A few months ago I was diagnosed with cataracts. At 51-yrs-old, I am young to have them, but apparently early cataracts are not uncommon in people with severe nearsightedness. (Yes, critics of my work are right; I am extremely myopic.)
Today marks the three-week anniversary of the surgery that replaced the lens in my right eye and the one-week anniversary of the replacement of the lens in my left eye. If there is a medical procedure that deserves the description of miraculous, cataract surgery may be it. I was in the operating room for about 15 minutes each time and left the surgery center an hour or so later able to see better than I can ever remember. (I can’t count the number of times in the last three weeks that I found myself suddenly exclaiming: “Unbelievable!”)
To be sure, there is occasional blurriness and there was a rosy hue for a few days—very disconcerting for a glass-half-empty kind of guy—but the overall change in vision is remarkable. Others have told me of the old days when cataract surgery meant a long hospital stay and sandbags anchoring patient’s heads. No more.
The only down side is that I was planning to lobby for the big screen TV on the grounds that I couldn’t see the little box with the pitch count when I watched Indians games on the tube. I don’t have that excuse anymore.