They say you don't know what you've got until it's gone, but you honestly don't know what you can't see until your eyes are opened.
One of the most depressing things about getting older is when the wheels start coming off. There is almost no end to the picturesque ways your body can go wrong, or the indignities it can be submitted to.
As Beloved Husband helpfully points out, I'm like an old shirt - buttons drop, seams split, holes appear and however carefully you mend it, another tear always appears. Thanks, Beloved.
Personally, I still think of myself as being at the buttons-falling-off stage. But the reason I've recently made less progress than I'd hoped on the blog is that I had a cataract operation a couple of weeks ago. It's one of the commonest problems of age, and one of the most easily treated. So if my new eyeball holds out, I thought I'd share the experience for anyone who's facing the same thing.
Having a cataract is a bit like looking at the world through a slightly grubby net curtain. Everything is a bit greyed out, bright lights flare and detail disappears. It's caused by the lens inside the eye becoming cloudy and ultimately it can send you blind. The operation involves replacing the cloudy lens with a nice clear artificial one.
Usually you get a matching pair but one of my eyes was far worse than the other. The cataract was first noticed during a routine eye test and confirmed by a specialist eye clinic 4-5 years ago. Being a coward, I didn't particularly relish having my eyeball cut open so I put off the next steps for as long as possible. But by last winter I didn't feel safe driving on unlit roads at night, and got a referral to the eye clinic at our nearest hospital.
Sod's Law gave me a pre-operative appointment on March 26th... three days after lockdown. In the bizarre circumstances, I was quite happy to be rebooked for September 30th, as with a bit of luck I'd die of Covid before going under the knife. But when they cancelled that appointment indefinitely, I was worried - I'm the main carer for someone who lives half an hour away by car. I felt safe driving in daylight but night time, even on a familar road, was increasingly risky.
The NHS, God bless it, came back to life just as I was beginning to panic. A nurse rang to say the eye clinic was reopening and that if I was fit and healthy they could put me on a fast track.
It was odd, frightening and strangely moving to arrive at the hospital on September 23rd, in pouring rain, for the pre-op. The clinic had its own entrance in a hidden corner of the car park, surrounded by generators and puddles. The door was locked, exaggerated care paid by staff in protective aprons and visors as I was sanitised, temperature checked and booked in. 'No entry' signs blocked off most of the sparsely populated waiting room. My husband had to wait in the car park. But there was also a ripple of excitement among the staff, at being open for non-urgent cases for the first time in six months.
I was passed from room to room, having different scans and tests, and finally to the surgeon and consultant who outlined the options for my annoyingly complicated eyes. I explained my terror of the operation. They said it was routine. I said it might be routine for them but that it definitely wasn't for me. They suggested operating both eyes, even though one is relatively okay, as the final result would be better. I said no thank you, one is plenty. I did however agree to surgery on October 12th.
Before that, there was a Covid test - done through the car window in another puddle-strewn car park - and five days' self-isolation. The test itself isn't exactly comfortable but it's not the end of the world. The isolation took us right back to lockdown - we cleared out the cupboards again and got the garden ready for winter. And so, feeling very nervous, I presented myself on another rainy morning, for the operation.
They pile you full of local anaesthetic but I'd asked for and been granted sedation, as I didn't think I could face being conscious for the operation. It was very weird. The anaesthetist said I wouldn't remember anything. In fact I experienced it all clearly, but in a strangely detached way. There were bright lights and strange noises, what felt like water running over my eye, and conversations between the surgeon and consultant. My guess is that they gave me something like a date rape drug, which made me biddable but aware. I didn't want to get up and run away.
I walked back to the waiting room under my own steam, a big pad stuck to my wounded eye, and waited for the Beloved, who'd spent another few hours in a rain swept car park. I slept most of that afternoon and rested quite a lot for the first few days. There are eye drops to be put in for a month. But it was obvious the following morning what a remarkable operation it is.
There's a sharpness and brightness to the world I'd completely forgotten existed. The colour spectrum has changed completely... what I'd seen as muddy brown turns out to glow crimson. Autumn colours constantly astonish me. Two weeks on, my distance vision is if anything slightly better than it was before, even with my old specs, and will be far better once I have a new pair. The horrible glare has gone.
Reading is more of a problem as one eye is looking through prescription lenses that are now way out. I even tried taking the lens out of an old pair of reading glasses but that sent me cross eyed. The optician says I must wait six weeks before having an eye test.
But I've managed to type this without feeling too dizzy and am about to go and enjoy some more of those autumn colours. So mission accomplished and let's hope this isn't a prelude to some other bit dropping off... or if it is, that I'll be brave enough to get something done about it.
留言