyes are unclouded. Especially considering my right eye is the bad one!"

Now an update almost three weeks post-op on the left eye and two weeks post-op on the right eye.  Btw, I'm going to attempt this without my typical smartassness, but...  In all seriousness, the last couple weeks have been so miserable, if I can leave anyone else better prepared in terms of questions to ask, good.

Right off the top I'll repeat what I said about the actual surgery: no big thing. I don't think I can count high enough to have been able to keep track of how many numbing and dilating drops they put in my eyes pre-op, and once I was in the operating room under the anesthesiologist's care? Definitely no pain. As I told some people, it will never go on my list of favorite things to do; it's more under the classification of things like mammograms: uncomfortable and a time suck. (Sorry, Guys, not a good frame of reference for you.) Btw, I was disappointed in the second surgery. No swirly, colored lights, and afterward I did remember the doctor instructing me to look different directions. They had told me that might happen. I guess you get the fun ride the first time to entice you back again. (I rambled to them about my third eye not needing done, but that was actually before they gave me any happy juice.)

But (there always has to be that but): the aftermath. We hear about the people who have cataract surgery and then don't have to wear glasses again. Lucky them! But that's just one variation. For others of us there are questions we wish we'd known to ask beforehand and the things we wish we'd known to be prepared for afterward.

I was really only asked one question of import going into this procedure, and with what I've learned since, now wonder why not a couple others.  We'll start with the one I was asked because it's useful to have on your radar. They knew going in that I would still need glasses afterward, and asked if I would like the lenses they inserted to correct my near vision or far vision or if I wanted to try mono vision. I think I'll be okay with the quick decision I made, but it would've been nice had I had time to consider it. Now you'll have had time if hit with this question.

My understanding of cataract surgery had been there's a choice between just cleaning out a cataract or cleaning it out plus inserting a lens. Just cleaning wasn't presented as an option to me. I didn't question that; assumed there was a reason cleaning plus insertion was preferable in my case. Back in the day, I wore hard contacts for a few years. They made my eyes horrendously tired. Vanity's a bitch I shortly ditched for the return to the comfort of glasses. It didn't even cross my mind that having a lens implanted might give the same feeling of a foreign object. Yet all these years later, now by midafternoon I have an almost overwhelming subconscious urge to pull the corners of my eyes taut and blink these freakin' things out. Hopefully I will become accustomed. But in the last couple miserable weeks, I've wished I had at least questioned whether options were available.

And while this has no long-term impact I'm aware of, it's definitely a short-term Pain. In. The. Ass. Eye drops. Someone asked me after the fact if the doctor had me on the no-drop plan. I said, "Huh?" I have drops. (Expensive drops.) Two kinds. Each eye. 28 days (and remember one eye started a week before the other). One kind twice a day for the first week. Like I said: P.I.T.A. I asked the nurse about "no-drop" at a follow-up appointment. She knew of the plan, but didn't know the criteria for being a candidate. Do yourself a favor -- if not mentioned, ask about this beforehand.

Now we come to the BAD part. (The previous was just prologue.) We've already discussed the folks who leave surgery with perfect vision, and everything is sunshine, rainbows, and their farts smell like lilacs. Then there are the old folks whose vision isn't entirely corrected, but they're retired so they can plop their asses on the end of the couch and not move again until their eyes are healed. And then there are the folks whose vision isn't entirely corrected, and who have to continue to function in a work environment (me). (Here I'm inclined to babble if I'm not extremely careful.)

I DID try to get info about what to expect in the aftermath. I was told that most people need the day of surgery and perhaps the day after to recover and then are good to go. Leaving me with the impression that my near vision would be corrected and the fog lifted, but I should be ambulating pretty well. I told them I thought I'd take a week's vacation in between in case my vision felt unbalanced before the second eye was done. At that, no advice to the contrary. But after the second eye was done I find that although I have good near vision, for distance I'm left wearing glasses that are SO wrong it's nearly double vision. And the advice given me at my follow-up appointment the next day when I reminded that I'm a working legal secretary was, well you can try a pair of drugstore readers -- but they'll probably be too strong, or just drag your computer closer. No advice on those things requiring distance vision. And I understand: eyes continue to change until they're completely healed. Writing a new Rx before that time would be like aiming at a moving target. (My appointment for Rx isn't until October 8.) But my scheduling of surgeries and/or vacation would definitely have been different had I been forewarned about possibilities such as this.

This, all happening to a woman who has said more than once through the years, "Let me put on my glasses so I can hear you." I'm tired.

Feel free to use me as a bad example.

Silver-Tongued Devil, Sr.

I went by a nursing home today to clear out some papers for a friend whose mother had been moved; he lives in Florida and couldn't get up here to do it. As I was leaving with a cart of boxes I came across an elderly gentleman, smiled and said, "Hey, how are you this afternoon." He replied that he was as well as could be expected. I gave an encouraging smile and said, "Hanging in there, huh?" He didn't seem too enthused about the fact.

