No such thing as minor surgery

Hospital is a foreign place with strange customs even though I recognise the language

I was scheduled for cataract surgery in June. Beforehand, my surgeon told me, “You’re a higher risk for complications such as retinal detachment.” “I know,” I croaked fearfully. “You’ll be grand,” he said. Brief and to the point. But it was a serious decision, because really I have only one eye. Eight years ago, I had a major operation on my right eye. At the time, people often responded, “Yes, my friend had cataracts done.” Privately I thought “Just a cataract – that’s minor surgery!” My problem was a tear through the macula and urgent repair only partially saved the sight. I was left with oddly mismatched eyes causing frequent double vision, on top of long sight and short sight. I left work as a result. Now it was my turn to have “just a cataract” done on the other eye, and I discovered there’s no such thing as minor surgery, if you’re the patient. I was very anxious and coped by telling everyone I met. I worried about complications. I tried, but failed, to imagine what I would be able to see after.

The day arrived and I went to the Day Unit of the Eye and Ear Hospital. Yes, a public hospital. I’m pretty sure my first procedure could not have been done in a private hospital – that’s one of the deep flaws of the Sláintecare plan. I was very happy to be back with those teams of professionals but being a patient is strangely unnerving.  Everyone from every nationality was kind and helpful, but I felt like an alien. Hospital is a foreign place with strange customs even though I recognise the language. It’s surprisingly hard to answer simple questions: Date of birth? Medical history? Medication? Then: “Which eye? The left one – am I right?” That made me laugh a little. A very careful doctor marked the correct left eye with an arrow. A list of horrible complications was read out, as I closed my ears and signed the consent form. Then it was all over. But I was still anxious.

For two weeks after the operation, I had to be extremely careful not to put pressure on my eye. No stooping, lifting or exertion meant no housework which was fine. No gardening wasn’t so good. I don’t regret the lack of weeding, but my roses got a bit sad and neglected. No driving was more of a problem as I live in the country and we don’t have taxis. I did some walking. I tried out the new local bus to Nenagh but found the journey back to Dromineer wasn’t quite so handy. Either there was several hours to wait or I had heavy bags I wasn’t allowed to carry. Friends drove in and picked me up, so no car miles were saved.

I’m getting used to a brave new world

I went by bus to Dublin for my two week check-up and the verdict was good – no more post-op precautions. The return journey was a bit tricky as my vision was blurred from eye drops. I knew the bus stop was somewhere along the quays, but where? I peered blindly at each stop in turn, getting more and more panicked until a stranger sorted me out.

I’m getting used to a brave new world. I’m allowed drive and I’m allowed to sail. I have new glasses. In my old life, my eyes were minus twenty. My glasses were ugly like bottle ends so I always wore contact lenses in public. I put glasses on to read and took them off to drive. Now I’m only minus three – just like my friend. She thinks she’s half blind but I feel I can see normally. For the first time in my life, I can read without glasses – but I need them to drive. I’m getting muddled. I put the glasses on and wonder why the newspaper is fuzzy. I hop into the car and I’m half way down the road before I realise I’ve forgotten the glasses. Very nervously I went out sailing, racing in the Squib, and we did rather well for a change. It helps that I can see the marker buoys across the bay, instead of relying on my sailing partner.

I find friends have funny reactions. “Is your eye getting better?” To be honest, it was better immediately. Everything else is about learning to live with it. “Your eye looks very clear, that’s good.” As if it matters; the scary complications would not be visible. Some people are very solicitous, nearly handing me a white stick. In contrast, my opticians were very impressed at the visual acuity achieved. I think that was when I finally realised it was all ok and I relaxed.

“You’ll be grand,” he said, and I am.