“Because I could not stop for cataracts, they kindly stopped for me.”
Someday I hope to find time to luxuriate in the collected works of poets such as Emily Dickinson – on paper, not as an audiobook–so my ears perked up when my recent eye exam revealed the early stages of cataracts in both eyes.
(There’s a tiny hemorrhage in each of my peepers as well, but cataracts have center stage for this week’s column.)
Don’t worry. The optometrist estimated I have five to 10 years until the cataracts will require surgery. Hmmm. That will be about the same time I am due for my next colonoscopy. Throw in hypothetical grandchildren enamored with a purple dinosaur and you have “perfect storm” out the ying-yang.
Having long ago gotten over feeling 10 feet tall and bulletproof (“Hey, you guys can’t give me a wedgie; I’m 10 feet tall and bulletproof!”), I was more melancholy than shocked. Still, it seems like only five minutes between being warned that you’ll put your eye out with a Red Ryder BB rifle and being warned that you’ll put your eyes out with birthday candles.
To add insult to injury, I never even found time to enjoy a mid-life crisis a few years back. If I attempt to play catch-up now, I would be forced to buy a sports car that is driven only at early-bird supper time on a non-rainy day.
I have stacks of books I crave to read, a library of classic TV shows to experience and wonders of nature to observe (“There’s such a lot of world to see,” as Mr. Henry Mancini wrote), so I am resolved to be vigilant about my eye health.
My mother has served as a cautionary tale with my health decisions. Mom drove a pickup truck until she was 90, but when she was in her mid-80s, my wife took her for an eye exam. The optometrist point-blank warned her that she was rapidly developing cataracts. Mom thanked him and went on with her life, not darkening the door of an eye doctor for at least five years.
Mom made excuses for her impaired vision. Newspapers, magazines and phonebooks were suddenly using disappearing ink. Every business in town colluded to use 20watt bulbs.
Things came to a turning point one Sunday when the preacher announced that he didn’t see any visitors in the audience. After services, Mom squinted across the auditorium and asked my son Gideon, “Didn’t he claim there weren’t any visitors today? Who’s that stranger over there?”
Without missing a beat, Gideon answered, “That’s your son!”
By this time, Mom’s cataracts could probably have served as cloaking devices for the starship Enterprise, but Dr. Jordan was somehow able to remove them and give her excellent vision.
I’m glad she was able to dodge a bullet (“They’re not making bullets like they did in the good old days – I think they’re using sawdust and library paste”) and I hope all of you will join me in scheduling regular eyecare visits.
Please don’t resign yourself to the words of those folk-rock poets Simon and Garfunkel: “Hello, darkness, my old friend.”
Speaking of poetry, here’s an update of an old favorite from Robert Frost.
“Two roads diverged in a wood, and I–I took the one that led to a clinic that still accepted my vision insurance.”
