My old friend Chuck LeMasters, who sees things others don’t see and intuits even more, emailed me prior to my cataract surgery last Thursday. “You will see like an eagle,” he promised. “The world is gonna sparkle like a good acid trip. I think you’re gonna like it.”
This was good news coming from the Temple of Jonesville. I haven’t had many acid trips in the last forty years, let alone good ones. When you’re going in for ocular poking you’ll be happy to get out of there in one piece, never mind floating through the universe on a puffy cloud while Donovan sings The Intergalactic Laxitive. I can’t see like an eagle yet, but I do have a special bulletin for Chuck. Whatever happens in the long run may be charming but it won’t hold a candle to Dilation Blue.
With rare exceptions, we can never return to our childhood years, regain that same capacity for wonder, make a hundred new discoveries every day. Of course Christmas is not the same, the holiday is the exclusive property of young children who believe in a Santa Claus. It’s no longer possible to be captivated by a new box of shiny crayons. How do you replicate a first visit to Disneyland, the ocean or Fenway Park? What can equal the pangs of childhood love, that rhapsodic/terrifying first kiss? Not much. That’s why we liked acid. But every so often, believe it or not, we can return to those thrilling days of yesteryear. Sometimes it just takes a little surgery.
The day after your cataract is removed, you may step outside wearing dark glasses. Not that it is recommended, but if a person were to peek outside those glasses on a perfect Spring morning he might be jolted back to childhood. It’s the sky, you see. It’s wearing a different color. No, not its usual Florida Azure, not even the special concoction they brew up in Montana or Idaho, but a brand new invention, an Electric Blue pigment that pops and sizzles as if someone has left the charger on, a slightly lighter blue, almost neon in its brilliance. It’s alive, this Dilation Blue, rushing up to its visiting clouds to give them an occasional poke in the ribs before laughing off into the distance. It may not be there long but it has visited for three days at this writing and hasn’t lost a bit of its vibrancy, not a whit of charisma.
I realize the days with my new friend are numbered. The eye is slowly but irresistably returning to its former state, more confident and precise, capable of greater discernment, able to leap tall buildings with a single bound. Soon the Dilation Sky will ebb from view, still alive in all its buoyancy but hidden from the sight of normal beings. And I will miss it like the child inside me misses the wonder of 1940s radio, my first pungent baseball glove, Kathleen Carroll’s welcoming smile. But it isn’t done forever, this affair between my special sky and me. The romance will settle, we’ll go our separate ways for a time, think wistfully about one another now and then. Perhaps there will even be a phone call or two. And then, as if no time had passed at all, we’ll be joined together again by the inevitable winds of Fate. “I’ll be your surgical nurse, Mr. Killeen. We’re glad to have you back for your second surgery. And I’ve just got to say, it’s nice to have a patient who is smiling on his way to the operating room.”
D-Day
The Surgery Center of Mid-Florida sits confidently in the middle of a respectable office park just behind the AMF Galaxy West Lanes, one of two bowling alleys located within the environs of metropolitan Ocala. As we drive by, it occurs to me that after 30 long years of residence here I have never stepped inside the place despite once being an avid kegler. As an 18-year-old rookie, I learned the bowling trade at the Student Union lanes of Oklahoma State University under the clever tutelage of one Joe Alexander, self-proclaimed “World’s Greatest Bowler” and a member of the OSU team. In a matter of three months, I raised my average to 180 and once enjoyed a frame finished off with six consecutive strikes. That was the turning point of my mini-career.
“Anybody who can string together six strikes can have a 200 average,” said Joe. “But you can’t keep rolling a straight ball. Lefties have a natural hook (Joe was left-handed, same as me) and you have to release the ball differently, flicking your wrist like so.” I tried it and dumped the ball into the gutter. Alexander said it was only a matter of practice. He was wrong. Two months later, my average had collapsed to 150. I went back to my old style to no avail, finished in the game after less than a year. In 1969, Laurence J. Peter formulated a management concept called The Peter Principle which stated that candidates for business positions were generally judged on their performance in current roles rather than on abilities relevant to their intended positions and would often be elevated to jobs at which they were incompetent. The same phenomenon apparently applies to bowling.
The Surgery Center had a sizeable waiting room, easily accomodating the two-dozen or so people inside. Since several doctors shared the facility, I assumed a few of them were clients of my surgeon, Dr. Seaborn Hunt, and the rest would be tended to by someone else. I was wrong. Everybody in the room was a Hunt surgery-to-be, about a dozen prospects when you consider each had to be accompanied by a driver. We sat around for about a half hour, waiting, which gave Siobhan an opportunity to observe, as is her mien, that the windows needed cleaning. On that note, I was brought to an examination room and asked what I was there for, a question which arose at each station even after the first nurse marked a large dot over my right eye with a black crayon. The only way they’re screwing up at this place is if the client makes a large contribution to the effort. Eventually, I was placed on a table, my eye dilated and shirt opened in order that a few electrodes could be attached to my chest, EKG-style. Next, a small oxygen apparatus was inserted into my nose, which seemed like a bit of overkill until they slapped a mask over my face, covering everything but the eye to be invaded. After that, an IV was inserted into the back of my right hand, the better to administer the anesthesia. Finally, my head was immobilized, clamped down with something called “silk tape.” Silk tape. Who knew? On the other side of the room, behind a large plastic curtain, another candidate was being asked the same questions I had answered earlier. Assembly-line medicine, but when the surgery takes less than fifteen minutes, why not? Eventually, Dr. Hunt, mask and all, dropped by to check my eyes, identifying himself to relieve any fears I might have that The Eye-Butcher of Ocala had knocked him out, replaced him and was now in the process of stealing my eyes. Dr. Hunt said I needed more dilation.
