Crazy Eyes

How's your eyeballs?

"WHY THEY'RE SUPER-DUPER AWESOME!" I say with a high-beam-voltage, night-skiing kind of stupid-ass grin. Cause there's no point telling people what's really going on. I tried that ... a couple of times. Even with my cockamamie eyeballs I could see their expression gloss over like the meringue on a well-made lemon pie. They don't CARE – they're just asking to be polite. No, seriously, they are.

But then I had someone comment on this blog who was genuinely interested in how my cataract operation fared because she had her cataracts removed and wanted to compare notes. So I'm posting this public service announcement for her sake, and for yours too because, unless you die when you're 54, like me, you're eventually going to get old and get cataracts. Because life sucks that way, in case you hadn't noticed.

The scoop on cataract surgery is thus: if you have to have surgery, pick this one. It's bloodless, it's almost entirely pain-free and it makes an immediate and major improvement in your life. Like, if you have your gall bladder removed, it makes no tangible difference in your lifestyle. You aren't thinner when the anesthetic wears off. You don't hear better. Your boobs certainly aren't bigger. All that's different is you're missing some organ that you didn't use in the first place. It's like the appendix – I have no fecking idea what it does. It's just this lumpish liverish thing that has a free ride in your abdominal cavity, sucking on your blood like some weird internal vampire, until one day it decides it's going to piss you off and hurt like the raging buttocks of Hell. Then you get it chopped out and life continues with no difference except a big fecking scar and the end of the bikini as you knew it.

I had my appendix and gall bladder out at the same time. A two for one deal. The doc promised me I would have an itty-bitty scar. When he took off the band-aid aprés surgery I had a fecking scar from boobs to bellybutton.

Cataract surgery isn't like that. Not nowadays. When my parents had theirs done a few years ago the doctor cut into the whites of their eyes and left big nasty stitches. They don't do that now. With teeny tiny knives they cut into the pupil, I think, and then chop up your lens while it's still inside your eyeball. I know, it sounds gross, but you don't feel a thing. You're all hopped up on drugs and all you can see is pretty lights. It's so psychedelic, man. Like you've just done heroin. Or maybe you have done heroin – who knows what they're shooting into your IV when you're not looking?

Once the lens is chopped up like eyeball sushi they suction it out with a teeny tiny vacuum cleaner. I think my doctor used a Hoover Windtunnel. The reason they do it that way is so they don't have to make a big cut in your eyeball. I know, brilliant, right?

When the old one is out, the eye-doc inserts a new lens that is folded up like a teeny-tiny umbrella. (Everything's teeny-tiny in Eyeball Land.) He pops it open using the magic umbrella button and it sproings into place. He doesn't even have to stitch it. It just sticks there. I don't know how – pressure, I guess. Like shower curtain rods. Or maybe Krazy Glue.

And that's it. End of operation. He sticks a clear plastic pirate shield over your eye and sends you home with a month's supply of eye drops and a pleasant leftover drug buzz that makes you sleepy, happy and dopy.

I was worried about it, I was. Because I am a big poulet. But it was no big deal. I arrived at the hospital, filled out some forms and then the nurses came and inserted an IV and drenched my eyeball with a bathtub load of drops. Some of them froze my eyeball (the drops, not the nurses), some of 'em dilated my pupil, some of them were somebody's used bathwater. Then the eye-doc wrote some graffiti on my eye with a magic marker. He was quite precise about it – said he was measuring stuff. I thought, gee, all this high-tech teeny-tiny stuff and he's writing on my eyeball with a magic marker.

A different nurse gave me one of those gobsmack ugly blue hospital hats to wear and still another one put more freezing drops in my eyes. I was worried she didn't give me enough so I grabbed her arm and hissed, "I NEED MORE." So she gave me more. Because she was afraid.

Then they wheeled me into the operating room and the anesthesiologist asked me how high I'd like to be.

"Gimme everything you got," I said.

He gave me a nice dose of IV bubbly and I was feeling like that time when I had too much rye and was laying flat on my back in an open field watching the stars spin, but then they started duct taping my forehead to the bed and propping open my eyeball with some prop-open-THING and that's when I got scared and yelled, "IT'S NOT ENOUGH."

