On the Cutting Edge

My second cataract surgery took place earlier today. It was quite similar to the first, wherein many little people clad in blue pajamas, paper hats, slippers and face masks fussed all around me, slowly injecting various cold liquids into my body that made me think it was all an episode of "Grey's Anatomy." I laughed out loud and jokes were told, some by me I learned later. Now back home, my eye is slammed shut and will remain so for several hours, so I am still one-eyed and have no idea how it will all turn out. I assume my vision will be improved and I will not go blind, which was the reason I opted to go this route.

Normally I avoid surgery unless they say I will die without it. But lately just about everyone I know is being cut open or otherwise under treatment for one debilitating ailment or other. One dear friend had back surgery just yesterday and another is scheduled for the same thing a month from now. Yet a third is in the hospital following her surgery as part of her cancer treatment. Still another of the fallen is my very own husband, who came down with shingles over the weekend, and I don't mean the kind on our roof although that would not surprise me one bit, seeing as how there are ice dams all over it. He is expected to survive, but painfully, and since the outbreak of blisters is on his normally beautiful bald head, he will have to cancel all modeling assignments for the next few weeks.

If we baby boomers persist in getting older and not dying, we'd better come up with some coping strategies for all our upcoming surgeries. I find a combination of meditation and Lorazepam the night before works nicely. And propofol, the drug that killed Michael Jackson (although not so much of it), is absolutely fabulous during. They gave me some today and I found the whole ordeal to be a boatload of fun. I just couldn't understand how all those people got into my bedroom.