He then challenged me, "How old do you think I am?" Heck. I'm horrible at guessing ages. So I said, "I don't know. How old do you think I am?" He gave me a closer look and said, "Oh, in your 40's." I blessed him right then and there and told him I'm 56. He said I'm his daughter's age. He then took off on the subject of his daughter. Said she really needed to lose weight. I thought, "Shades of Daddy ... I do not need a STRANGER after me on that." I, said, "Hey, hey, baggy sweatshirt," and drew it closer around me. He looked at me more closely again, up and down, then said, "No, I didn't mean you. You're okay. You're like one of my wives was. I was married three times." I laughed and asked him then how old he was. 92, to be 93 in September. He got out his driver's license to prove it. (I would've been way wrong if I'd guessed. Would've guessed late 70's, early 80's.)

Roy was hard to get away from. He wanted to keep talking. I eventually picked up a box and tried to ease my way out the door, but he wasn't having any of that. I finally caught a passing aide's eye and mouthed, "Help." She lingered, trying to divert his attention, but it took a while longer. He finally said, "Well, I have to go. She'll [meaning me] talk all afternoon if I let her."

I have the feeling I, a stranger, may've been the bright spot in his day. Nursing homes are sad places.

Just Call Me ...

A conversation with a friend yesterday is responsible for this post. We were discussing my oh-so-common name, "Patricia Crafford". I explained to him that it has only been for sheer pleasure that I've spent years going through the little spiel, "Yes, it's pronounced as if it was spelled 'C-R-A-W-F-O-R-D', but it's spelled 'C-R-A-F-F-O-R-D'; no no, it's correct the way it is, two 'F's, no 'W' ". Seriously ... I used to long to marry someone named Smith or Jones.

But in recent years I came up with a new plan. I am not the only one with name problems. We should all be entitled to solve birth defects by completely renaming ourselves. Legally; free of charge; just fill out and file some papers and be good to go.

I then took the plan a step further. Life spans are damned long now; both of my grandmothers lived into their 90's. So, how about every 25 years? At age 25 you get a shot at curing whatever ills your parents bestowed upon you (intentionally or unintentionally). At age 50, when chances are great you'll be a completely different person, you get to pick another name if you wish. At age 75, my gosh are you entitled! And so on.

I feel fairly certain I would've gone through a hippy stage and been "Breeze".

Fear-Inducing Words: Walmart on Christmas Eve

I could whine and make excuses ... busy at work ... been so tired ... yadda yadda yadda. Whatever. The end result was that because of poor planning and/or procrastination on my part, I wound up at Walmart after the office closed at noon today. No choice; must-have items for tomorrow. But I decided, hey, there's nowhere I have to be; I'd just relax, take my time, and roll with it.

There were three good omens to start the expedition. First, although a little icy, it wasn't the skating rink outside the forecasters had salivated about. (I think they actually wanted bad weather.)

Second, when I pulled into Walmart's parking lot, the first person I saw was a stocking-capped guy pushing matching, small-sized, periwinkle blue (my favorite color) bicycles, one with each hand. That put a huge grin on my face; he saw my delighted look and tipped his head to me. I'm sure there are a couple kids somewhere who will be just as happy if there isn't snow tomorrow.

And third, as I walked into the store behind a line of people, each taking a cart, I got the last one. I couldn't look behind me because I'm sure there were people following me into the store, and I would've felt guilty that I snagged the last cart -- and would've had the impulse to offer it to one of them. (Oddly enough, at the age of 56 I still sometimes feel like I'm faking being grown-up, and that really an adult should have the shopping cart -- not me.)

Omigosh it was crowded in the store. Like it used to be all the evenings and weekends in December leading up to Christmas. They had all the registers open -- they'd even dragged out a worker with his hair dyed in a pink fringe around the edges; you know that had to hurt. The entire huge, open space in front of the registers had lines of people with carts snaking through it. What a lovely display of conspicuous consumption! (You have to understand -- I live in Elkhart, Indiana: unemployment capital of the country. Times are hard.)

And the people watching was, of course, spectacular. From the overheard snippet of, "If you don't behave, you've going to have Christmas privileges taken away"; to coming upon a young lady who had found the best spot in the store -- tucked away in the book section, sitting on the floor reading; to being in the check-out line between two different groups of Spanish-speaking people feeling like I was in a foreign country.

As I left, for the first time in I don't know how long, I neglected to put my cart in one of the corrals. I was a little scared to take the time because the lot was so full of cars lying in wait for my space, and the nearest corral was quite distant. So I abandoned the cart to its fate. I'm feeling a little guilty about that. Hopefully Santa missed the incident and it won't topple me onto the naughty list.

Christmas Light Reflections

While in my 20's, I had enough energy I could work full time and also be such a marvelous housekeeper you could have safely eaten off any surface in my apartment. Now in my 50's, I've long ago accepted the fact that I'm not Superwoman, cannot do both jobs, and am reasonably satisfied if it's safe to SIT on some surfaces in my house without cringing.

The thorough cleaning of the house before having my annual Christmas party disrupts my slightly grimy routine, however. It makes me remember how lovely a sparkling clean house is (particularly when Christmas lights are reflected in every shining surface). It makes me dream that it will stay this way.