I remember the anesthesiologist and the rest of the surgical team discussing the matter ... "she had the proper dose".... "I don't know if she really needs more or if she's just a big poulet ..." Then that's all I remember, except for the pretty lights. I think they probably gave me more because, when I had a bath the next day there was this electrocardiac sticky-thing on my back next to my ass and I don't remember anybody being that close to my ass. Despite repeated showers and baths the black mark from that sticky-thing remained. I finally had to scrub my skin raw to remove it. Since I'm having the other eyeball done tomorrow morning I didn't want the nurses to see the dirt from the sticky thing still there... they would think I'm a dirty pig.

The lights... I can't tell you enough about the lights. You do not see any of the eye-doc's tools coming toward you. For some reason, you don't see a bloody thing. Just these lights. Have you seen any of the Austin Powers movies? You know how each break in the action is marked by psychedelic backgrounds for Austin's bimbo dance moves? That's what it looks like and it's grooooovy, baby.

For a few hours after the surgery I couldn't see anything at all out of the new eyeball. Gradually my eyesight returned and I was stunned, absolutely stunned, by the clarity of my vision. The colours were off – the first couple of post-op days everything was red, like looking through cranberry glass. The next couple of days things were yellow. Two weeks later and the colours are normal but incredibly VIVID.
When you have cataracts you don't realize how badly you see things. It's like looking through a steamy window and all the colours of everything are pastel versions of themselves. When the old lens is gone the world is a bright and beautiful place.

The morning after my surgery I went outside and started bawling like a baby when the sheer breathtaking beauty of my part of the world hit me upside the head with a resounding slap. Mist was rising off the river, coating nearby trees with a sparkling patina of ice. Everything was so clear, so crystal-fecking-clear that I was dazed. I thought, how can anyone who can see this BEAUTY not want to live in this gorgeous, gorgeous world?

But I digress.

I wanted to tell you how my vision is. Well, here's the scoop: I used to be nearsighted in both eyes. Now I'm not nearsighted in the left. I can see things in the distance with stunning clarity. Only I can't see anything close up. Like my computer screen? Can't fecking see it with the new lens. Will need pop bottle bottom reading glasses to be able to see anything close up. In the meantime I am using Dave's old reading glasses, which are not my prescription but they're better than nothing, right? As for my right eye, for now it's still clouded with a cataract and it's nearsighted but is good with close-up. Dave's glasses make my right eye downright crazy. Like Steve  Buscemi as Crazy-Eyes in Adam Sandler's Mr. Deeds movie.

So, to summarize, I've got nearsighted and farsighted, cataract and non-cataract, all going on at the same time. It's all going to be fine, though. Tomorrow I get the other cataract removed and then in six weeks, when everything's healed up, I'll go to the optometrist and get fitted for new glasses. In the meantime, I'll get some reading glasses from the drug store to get me through the next month or so at work.

Oh, and I've figured out why I had the stupid cataracts so early in my life. I've been taking Solumedrol, a type of steroid, every two months for several years to combat my Crohn's disease. Apparently steroids speed cataract growth. That's the thing about drugs – they help you but they never come without risk. My son asked me today about medication for acne. I told him to wash his face more often before thinking about medication because you never know how it might affect you in the future. Besides, he's only got a few zits. Nothing a bit of soap can't handle.

(C'mere, baby, I'll pop 'em for ya. Nothing Mama likes better than popping a few juicy zits.)

***

Just a quick shout-out to some folks who have been having a rough go of it lately. To Mark and his family, and to Tammy and Richard and theirs, I send all my love, hugs and wishes. You are in my thoughts, my dearest, dearest friends.

Debi Davis – Letter from a Friend

I have rowdy cousins. And there are, like, a zilllion of them. Breeders, we are. Rabbits. There are so many of us that we would have to rent a hockey arena for a family reunion.

The  title of rowdiest and rabbitiest cousins must go to the five Gough sisters. They are brilliant and gorgeous and outspoken, and yappy as summer days are long. They are like a flock of exotic, garrulous birds and I have admired and envied them my entire life. I'm sure they must be as dysfunctional as the rest of us, but what they do have is a sorority sisterhood of genuine and unbridled affection that makes mere mortals feel lucky to be in their presence. Like beautiful, confident women everywhere, they glow.

