Dad lost his sight when he was 71.
I’m thinking about this as I open the door to the outpatient clinic for cataract surgery. I’m not worried. The operation will be done by laser, and I’ve been assured it’s a simple and short procedure.
I’m fortunate enough to be living at a time when medical improvements have been made in many areas. Over the last three decades, hip and knee replacements and cataract surgery have improved immensely and are almost commonplace. In 2015, 3.6 million Americans had cataract surgery.
As I check in with a very cheerful lady behind the desk, my only complaint is that I haven’t had anything to eat or drink since midnight. I’m ready for some serious caffeine. But that will have to wait. She checks me in, then leads me to the surgical prep area where I’m turned over to a dark-haired nurse who installs me in a small room with soft gray walls.
We talk and when I mention Grand Marais, she tells me she had recently been to a celebration of life here. We commiserate about the deer perils of driving Highway 61 as she hands me a hospital gown and robe and leaves the room. I change, open the door and wait for the next step. While I wait, I watch the efficient and pleasant nurses and technicians in blue scrubs out in the main room. Someone brings me a warm blanket, and I almost fall asleep.
An anesthetist eventually enters my room. He explains the whole procedure, wants to know if I understand, and I sign some papers. This guy also is familiar with Grand Marais. I figure I’m in good hands. By now, my stomach is growling and caffeine withdrawal growing by leaps and bounds.
I once again remind myself how much luckier I am than poor dad 30 years ago. After awhile, my original nurse sets me up with an IV, and I feel less thirsty. I wait and suddenly my turn arrives. A team of nurses picks up the IV stand and whisks me down the hall to surgery. Once there, I’m moved to a table (and here my memory is fuzzy due to a relaxant) where they cheerfully wrap me up like a burrito, secure my head in place so it can’t move and talk to me. Although the relaxant has kicked in – I’m aware of everything.
The surgery itself is entertaining, believe it or not. While the doctor works, I see a light show. Turquoise, pink and black cubes circle each other. Suddenly it’s over, and I’m being wheeled back to my room.
The experience can’t be called fun, but the best part finally arrives. A nurse brings me a cup of coffee and two packets of shortbread cookies. I sip and munch and, once again, feel very thankful.
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