Weird, today is. My last morning going to work for almost a month.
It's my eyes, you see. Can't see a bloody thing. Well, I can see you but I can't see the expression on your face. I can't see road signs anymore – they're just a dangerous blur. And I definitely can't see what's on my computer screen, no matter how big I blow it up.
Cataracts. In both eyes. I'm 51, for crissakes. Who gets cataracts when they're 51? Actually my uncle was still in his '40s when he had his done, so it runs in my family and it's not unheard of. Still, my husband's aunt, who is in her '80s, just had hers done.
I figured something was amiss last spring but I didn't suspect cataracts. I just thought my glasses were FUBAR and my prescription had changed. You could have blown me over with a feather when the optometrist said, "You have cataracts in both eyes and they're the fast-growing kind. I want to keep close tabs on them. Come back and see me in six months."
"I'm old," I whined. "It's official."
It was apparent to the optometrist that my cataracts had gotten substantially worse when I went back for the six month check-up. There was none of the debate I expected: "Well, they're bad but you can probably wait for a couple of years." Nope. She said, "Let's get you in to see a surgeon as soon as possible."
That was in September. Now, Canada has an excellent health plan but non-emergency surgery does take time to arrange. First the doc has to find room on his schedule for a consult. Then there are tests and more tests, blah-dee-blah. Finally I got a date for surgery – Feb. 7.
Meanwhile, my eyes are rapidly getting worse. It's a good thing I'm a touch-typist because otherwise I wouldn't know what I was writing. (And thank gawd for spell check and blowing up your screen 200%.) Part of my job is adjusting photographs at work. Usually I'm pretty good at it – my colleagues often give me the worst photos that need the most touch-ups. Funny thing is, I can't see what I'm doing at all. Only a bazillion years of experience tells me I'm in the ballpark.
We got a 50" plasma TV before Christmas (I know, crazy eh?) and I keep asking Dave, "Is it clear?" Because it looks terrible to me. He assures me it's fantastic.
I rely on other people to drive me everywhere.
I can't read labels at the supermarket.
Finally I decided, enough is fecking enough. So I arranged to be off on short-term disability until after my surgery.
I feel kind of icky about it. Guilty. But also vaguely exhilarated. I mean, come on, the last time I had a month off was when I had my babies. This time there's no labour pains and diapers to change.
Anyway, I should go. My ride will show up any minute to drive Miss Daisy to work. She's no Morgan Freeman but I surely do appreciate her kindness.
