My Jesus Moment

I think it would be universally agreed by retirees all around the world, that after 40 years of toil and hard graft, the moment you retire, the stuffing gets knocked out of you. 

For years, I have put off little things because they didn’t hurt enough to warrant writing sub plans.  It’s easier to ignore little squeaks until next summer or forever, whichever comes first, fingers crossed that it doesn't turn out to be the onset of a life-threatening situation.

And then you retire and all the backbone and resilience and stiff-upper-lippiness comes tumbling out and you find yourself visiting a lot of doctors that, previously you’d never heard of, for ailments that you’ve never heard of either.  Here’s a medical synopsis of the last 6 months to prove my point.

Late last year, I noticed that my eyes weren’t seeing so well - double vision, weird shapes in the middle distance that were presumably people or other objects, tired eyes, headaches and sight that seemed to vanish 3 inches past my nose.   And the problem was worse at school.  Kids would shout greetings in the hallways, I hadn’t a clue who it was, so I started using sobriquets like, “Good to see you chickadee,” or “What’s up my little love…”   When things happened in the classroom, I knew something was up, but I couldn’t quite see what it was.  The kids had figured this out and were getting away with murder.  Also I kept losing things, “A point for the first person to find my phone/keys/lanyard/book/marker/tea.”  If this pace of sight loss keeps up, I mused, I’m going to be groping around the hallways while chaos ensues all around me.  As a life-long hypochondriac who tends to imaginatively self-diagnosis, I was pretty sure I was going blind.  So I went to the eye doctor because now I’m worried.  

“Good gracious,” exclaims my ophthalmologist, “Where did that come from?  No wonder you can’t see my dear.  I groan; she always begins bad news with ‘my dear.”  “You’ve got the most amazing cataract in your left eye and a really decent one growing in your right.  Those have to come out.”  So I dutifully make an appointment with the eye specialist and blindly wait.

Then I get this thing on my nose.  It looked like a blemish (aka zit) but it wouldn't go away.  So I went to the dermatologist.  Very nice lady.  Understands my hypochondria and gently tells me that I have a squamous thing that must come off.  I am a little baffled by this news, after all, I grew up in the Land of Gray Skies and forty words for different degrees of rain.  She takes it off and calls me a few days later.  Turns out the margins are not clean, so I opt for chemo cream which I slather on each night and watch in horror as my nose breaks out in pre-cancer cells.  “This is pure science,” says my sympathetic doctor. “It finds and destroys any cancer cell in the area where it is applied.  It will do the trick.” My nose looks like I have a drinking problem as it blooms an unattractive splotchy red.  I’m a bit alarmed in the sense that I look disfigured but not in the sense that I am obviously saving my nose from future biopsies.

Just as I get the nose under control and within days of my cataract surgery, I get a twinge in my tooth.  I have a poor relationship with my eyes but we’re working on a peace treaty.  My teeth, on the other hand, are in a different social category.  We are sworn enemies.  And now it seems, my number 18 tooth is launching an attack.

So off I go to the dentist, in some pain, otherwise I would have ignored it, and am told that there is a trauma in my tooth; that the nerve is dying and that I must get a root canal.  Right away.

 

“Are you absolutely kidding me?” I ask. 

“No, I’m not,” says Dr. Mohler (no kidding, that’s his name).

The root canal doctor manages to squeeze me in the very next day.  I’m pretty experienced at the root canal procedure having had about 5, possibly 6 already.  They are no big deal.  Except for some reason, this one is not going so well.  “We might not be able to save the tooth,” announces the doctor a little cheerfully I thought.  I start to tremble with anxiety.  As the doctor drills down into #18, he pauses, changes out instruments, and says, “This is going to hurt a little.”  At the first poke, I am airborne and start to weep ever so slightly.  Unmoved, he carries on plumbing the depths, the hurt continuing until an eternity later, he is done.  I paid for the torture session and went home to lick my wounds.

And I still haven’t gotten to the cataracts but it’s coming…

October 15, the procedure day, dawns and I leap out of bed filled with excitement.  The whole process is very interesting, and happily, painless.  “What’s the stuff in my eye that looks like lava,” I ask, “That’s your cataract being broken up by the laser,” says the doctor. “How long will this take?”  “We’re done.”  “Wow!  That was like 10 minutes.”  “Five actually.”

Imagine a drum roll, trumpets sounding and a deep voice saying, “And now, brought to you in glorious technicolor, A Real Life Miracle.’”  Dum dum dum da.  I open my eyes and I.can.see!!!  It’s truly astounding.  I am healed.  I can see.  Clear, crisp, brilliant color.  I can see faces.  I can see near, far and in between.  I CAN SEE!!

Two days out, I am cleared for driving.  I can still see as clear as day.  I can’t wait for the right eye to join in the fun - you have one eye done at a time.  I feel exuberant, euphoric, giddy and full of brimming possibilities.   And in my quieter, more somber moments, I realize just how lucky I am.  I am so, so, so grateful that I live in a town loaded with skilled doctors and kind doctors and gentle doctors (possible exception, the root canal doctor).  I am grateful that the procedure was successful.  I am more than grateful for good insurance, even though I’m out a couple of grand for the co-pay, 

As someone who’s a voracious reader, who enjoys hanging out at art galleries and in the garden, who thrives seeing the beautiful faces of my children and who wants to move around without falling, tripping, bumping into things, I believe this is an actual “Jesus Moment”; The blind shall see, the world sparkles and all is well.  And a bit of stuffing gets shoved back in!

P.S. My right eye cataract was removed two weeks later and included the surgical implant of a stent in my optic nerve to deal with glaucoma issues.  I did not research what was going to happen; given my hypochondriacal tendencies, I thought it best.  As a consequence, when I found myself being wheeled into a surgery theatre with bright lights and sharp instruments, I nearly fainted.  I had no idea that this was going to be any different from the previous procedure.  I felt the panic coming on and I grabbed the anesthetist by the arm, weeping ever so slightly.  “Listen, if you have already given me the happy juice, I need more and if you haven’t you need to get on with it.”  “Don’t worry dear,” she says, gently patting my arm….and I was out.

After I got home, in considerable pain, I googled to see what I had just gone through.  I blanched, swallowed hard and started to weep ever so gently as the tears stung my eye.  I won’t go into the details; everyone I have told has begged me to stop when I get to the, “...and they inserted a needle into my eye…” 

It’s been a far longer healing process.  Lily has served as chauffeur while I swan around town looking a lot like Stevie Wonder in my dark, “old person” sunglasses.  I have gotten away with quite a bit lately too, like walking the dog, by squinting painfully and saying, “I can’t, my eyes.”  However, things are looking up!  And I can still see, only better because both eyes are in sync now.  And I am still really, really grateful for this miracle of modern science, this “Jesus Moment,” because sight is a gift and the prospect of losing it was, well, making me lose it.  

So, next time you see me…I’ll see you too and I’ll probably greet you by name!