Finally, it was my turn. The cheery nurse again asked me the same questions that I had already answered 700 times, but hey, there’s nothing like being thorough in eye surgery, right? I remained awake throughout the event but felt nothing. Once, Dr. Hunt told me to look directly at the yellow lights that were front and center in my right eye; then, abruptly, it was over. No pain, no discomfort, no nothing. Rolling back to the recovery unit, I asked the nurse how it went. Good, she replied. I wondered if she ever told anyone it was an unmitigated disaster. I figured probably not. That’s why they pay the doctors the big bucks.
Day II
First thing the next morning, we were off to see the wizard to measure the previous day’s work. Dr. Hunt looked in his magic eyeball calculator and reported the lens had seated well, remained centrally located and there was no evidence of infection, the Big Three of next day cataract surgery considerations. Then he reiterated a few facts of post-surgery life and reinforced some instructions.
When you are researching cataract surgeries, many optimistic internet medical sources will advise you that some people achieve perfect vision the very next day. Forget it. “Some people” is not you. Siobhan’s scientific survey of waiting-room stiffs puts full recovery at one week if you’re lucky. Hunt’s staff admits 7 days is the average wait before driving privileges are reinstated. Not that a resourceful old geezer couldn’t close one eye and toddle down the road in his Hot Rod Lincoln just fine. He just won’t have his little permission slip from Dr. Seaborn Hunt, that’s all.
You are not allowed to do anything which could make your new lens melt, freeze or do the bossa nova. Anything which will increase your blood pressure is verboten, so put away those pornographic photos of D. Trump and the Russian hookers. No bending over. When you go outdoors, use sunglasses in the daytime and regular eyeglasses at night. Do not, for God’s sake, get any soap in your eyes. Do not rub your eyes or Dr. Hunt will come over to your house with a big stick and whap you upside the head. And above all, be sure to wear your snazzy new plastic eye shield while you sleep so the evil night critters can’t get anywhere near your surgery.
The two biggest problems in your new life are (1) your surgical eye is sore, watery and would prefer to remain closed, and (2) you can’t read books, newspapers or magazines. One might assume that reading would be possible with the non-surgical eye but one would not be entirely correct. That eye will get tired in short order. Internet reading is easier but not great. The biggest concern is keeping the surgical eye calmed down so it is not constantly sore and runny. Television is okay, but how much television can you take? Before long, you become so bored you’re looking forward to accompanying your mate to the yarn store or the rural emporium where they sell goat supplies. I know, it’s scary.
Photo enhancements by Mary Zappala, Queen of the Darkroom
Five Days Post-Surgery
Each day, there is an increment of improvement. Vision in the surgical eye is now fair-to-good but letters on street signs are still impossible to discern. It could be that the average cataract-only patient will progress at a faster rate than one who also has astigmatism repair, as I did, but I think a high percentage of people in need of cataract surgery will have astigmatism issues as well.
Like my hero, Oat Willy, I am plowing Onward, Through The Fog. Saturday, two days after the knife, Siobhan and I made our annual visit to the local Spring Arts Festival, even though it took longer this year. Rather than just blast past the aesthetic have-nots, I had to remove my glasses at each tent, dip inside and survey the damage, which was often catastrophic. We also made our weekly Publix shopping trip without tragedy. A fellow-shopper caught me kneeling down at the evaporated milk rack (kneel, don’t bend) and he wanted to summon store help until I convinced him I was only blessing the Entenmann’s pastries before they actually entered anyone’s gullet.
This coming Friday, I return to Dr. Hunt’s province to (hopefully) have driving privileges restored. I have also been deprived of one back-replenishing massage and am relegated to mixing feed rather than mingling with the horses, problems which need to be corrected as soon as possible. I also need to get back to the gym—I can feel my bones moldering daily from a disastrous lack of weight training. Assuming my vision is 100%, Dr. Hunt will probably ask if I am ready to have the other eye corrected. I think I might wait a while, get back on schedule for a few weeks. But I shouldn’t wait too long. In the waiting-room before my surgery, there was a mid-seventyish fellow named Charlie who had let his cataracts ride the range a little too long. One of them broke up into tiny pieces on removal and some of that debris is still in his eye after two follow-up surgeries. A friend of mine, Torrey Johnson, temporarily lost his vision completely in one eye due to a particularly ornery cataract. Still, a few short weeks shouldn’t hurt.
With the return of perfect vision, I expect the mind to perform the way it usually does in the face of sudden physical advancement. The mind grows confident, ready to pursue added activities, new challenges it once considered beyond the pale. I feel it is important to embrace this gentle shove in the direction of self-improvement, to recognize the benefits of expanded horizons. Therefore, it is with great pleasure and unrestrained confidence that today I am proud to announce to the sporting public the long-delayed resumption of my promising bowling career.
Wait a minute---is that a 7-10 split?
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