Debi is the oldest of the Gough sisters and she lives just up the road from me. She is whip-smart with a cracking-sharp sense of humour, a fervoured commitment to her family and her community (she was named 'Woman of the Year' a while back) and, I dunno, a deep-seated connection to her roots. I look at Debi and I see our beautiful mothers, Dorothy and my Auntie Ellen; I see our grandmother Hazel, and I even see Great Grandma Pratt. Our faces are cast from the same mold. I see her, and I see me. I see the women who came before us, and I see the faces of our children.

Honestly, though, it's a damned wonder we can see anything. Apparently we're all as blind as fecking bats.

Hello Cuz

We are all enjoying your letters from friends. Here's my addition to the project.

The cataract problems we have must be from our forefathers; you, Karen, Mom, Dot, Uncle Chaz and me; that's proof that either the Hooper or Pratt lineage is tainted. (Editor's Note: I always suspected it.)

I remember the first time my optometrist said, "You have cataracts growing in both eyes, and we'll have to watch them." 

I said, "Are you kidding me? I'm only 42!" 

"This is not uncommon" he said gently, "you probably won't need to worry until you're 60 or so." That sounded better and I forgot about it, really.

Then came the bungee cord incident.

You may or may not know, Cath, that we sisters, our daughters and our friends have been attending curling bonspiels for almost 30 years. We go to Minden and Acton (known locally as the armpit of the world), usually in March, and we take two or three teams. (It's a girl fest, really.)

Anyway, 5 or 6 years ago, we were going to Acton (because it's "worth the drive to Acton"). I had been asked to take a friend of a friend (never met the girl before and I have trouble remembering her name) and drop her off at the airport in Toronto along the way. No problem said I, we love to have company.

So I picked her up – let's call her Cindy – and we headed south. First stop was Barrie to pick up sister Jackie, then we would pick up friend Jane at the kiss and ride parking lot at Hwy 9 before we dropped Cindy at Pearson then on to Acton. (Whew, that's the set-up.)

So Cindy and I landed at Jackie's house in my beautiful white pickup truck. Cindy sat in the truck while Jackie and I started to load her things into the back. I had a huge Rubbermaid box in the back to keep things from flying out. It had two bungee cords holding it closed. You guessed it – when I attempted to remove the cords, one of them flew out of control and whacked me with the metal curved thingy across the nose, narrowly missing my eyes!

I was bleeding like a stuck pig, Cindy was totally unaware and Jackie was in the house getting more stuff to load. I held my hands to my face and ran into the house and held my face over the kitchen sink as the blood poured out. "What the F---?" said Jack. Then she handed me a towel full of ice and I clamped it over the wound.

So we loaded into the truck in front of an astonished Cindy and Jackie headed for the nearby Urgent Care Clinic. My right eye seemed fine but we had no idea if I had hit my left eye, we were afraid to look.

As we backed out of the driveway I had a glimpse of the street ahead. Jackie was watching over her shoulder. Good thing, because 4 or 5 doors down I saw a cat get hit by a car! 

"Don't look Jack, just drive." I said to Jackie the cat lover. 

"What the F----?" and the tears rain down her cheeks but on she drove. Cindy remained silent and aghast. Meanwhile Jane was waiting for us at Hwy 9 and the 400.

When we got to the Urgent Care Centre, I was triaged and asked to wait. Jackie called Jane who said "I'm on my way." The blood flow seemed to be stopped and the ice appeared to be slowing the swelling.

The handsome young doctor took one look at me and said, "You're lucky you did not lose an eye." Well no sh-- Sherlock. He did not even need to stitch the gash on the bridge of my nose. He gave me a band aid and a speech about the dangers of bungee cords and I headed for the lobby full of Jackie, the newly arrived Jane and poor unknown Cindy. Undaunted and not willing give up anymore time we headed to Pearson, Jane driving because we went back to Jackie's and switched my truck for Jane's Yukon.

I spent the weekend as the official drink handler and took many jibes about my raccoon eyes and "you're lucky you didn't lose an eye." We did not tell any husbands till we went home Sunday afternoon. As usual a good time was had by all.

