Hand on the door, my Optometrist was leaving the room having reassured me that my lens prescription required no adjustment when I thought of one last question.
“I notice that when I do the dishes at night, I need more lights on to see clearly. Why is that?”
“Oh, that’s your cataracts doing that.”
Routine exams for a decade and the word, “cataracts” had never been mentioned.
Cataracts, I learned, are like grey hair. To an optometrist, is is a given that they come with age. How often does your doctor discuss your graying hair?
The sixty-plus crowd often debates the timing of lens surgery. “Wait until Medicare covers it,” is common advice. I happily wrote the check to cover a lens replacement for Kernie way before Medicare was on the horizon. The experience was wonderful, a beautiful thing to behold.
As she went off to surgery, I sat with the Medicare crowd in the waiting area, mostly looking tired, old, and badly in need of more than just eye tune-ups. A young nurse sought me out.
“Would you like to come with me and observe your wife’s surgery,” she asked.
“Well, really, what could I see? I mean there are going to be two people clustered about her head as they operate; what’s the point of watching that?”
She smiled, nodded, and signaled that I should follow her. She sat me at a bench that looked out through a window into the operating theatre. Indeed, Kernie and two operators were chucking and jiving as preparations unfolded. Above the window was a large video screen. The surgeon had a camera attached to the light source on his head and with this, I was able to observe —close up and personal-every step of the procedure. I saw the slit made on the side of the cornea. I saw a small metal tube inserted next to the lens and then saw it crumble into small pieces and those pieces were then vacuumed out through the tube.
“No going back now…..” I thought.
He inserted a clear rolled up, “thing” that when moistened by the fluid in the space behind the cornea, slowly expanded and took on the shape of a lens. There was a small line on it and he rotated it to align in a pre determined manner.
Done! Fifteen minutes total?
Within minutes, they brought her a rose and a small document which she could read with her new lens and without requiring glasses.
This was a miracle!
Exactly what hat led to the miracle is an interesting tale. The suspects are the usual: cost, inconvenience, and one’s sense of self. We had all these and a catalyst— one that involved a call to 911.
Most of you reading this blog need a “correction” of your vision when reading. Kernie developed this need in her forties. Reading glasses were the easy fix. Except, when they were not. There were reading glasses planted all over the house, tables, sofas, beds, counters, and of course, on a chain around the neck. I sat on numerous reading glasses and Kernie would commonly, with a dog on her lap, ask me to find her a pair and then of course, I could not find any nearby.
This was a matter of joking and teasing. The neck chain was a clear icon of an old lady. You can spruce it up, have an arty necklace, but you fool no one. Another remedy was an extremely lovely and beautiful pair of reading glasses. These cost a fair amount of money which as with the ten dollar glasses which I was breaking weekly —when sitting on a couch—was wasted. We went to an outdoor concert featuring Pink Martini at the St Michele winery one night. A picnic, a shared (sort of ) bottle of wine, great music: It was a great time and I remember the reading glasses perched on her head as well as the lyrics of, “Hey Eugene:”
Hey Eugene! Do you remember me?
I'm that chick you danced with two times
Through the Rufus album, Friday night, at that party
On Avenue A
Where your skinhead friend passed out
For several hours on the bathroom floor
And you told me, you weren't that drunk
And that I was your favorite Salsa dancer
You had ever come across in New York City
Eugene, Eugene, Eugene
I said, "Hello Eugene, are you there, Eugene?"
Hey Eugene, then we kissed
Once we lugged your friend into the elevator
And went to write my number on a soggy paper towel
And the car went down
And when we were finished making out
We noticed that your skinhead friend was gone, long gone
And you looked into my bloodshot eyes
And said, "Is it too soon if I call you Sunday?"
Eugene, Eugene, Eugene
I said, "Hello Eugene, are you there, Eugene?"
I said, "Hello Eugene, Eugene, Eugene"
I said, "Hello Eugene, are you there, Eugene?"
I said, "Hello Eugene, Eugene, Eugene
I said, "Hello Eugene, does any of this ring a bell, Eugene?"
Once home and in need of reading glasses, it was clear that they were trampled in the green grass of the winery. This was getting serious.
Thoughts on getting a contact or surgery now surfaced. Kernie was open to the idea of having a contact or lens for reading used in only one eye, the other being ready and able to look to the horizon. Many people have difficulty having their brain accept the different signals from each eye. That was not Kerne’s concern. Her’s was an issue with getting a contact in and out of the eye. It looks difficult. I have never had to do it.
The catalyst for a long-term solution was found at a business weekend. My company had a celebratory weekend in the summer at a Cascade resort called Suncadia. Hiking trails, biking trails, a pool, and beautiful views filled the day. The night found us eating well, drinking well, and me, “doing the room.” I was in administration and this was part of the job. We went to bed late and on awakening to beautiful morning sun, Kernie asked if we could indulge with a room service breakfast.
I decided to splurge. I responded with an enthusiastic, “Yes,” and Kernie went to the room phone which had a number of buttons to push for immediate service. She squinted and peered at the numbers and pushed a button:
“Oh! I am so sorry,” I heard her say with an open facial expression of surprise. “No, I did not mean to call you; I was trying to get room service.” She apologized, hung up, and proceeded to look through the reference book next to the phone for the correct number. She was interrupted by a phone call from the hotel main desk:
“Hello, is this Mrs. Moeller? Good. I am calling to verify that you did call 911 this morning. Is everything OK? Can we be of any help?”
Kernie was solicitous and with her conversational voice, noted that she had pushed the wrong phone button for lack of her reading glasses and yes, she was fine. Could they please connect her to room service?
We spoke a little and looked at a menu with breakfast in mind. There was a knock at the door.
I was dressed while Kernie remained in a bathrobe. I answered the door. I young man in a suit smiled and asked, “I am from the front office. I understand a call to 911 was made this morning. Is everything OK?”
Kernie responded from the inner room. We were fine and just trying to order breakfast. I echoed this. He politely nodded and withdrew.
We ordered breakfast and as we hung up, there was the sound of a siren outside—first far away and then very very close. The nearest town was probably three miles a way. I went out to the deck and saw that a patrol car was parked in front of the lobby. Several of my peer doctors were out on their decks, wondering—could someone have had a medical emergency? Had a crime occurred?
A few minutes later, there was a knock at our door. I opened it hoping for breakfast, but I met the intense gaze of a police officer. This police officer had a semiautomatic pistol holstered at his side but in his arms was an AR15 held across his chest. He had a younger man in uniform behind him. The bottom line of his visit was that he needed to enter the premises and surmise for himself that Kerne was unbruised, unbloodied, and safe. I was clearly OK —though dressed for a quick getaway— while Kernie remained in a fluffy white bathrobe. They chatted for a few minutes, awkwardly, and then he was off.
We looked at each other and to this day, I don’t believe we ever got our breakfast. We packed and fled the scene, a couple hours before check-out was due. We embellished the story to friends but to acquaintances who mentioned the concerns raised by the police presence, we declared no knowledge of what that was all about.
The consultation to consider surgery was scheduled that next Monday. Despite not being on Medicare and not having need for surgery on an insured basis, the decision to schedule was easy: I pulled out the check book and asked for how much I should make it out.
It was a bargain.
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