In my 50s, I wrote a column called “What’s a Girl to Do?” It was an adventure column. I drove race cars, jumped out of an airplane, went parasailing, dove with sharks, flew on a trapeze, and many, many other adventures. Now that I’m well beyond my 50s I’m writing another column. Perhaps I should call this one, “What’s an Old Girl to Do?”
The other day I went to what I thought was a routine eye exam and came away from the doctor’s office knowing I need cataract surgery in both eyes. Me being me, I scheduled both surgeries before I left the doctor’s office. Most likely if I hadn’t scheduled them, I’d put it off, lose the paperwork, or forget the whole thing and be like people who have said, “I should have had the surgery years ago. Now it’s going to be more difficult.” Nope, not me.
My mother was always proud of the fact that her father, my grandfather, was an eye surgeon. Back in 1902. Over a century ago. I once asked my mom, “What did he use way back then for surgery, a sharp rock?” She swatted me and if she hadn’t been so tiny, at 5 feet 2 inches, she might have decked me. She did not laugh, nor chuckle. Her blue eyes drilled into me. Needless to say, I never joked about Grandfather being a surgeon at the turn of the century again.
Actually, I kind of wish my grandfather was still alive and practicing. I knew his stellar reputation, knew that he was the head of a Detroit hospital. I knew nothing about any ophthalmologists in Lake or Mendocino county. As soon as I drove myself home, slowly, having dilated eyes, I called a friend. Turns out he had cataract surgery by my same doctor and he couldn’t spout off praises for him fast enough; “highly recommended, excellent reviews, moved to Lake County from Southern California to get out of the rat race…” Okay, I felt better.
I did ask the doctor, while I was in his office, if his hands were steady. He held his purple gloved hands out to me and they were jumping up and down. Well, at least he has a sense of humor, not something all doctors have.
Besides, while I lived overseas in Sri Lanka (think below India, think tsunami) for 14 years, I sat in the government eye surgery ward (for some reason that I can’t remember) and I saw streams of Sri Lankans pour out of the recovery area with a patch over their eye. So, I figured, how difficult could cataract surgery be, if a government hospital in a third world county could be making it happen? Not to disparage Sri Lankan hospitals, or government hospitals. I was told many times that if a person had a heart attack or needed heart surgery, the best place in the region was the National Hospital of Sri Lanka.
So, pony up, Lucy. Follow the doctor’s instructions and be brave. Don’t worry about someone cutting into your eye, unless he’s holding a sharp rock.
Lucy Llewellyn Byard is a freelance journalist for the Record-Bee and various other publications. You can email her at lucywgtd@gmail.com
