Operation Four Eyes
This is the eye-popping tale of two sets of 80-plus-year-old eyes...mine and those of my husband, Bob. We found, as we got older, our eyes aged right with us; in March, Bob and I took a vote and decided we both needed a little repair work. After all, everyone knows the ayes are above the nose. So we took ourselves over to the doctor’s to see about our collective eye problems. Bob had cataracts on both eyes, and my eyelids were so droopy that I had been using extra thick mascara so my stiff lashes could hold up the extra folds of skin I had developed over 81 years of blinking.
“No problem,” the doctor told Bob. “You’ll still have to wear glasses because of your astigmatism, but we can just clip out the cloudy lens of your eyeball and put in a clear one, and you’ll be good to go that same day.” That meant no vision correction Lasik for Bob, but he’s been wearing glasses since he was seven, so he didn’t mind.
I went to a different doctor for my eyelid tuck. “Your eyelids do hang down over your eyes. Your insurance will take care of the upper lids. But you really should have the lower lids done too, so your eyes will close properly. I’m afraid that will cost you extra.”
Not wanting to sleep with my eyes half-open, I opted for surgery on both upper and lower lids. I didn’t need that trip to Disneyland anyway.
After Bob’s procedure, our kitchen table was set up like a pharmacy, with three different kinds of drops he had to use four times a day for three weeks. They even gave us a chart so we could keep track of everything. Bob slept until early afternoon and then woke up bright and cheery.
He turned on the TV and said, “How long have we had closed captioning?” I told him that our grandson had put it on several months ago.
“Oh yeah. Now I can read it.” And this man had been driving, trying to read traffic signs!
A return visit to the doctor the next day pronounced his eye “amazing,” and seeing at 20/30. We celebrated with a juicy hamburger and fries.
Next, it was my turn. We reported in at a surgical center, where they made sure I was ready to pay the price my insurance wouldn’t cover. After I ransomed myself, they sat me down in a chair, while two nurses and an assisting doctor awaited the arrival of the surgeon, who arrived about fifteen minutes late.
As they were wheeling my chair and my warm blanket-covered body into surgery, the doctor mentioned, “Oh, by the way . . . after the surgery, your eyes will be swollen and covered with goggles. You will not be able to see, except when you eat and go to the bathroom.”
“Just a darn minute . . . Is there anything else you’re not telling me?” I stammered.
“Yes, we’ll be inserting contact lenses in your eyes to protect them from the lasers we use.” At this point, I was ready, but not able, to jump out of the chair and run away, but the anesthesiologist chose that moment to put me under, and before I could protest, it was all over, and Bob was pushing me out to the car in a wheelchair. I could see diddly squat and was not able to give Bob my usual backseat driving advice. Oh, wait, he was the one with 20/30 vision now!
When we got home, I was allowed to take my goggles off for a few minutes at a time, but other than that, I got to sit in the recliner for two days and listen to stuff. You think TV is silly to watch . . . try just listening. When I finally got around to squinting at my reflection in a mirror, it scared me. I looked like a demented raccoon with tissues hanging out of its nose. (When your eyes run, your nose follows suit.)
Bob had his other cataract done the next week, and when I drove him to the doctor, the nurse came running over to me asking, “What happened to you? You look Frankenstein-ish.” Way to make an old lady feel good!
It has been a month now, and my doctor says I’m doing fine, although my eyes are still swollen, and the stitches have not completely dissolved from my upper lids. I look like I have two sets of eyelashes on each eye. Bob, on the other hand, is strolling around the gym in all his 83-year-old glory and doesn’t even have to wear glasses, except to read. Life is just not fair!
By Jean A. Moore