I had cataract surgery this week. I guess when you get to be ___ years old it is the thing to do. My husband had it 5 years ago in the middle of the pandemic. I wasn’t far behind him. Now that we’re retired, we go to the dentist and optometrist together, we might as well, there’s not a lot to do and our schedules are flexible. But five years ago, when he was told he needed cataract surgery, the optometrist looked at me and said, “yours are slow growing.” I dodged that bullet. Until this last fall. We had appointments for our annual exam, and I knew I needed a new prescription. I wasn’t seeing as well as I had. No, I needed surgery.

I’ve seen people with cloudy eyes and knew they had cataracts. Both of my old dogs got them. They are a thing of life that you don’t avoid if you grow to an old age. But I was terrified. Knives and eyes don’t go together. The idea of surgery on my eyes did not set well. I talked to lots of people who said, “it’s simple and you’ll be very happy with the results.” I didn’t know. But it turned out they were right. I was in and out of the operating room in record time, it was easy, painless, and even the IV went in easily.

I’ve been wearing a cover over my eye at night and putting drops in endlessly! But in a few weeks, we will do the other eye. And I won’t be as terrified this time.

I’ve had surgeries before; some with anesthesia that lasted a long time. I survived. And this time, it was easier than I expected. Now I want to finish the job and get on with my life.

Old age and physical problems. They are endless. But I’m alive to gripe about them. Not everyone was given that privilege. Next time I see you, the vision won’t be so fuzzy—I hope.

What are you reading, writing, creating, or recovering from this week?