Syllabus #173

I can see clearly now, my lens is gone.

Yes, that's right.  I, an adult human woman, 37 years of age, had cataract surgery on Friday.  

I've always been advanced.  A vanguard.  Ahead of my time.  A hipster, if I may (I may not, it's fine).  So when all y'all fellow elder millennials start getting cloudy-ass lenses, I can say I replaced mine before it was cool.  Just the one, though. 

And let me tell you, it is wild.  I still can't see great because I'm so nearsighted in my non-cataract-having eye that in order to not eff up my depth perception, they gave me a -3.00 lens, but the difference already is amazing.  Before, looking out of that eye, even with glasses, was like trying to see through a fogged windshield, and colors were all desaturated.  I may as well have smeared vaseline on a contact lens and jammed it in my eye.  Now, there's a point about 30" from my face where I can see pretty clearly, and anything closer or further away is shit.  But like, there's the potential for full sight once I get an updated eyeglass prescription.  So that's something.  

The surgery itself seemed to last less than 10 minutes.  I wasn't completely knocked out, but it was like that twilight sleep they used to give birthing mothers in the 50s, which is appropriate because I'm pretty sure Andy was nervously chomping on a cigar and pacing the waiting area the whole time.  He was far and away more freaked out by the whole process than I was, which was either sweet or mega-weird.  Pero, ¿por que no los dos?  

Those were some good drugs, though.  All I remember is that they taped my head to the table so I wouldn't move.  It was real high tech - they honestly wound a roll of masking tape over my forehead and under the bed a couple times like I was a frigging Home Depot box full of tchotchkes on moving day.  Then they tucked me in all cozy under a blanket and probably covered up my good eye, I assume, and then I was treated to this Pink Floyd-ass light show inside my eyeball for a few minutes.  

Oh, and I definitely remember that before they gave me the drugs, the surgeon came in to answer any questions I had pre-surgery, and I really wanted to ask him how edibles might impact recovery but I narced out and just asked, "What if I'd like to have a glass of wine?" as if I would ever have A glass of wine like a civilized adult.  And he said, sure, tomorrow you can have a glass of wine, that would be alright.  [Ok, fine, I'm trying to sound like a borderline alcoholic chill person but honestly it would be 2 or 3 glasses, not like 7, and even then there's a non-zero chance I'm projectile vomiting the next day and my eyeball just rockets straight out of my face, so I'm not drinking at all for probably like 2 weeks, are you happy now?].  

And then he asked if it would be alright to pray with me before the surgery and inside I was screaming get me out of here but I figured anything that would help this guy feel like he's going to do a better job cutting open my eyeball is fine with me.  So I said, sure, and did the awkward thing I do every time they say grace before a staff meal at work and I just stared vacantly at my lap, dissociating from my body.  But two days post-op, I'm feeling pretty good.  Jesus take the scalpel, y'all.

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I didn't have a lot of time for the internet this week.  I did read this review of Cormac McCarthy's new novels, and even though the review kind of panned them both, I'm intrigued.   I haven't been so jazzed about sibling incest since Flowers in the Attic!  I have them both on hold at the library.  Will report back in approximately 42 weeks.  Guess I'm not the only person with a morbid curiosity.

Analog Reading:

Finished John Darnielle's Universal Harvester.  I am left with questions, but overall it had a mood.  How do we each deal with loss and loneliness and isolation?  Some of us roll up our sleeves and get on with it...others of us never let it go, and can reach some disturbing conclusions in our quests.

Halfway through Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates.  I saw the movie when it came out, but I don't remember that much about it.  Something about taking the PATCO to see it at the Ritz at the Bourse and sneaking pony bottles of Sutter Home into the movie theater.  But that just means the book is fresh and untainted.  Even though the book came out in 1961, the idea of confronting your life's purpose at middle age (NOT at a mere freaking 30 years old, like Frank Wheeler, THANKYOUVERYMUCH, but then Hi, it's me, your gal with the surgically extracted cataract so what do I know), shuffling paper piles around at a meaningless job, all that resonates.