The poetry of eye surgery.
The technician said, “Your eyes are numb” after she administered the drops during one of the many tests I went through before the actual procedure. I wanted to explore with her the idea that a person’s eyes could be numb in the poetic sense.
“Our eyes are numb to the miseries of the world, to the poor, the marginalized, the forgotten,” I rhapsodized in my mind. But I held my thoughts. Not sure how she might take it. I didn’t want to distract her or cause her to lose focus (ha, ha).
So many tests before cataract surgery. That’s a good thing. You can’t be too careful when you are messing with my eyes. During my three days at the Eye Specialists of Indiana building I rested my chin in those chin-holding things and pressed my forehead to the bar countless times.
I looked just past the technician’s ear as she looked into my eyes. I covered one eye and then the other and read lines of letters so often I was starting to memorize the sequence. Medicine was dropped into my eyes again and again.
I stared into various machines. I saw a red and yellow ball with lines radiating out like an exploding supernova. I saw 1960s black light poster colors. In one machine I looked upon a scene which continually changed from focused to unfocused. It was a farmhouse at the end of a long road lined with white fences.
They should have added horses to the picture, I thought. Occasionally, I was sure I was looking at a reflection of the inner part of my very own eye. Wow. My eye contemplating itself. Heavy.
As each test was completed I was led to another room to another test and then to another room and so on. In between the tests, I waited. Isn’t that part of the hospital experience? After three days I was familiar enough with the layout of the building that I could direct newbies who were searching for the restrooms.
I met with several people before I met the doctor. This is also part of the experience. In the darkened room, Dr. Kirk looked with assured intensity into the inner depths of my soon-to-be-restored orbs. He spoke as his assistant recorded what he was seeing. His descriptions used words like “macula” which almost made sense to me. “Chambers are calm,” he said at one point.
My chambers were calm. That was comforting. I was feeling rather calm, as I thought about it. I had been in competent hands from the beginning of my journey. I learned that over 150,000 cataract surgeries have been performed at this medical facility alone, while millions have been performed around the world for decades. Yes, not only my eyes’ but my heart’s chambers were calm.
I felt even calmer when they stuck an IV in my arm. I am a little vague about what happened next, but an hour or so later, I was back from the operating room, and even through a clear cup was taped over my right eye, the world looked sharper and brighter than before. Day Two involved slightly fewer tests, machines and rooms before the left eye surgery.
Afterwards, I occasionally saw what looked like coffee grounds floating around me. This will pass, I was assured. Fine. If I have to hallucinate, it might as well be coffee I am seeing.
Day Three was a check-up, detailed post-surgery instructions and bottles of eye drops. I was cleared to drive.
A couple of days later I was in my car when a flock of birds flew from one side of the country road to the other. Black birds against a bright blue sky above an intense yellow new-mown October field. Each bird’s wings tips were sharp and clear. My chamber was calm.
Norman Knight, a retired Clark-Pleasant Middle School teacher, writes this weekly column for the Daily Journal. Send comments to [email protected].
