... so the
worst is over, and here I am at my computer, without glasses, back to reading
and writing, and not taking it for granted.
After
discussions with my regular eye doc, the astute-but-lethargic-looking Dr. L.,
and my surgeon, the gentlemanly-and-professional Dr. S., it was agreed to
correct my eyesight mainly for reading (i.e. my “near visual acuity”); which
means I'll still need glasses for distance, but with much less correction.
Something like -2 rather than -5 going on -6.
What I didn’t
know until recently is, that the current favored method of cataract removal is
with ultrasound, at least for pulverizing the bad/cloudy lens. Sounds gruesome,
doesn’t it?
When I
first started seeking personal-experience info about cataract surgery and
recommended surgeons, I was surprised by the number of responses I got.
Friends, colleagues, the “girls” at exercise class, our family lawyer, my
cleaning lady – they all either had it done, or else their spouses had, or
their parents. Everyone assured me it was a short, safe, non-painful procedure,
with remarkable results. All very encouraging, and probably contributed to my
calm, cheerful attitude at the hospital,
and my relaxed state on the operating table. My doc said I was a model patient.
Ultimately,
everyone was right. But that’s not how I felt during the procedure itself.
First of
all, you are told not to budge. Particularly not your head or your hands. The
mere knowledge that I have to resist any sudden urge to scratch my chin, sneeze, or
withdraw from the glaring light, made me worry.
Then my face was covered with a heavy protective mat, leaving a hole for
one eye, and for the nostrils. I nearly panicked when the heavy cover pressed
on my left nostril, since my nostrils are quite narrow and I have a deviated septum, which means my nose gets blocked up very easily. But a tube of oxygen
was placed right under my nose, and breathing was easy.
The entire
20-30 minutes you are staring into a very bright light. Most of the time it’s
white. At times it turned a pretty pink, green, turquoise. And two or three
times it went black, which is a bit scary (“Gosh, I hope this is normal and not
a sign that I’m going blind!”). Occasionally my doc said, “Look up, please,” “Now
look to the upper-right,” or similar. When he addressed me directly, which he
did from time to time, either to explain what he’s doing next, to remind me not
to budge, or to instruct me where to turn my gaze to – it was reassuring. But
when the doc and his assistant and the other one or two [male] nurses or
technicians in the room spoke to each other sotto voce, one’s
imagination tends to run wild. So if that happens to you, make sure and rein it
in. I wish you luck. Reining in my imagination is not something I’m good at.
As the
bright light shone on, flickered and changed color, and as the pressure on my
eye socket increased or decreased, and the sounds changed from humming to
buzzing to sucking or purring, I couldn’t help trying to guess what they were
doing now. A certain part of the procedure did entail some pain, a sort of dull
pressure/pain perceived in the top-back of the eye socket. I said “ouch,” in a
very even, matter-of-fact tone of voice, and Dr. S. said, “Sorry I have to
apply some pressure here.” This painful pressure accompanied me, on and off,
for about 40 hours. By now, 50 hours after the surgery, as I write this, it has
abated and vanished.
As I
understood it, the process was roughly so: Setting the sights; pulverizing the
nasty lens; sucking out the debris; mopping up and disinfecting; inserting the small,
folded acrylic lens through a 2 mm incision; spreading it out and maneuvering
it into place; a bit more rinsing and mopping; checking that everything is okay.
Removing face-cover, oxygen pipe, ECG wires, blood pressure arm band,
pulse-taking finger clip. Affixing a huge bandage over the relevant eye. Helping
you off the operating table and into a wheelchair and wheeling you back into
the pre/post op room. Grin at your partner to indicate that all’s well. Get
dressed. Get coffee and a couple of petit beurres. Get an All Clear and
paperwork from doc and head nurse. Give the next patient in line an encouraging
wave. Go to office to complete paperwork. Heave sigh of relief. Go home.
The
following morning, after the removal of the bandage, my surgeon gave me a hard
plastic eye patch (clear plastic with holes) to use at night, but said he hands
it out mostly because patients want it, not because he thinks it's necessary. I
did use it last night, worried that I might, out of habit and absent
mindedness, rub my eye.
Though the
doc told me my right eye is also developing a cataract, I was not aware of its
effect until now: When I cover my right eye, the wall ahead of me is brightly
white; when I cover my left eye, the wall is a sort of beige...
I’m
instructed to use 3 kinds of eye drops, 4 times a day. Am cleared to do
anything I want, except go swimming, wet my eye, do weight lifting, or let my bubbly,
bouncy grandson within arm’s-reach of my face.
N.B.
The
surgery took place at Assuta Medical Center,
Ramat HaChayal, Tel Aviv.
And in case you haven't seen the before-and-after pics I uploaded to FB:
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| After |
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| Before |
