Not to slag your vision, but I'm fresh from cataract surgery and still overwhelmed by the whole experience. Last week in the unlooted portion of Beverly Hills, starting Monday, it was left eye surgery, a woozy ride home courtesy of My Darling Wife—MDW—followed by a check-up on Tuesday. Because my pupils were so dilated, I was given massive, all-encompassing sunglasses that made me appear enroute to observe a thermonuclear blast.
Wednesday ushered in surgery on my right eye, a second woozy ride home and erosion of vision for small print. On Thursday, there was another check-up with the fast-healing left eye, with the right eye blurry, but gradually sharpening in quality.
I asked the doctor why I suddenly noticed more blues and whites in the light. Apparently, my yellowish cataracts blocked those bands of the spectrum. Still, its off putting to walk outside and see gradations of light others can't. I feel like an 80-year-old on LSD.
If you followed my last major surgery, you can probably guess that my anxiety levels were in the red. I was surprised how smooth the procedure was. For the moment, I must take, what feels like, a bucket of eye drops a day. But its small change compared to the bitching mid-to-long range vision I now enjoy.
