Eye Can See Clearly Now

I've always had an aversion to making medical appointments, going to medical appointments, and dealing with insurance companies. I particularly dislike going to my eye doctor. Why you ask? Well, I'll tell ya. I've been wearing glasses since the fifth grade. My first pair was the deluxe dork-o, hard plastic, safe for children model that looked good on no one. Dad used black electrical tape when they'd snap in half at the nose after about six months. A few years later I graduated to 'Cat's Eye' glasses. They looked so attractive on a middle school girl–Not.

First of all, I HATE sitting in that chair while the doctor spins his little wheel and says, "Which one is better? This one or that one? The second one or the third one?" As I've gotten older I've found that I can't answer such important questions that fast. I have to think and compare. I just know I'll give the wrong answer and end up looking and acting like Mrs. Magoo with pop bottle lenses. It's almost as much torture picking out frames. I'm just not a particularly decisive person. If I pick out the wrong ones, I'll be stuck looking like a dork. (I heard that.) As I see it, there's just no way to win.

And speaking of turning into a dork-o (Same to you.), after putting it off for weeks and weeks (okay, months) I finally had to admit that I wasn't too fond of walking around in a fog so I sucked it up and did what any responsible adult would do–I put it off for a few more weeks.

I finally made the appointment, gave the receptionist enough personal information to allow her to sell my kidneys, and waited and waited and waited. Finally, one of the optometrist's nurses(?), techs (?), whatever their title is, called my name. For my convenience, I'll call them nurses. She led me to a hallway that served as a pre-exam 'room', took my blood pressure (I never asked what that has to do with my eyes), then had me look into several very hightech machines that looked quite expensive. That was the easy part as all I had to do is try not to blink which is nearly impossible when you're told not to.

From there I was placed in a room where another nurse asked a bunch of questions, typed my answers into a computer, and left me alone to stew. Before cell phones, this was absolute torture. One can read the eye chart or yearold magazines only so many times and now they don't even have those. Nowadays, it is projected onto a mirror from behind your head (the eye chart, not the magazines). Having the patients read from a magazine would be far more interesting.

The doctor finally made his entrance, read everything the nurse input into the computer, and stated, "Well, Mrs. Harris, it looks like we (What's this WE he speaks of?) have some cataracts that need to be taken care of. Do you want me to set up an appointment?"

Oh, goody, another appointment. I knew from experience during David's cataract surgery appointments that I'd need to bring the ol' checkbook. By the time I got out of the appointment with my ophthalmologist, I knew that the new kitchen I'd been planning would have to be pared down from a complete makeover to a splash of paint and that wasn't the end. Next, I showed up for my appointment at the surgery center where they took what was left of my checking account and set me up a time to have my cataracts taken care of.

You'd think with all the money I shelled out I'd be given VIP treatment, a private room, some blingedout eye covers to sleep in, and fancy sunglasses to wear when it was done, wouldn't you? Well, none of that happened. What I did get was a cubicle with a cloth curtain, a flimsy cloth gown that barely covered my tushy, a really nice 'chill out' pill, and a trip to the OR where they slit my right eye open, took out the cataract, and inserted a nice new lens. As a reward for being a good girl, I got a generic cola and a couple of offbrand graham crackers. The next day I got to do it all over again for my left eye.

If you've ever seen a magnified picture of a common, everyday housefly then you can imagine what I looked like as I crawled into bed that second night. I also wear a mouth guard because I grind my teeth at night. Poor David. That's what his nightmares are made of.

The surgeon assured me the fog-like vision should lift in a few days. Now if he could do something about my brain fog...Ha! Ha!