Nine years ago my ophthalmologist told me I had the start of cataracts. He said I needn’t have them removed until they were “ripe.” I hate that word. It conjures up thoughts of Limburger cheese. Wait ‘til her eyes are soft, and smelly before slicing.
Trembling, I asked, “How will I know when it’s time?”
“Immediately after you run over your first pedestrian,” he answered.
Time was on my side. The most I’d done up to that point was terrify a ground hog and put several squirrels on alert.
As the years passed my world appeared to be smeared with Vaseline. I cleaned my glasses every ten minutes, to no avail. Alas, the “grease” was on my eyes.
I no longer trusted myself to drive after sundown; actually, I might have chanced it but my husband, Mighty Marc, kept hiding my keys. Glaring headlights blinded me. I couldn’t read street signs or even overhead highway signs until it was too late and I missed my turn-off.
I was at a family gathering when I realized everyone’s face was a blur. I knew then that it was a matter of time before my driving would contribute to the nations death toll.
Reluctantly, I scheduled an appointment to have my cataracts removed.
At the hospital cataract patients were lined up on gurneys, waiting to be wheeled into the operating room. It was close to my turn when I realized I couldn’t chance going into surgery without peeing one more time. Off I went, hospital gown strategically in place. I was gone five minutes, and when I returned the woman who had been behind me in line, was gone. Within ten minutes she returned and I was wheeled in.
I thought the handsome young anesthesiologist was hitting on me when he asked if I enjoyed wine.
“No,” I answered, hoping that wouldn’t discourage him.
Then he asked, “Do you like beer?”
I said no again.
“What do you drink for fun?” he asked.
“When I was young I sometimes enjoyed a drink called Grasshopper,” Suddenly I realized how that drink dated me.
“Okay. I’m going to give you something that will make you feel like you just drank a Grasshopper.”
He was right. Within seconds I felt so good I couldn’t decide whether to find someone to make out with or start dancing the Mashed Potato.
It was over in ten minutes, and I never felt a thing. We left the hospital and headed for a restaurant. I hadn’t eaten all day and was ravenous. Next we did some therapeutic shopping.
All the while I sported a round piece of hard, clear plastic over the treated eye, to protect it. It was taped to my cheek, forehead and nose. I looked like an injured fly. Anyone who knows me will attest to how incredibly vain I am. I won’t take out garbage without first applying eye liner. But, because we were in Manhattan where such oddities are viewed as common, I wasn’t the slightest bit self conscious.
Before this surgery I had no idea that trees had individual leaves. To me they were huge green lollipops. My world is now crisp, bright and clear and because I requested a prescription lens that also corrects my astigmatism, I can see long distances and only need reading glasses.
It would be irresponsible of me not to mention the down side of this procedure; common side effects that doctors don’t warn you about; side effects you won’t find mentioned in medical journals or on the Internet.
Yes, the surgery was a piece of cake. And, yes, there is no doubt my eyesight has improved tremendously, but I wasn’t out of surgery 15 minutes when I looked in the mirror and saw horrible changes that had occurred to my face. Liver spots had popped up all over and they were also on the tops of my hands. I developed deep wrinkles around my eyes, on my forehead, across my upper lip, and on my chest, and don’t ask what happened to my neck. Even now, months later, thinking about my neck makes me cry.
And now I have huge bags under my eyes; bags which might better be described as steamer trunks. Howdy Doody crevices have developed on both sides of my mouth.
My wonderful husband, Mighty Marc, has done his best to convince me that all of those conditions existed before the surgery, but I’m not buying it. I know my face, and those god-awful deformities were not there before.
As if all that isn’t bad enough, the surgery affected the way my husband looks, too. He used to be much better looking.
I would never have had my cataracts removed if I had known about the devastating side-effects. I would have much preferred to continue seeing my reflection through cloudy eyes that had me believing I was young and lovely looking.
So, before you consider having your cataracts removed, weigh the pros and the cons. Decide whether you want to continue looking good but not see well, or have excellent vision but look like hell.
It’s your call.
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