That's a long way around to the cataract story but, you see, my left cataract became a rapidly growing one and had to be replaced last spring. Funny, when the optometrist and the ophthalmologist asked me if I had ever been hit in that eye, I totally forgot the bungee cord incident, until about 2 days after the surgery.

There is no moral to my story, just a recommendation: let the men use bungee cords.

Yours truly,

Cuzin Debi,

Hooterville ON

P.S. – love to that hunka hunka burnin' luv. 

Sharp objects

John Wiswell wanted me to pose with the sharpest object in my house. Well, Wiswell (get it? Well, Wiswell? heh) the sharpest objects are outside my house. Remember that kid in The Christmas Story that got a BB in his eye and blamed it on an icicle? I was reminded of that kid today. I was thinking that maybe posing with an icicle pointed at the eye that had surgery two days ago is not the smartest idea I ever had. There was no one around to take these photos so I improvised. This photo? It was meant to be a full frame of my face and the icicle. You can see how that worked.

So I thought, maybe I'll take a picture of my reflection with the icicle. In the first pose I just stood there. It wasn't too exciting so this time I lifted my leg in the air and leaned to the left. I think this pose is so much more dramatic, although in hindsight I realize it looks like I'm peeing on the kitchen table.

At first I thought I looked like Paul McCartney in this photo. That was a couple of hours ago. Now I think I look like death warmed over, or perhaps a wax statue of Paul McCartney, you know, if he gained weight and grew boobs. Look at my lips. Look harder, they're there. They totally blend in with my face. It's like I don't even have lips. If it wasn't for yellow teeth, you wouldn't even be able to tell I had a mouth. Until I opened it, that is. 

Again with the drama. I studied theatre arts for three years in high school. It was one of my best subjects. I know, you're not surprised. (Drama Queen. You're thinking it. Don't deny it.) At least I have lips in this photo. Actually, I don't. I took a picture of my cat's arse and photoshopped it on my chin.

I dunno. I have no idea. All I can say is "theatre arts." Oh, and constipation.

All this is in aid of the Liebster Blog Award, which John Wiswell honoured me with this morning. I think the rules are something like, take a photo of yourself with the sharpest object in the house and name five other bloggers who you think aren't the sharpest knives in the drawer. Or maybe they ARE the sharpest knives. Sharp. Dull, wtf, I don't know. I forget and I'm way too lazy to go back to John's and find out.

In the spirit of passing on the Liebster love, I'm honouring these lucky folks:

Lisa at Diary of a Square Toothed Girl because she is funny and she doesn't dye her hair, which makes her my hero. And apparently she has square teeth, but you couldn't prove it by me - mostly she has her lips closed in her photos. At least she has lips. Doesn't have to photoshop pictures of her cat's butt. If she even has a cat. That has a butt. Which is a stretch.

John at Going Gently because he, too, is funny and he has crazy pictures of his googly-eyed chickens on his masthead and he just gave whole new meaning to the slogan "put pork on your fork," stirring up quite a controversy. Somebody even sent him graven voodoo messages involving scary stuff - I forget what it was, but it was scary. Also he posts photos of very good looking men sometimes. Y'know, when he's not showcasing hens.

Cro at Magnon's Meanderings because he's friends with John and they're both over across the pond somewhere and they both have an inordinate amount of dogs and they're funny and I think if I don't include both then one will get jealous. You know how men are. Sheesh. Cro has scintillating games like "guess what breed of dog" he has and "what came first, the lizard or the frozen egg." Also, he bakes. Ladies - I know! He's a catch! Alas, he is married to Lady Magnon but we can continue to worship him from afar.

Tulpen at Bad Words because no one else swears as much as her and is so funny in the process. And also heartwarming, but you don't want to hear all that mushy junk. You just want a laugh, right? Do I know you or what? No? Oh go feck yourself then. Way you go. Piss off.

And finally, I can't go without mentioning Daisy the Curly Cat because she's a cat and she has more followers than most of the human bloggers I know. She's a fashion model, she's a comedienne and, I dunno, she likes pink. So we have a lot in common, as you can see. Plus, before I had my surgery? She sent me a message and said her "purrs were with me." Purrs.. get it?

OH, and my surgery was tremendous. It was a MIRACLE! I can see, blessed mother of pearl, I CAN SEE! Thanks for all your brilliant wishes and purrs. I was all verklempt when I read them.