It also leaves me with the list of things I didn't get to before the party -- taking each string of crystals off the chandelier and washing them instead of swiping them with a Clorox wipe; vaccuuming the one lamp shade I missed; Windexing the glass door on the entertainment center I forgot; etc. It leaves me wondering why I go slightly nuts. Why near deadline I was standing on a step stool cleaning tchotchkes on a high ledge in the bedroom instead of something more visible like bathtub ring. (And even then -- was anyone going to bathe during my Christmas party? Was anyone going to pull out a pair of white gloves and the step stool?!) I'm possessed when I go into deep-cleaning mode.

But anyway ... soon enough it will revert to life as usual. The cat hair and grime will waft down gently on all surfaces again, and about the only time I'll make my bed is when I change the sheets. And that won't happen often enough.

Giving Thanks

Early morning: On Thanksgiving I'm giving thanks for friends, near and far.

Later morning: I've already indicated thankfulness for friends, now I'll specifically include friends of the feline persuasion: Tucker, the one no visitor ever sees, and Henry, the one who observes visitors from afar. When there are no guests, there is no aloofness. They present me with unconditional love; moving from room to room with me, my own adoring groupies. I'm thankful for those sweet, furry faces.

Early afternoon: Another subset of friends to be thankful for. Friendly neighbors.

I'll start with former neighbors. After 5 years, I still mourn losing Denise and Richard as across-the-street neighbors when I moved. (I tried to talk them into moving, too.) Not just because Richard plowed my drive as routinely as he did theirs -- believe me, not insignificant to me since it was long and drifted and I never once in 13 winters had to wonder what I was going to do about it. Not just because I knew they kept an eye out for me since they knew I lived alone -- not in a nosy way, but in an if-we-hear-a-scream-from-over-there-we'll-come-running-with-the-shotgun way. (Although if I ever want to leave that too-much-pizza rep behind, I WILL have to pay them off. Associated story involving a house painter painting over my house numbers, them worrying I'd starve because pizza delivery wouldn't be able to find me, blah blah blah. So not funny. :D) Good people.

Which leads to current neighbors, LeeAnn and Mike across the street. (NOT the idiot parkers.) LeeAnn knew I've had this bad cold and wasn't planning on doing anything today. I looked out the window a little earlier to see her dashing across the street with an aluminum foil-covered plate. It was heaped with turkey, mashed pototoes, and all the different things they had for Thanksgiving dinner. (She tried to take my order so she could bring a piece of pie, too!) Bless her heart.

And Chris next door. He spent the good part of an hour up and down a ladder trying to get the motion lights in my yard adjusted last fall. And purely because of his care, the strip of my yard between our houses deserves the term "lawn" -- the only part of the yard that does. He's made sure I have his cell number in case I need anything. (I lived across the hall from his aunt in my first apartment. Elkhart's not huge, but weird coincidence!) Nice guy.

So, I'm also thankful for good neighbors. They're a wonderful thing to have.

Curvy and Rude

Daddy's demand of, "Be a lady", was so drummed into me during my formative years that I'm usually annoyingly polite. (Before everyone starts clamoring -- friends don't count. :D) But tonight I managed egregious rudeness.

It took around a year of internal debate before I finally joined Curves because their hours suck so bad. They apparently are after the women-who-don't-work-outside-the-home market, because they close at 7:00 on weekdays, at noon on Saturdays, and aren't open on Sundays. But I finally joined because I like (and I use that word loosely) their set-up best of any exercise program I've seen.

Now that I have become a member, I have discovered one more drawback: what I have termed "second string" employees work on Tuesday and Thursday evenings -- which is unfortunately when I often go. The first potential employee of the month is "Carpet Sweeper Joy". Each time she has worked while I have been there, she spends the time pushing a carpet sweeper around the equipment you're working out on. Self-professed goal? To not have to run the vacuum at the end of the evening. The second charmer is "Stand-Up Fantasia". She takes it upon herself to stand, no dance, inside the circuit and entertain whatever women are unlucky enough to have come in. It is one thing to chat with the women who want companionship, but noooo, she wants to entertain the whole group.

I have always hated exercise in the past, I hate exercise now, I will always hate exercise. It is not a social thing; I am doing it purely out of necessity. I do not feel cheery when I am there; I want to spit when I am there; I count down the minutes when I am there. I resent the fact that whatever benefit I gain from it is momentary; I will not be able to stop when I achieve my goal or phffftttt, that benefit will be gone.

The above things clashed tonight. Turns out that not only does Fantasia think she's entertaining, but she's stupid. Not getting a clue about how annoying I find her from my body language and the fact that I was doing anything possible facing outside the circuit, about a quarter of the way through my workout she came bouncing up to me and tried to start chatting. I snarled, "Do I LOOK like I want to talk?" She quietly said, "No", and went back to the desk. She initially addressed me by name, so hopefully she'll remember who I am and that I prefer silence.

Okay, now granted, I was rude. But I do have a point to make. They demand good money for my membership and that I wear a different pair of shoes on their equipment than I do on the street. But they allow someone to push a carpet sweeper around continuously at least two hours before they close. They allow someone to annoy members. I want to be demanding, too; I want value for my money.

I suppose it'll probably be best if I never need 911 assistance while I'm in there.