A few times over the last seven or eight years I have mused on the relentless force that is ageing.
In many cases with this human container, it is possible to defy and reduce the impact of time with exercise, good nutrition and a good portion of common sense. In this commentary on time and its effects on me, there are many situations where you cannot do anything and random chance plus genetics equals reality with no guarantees. What I mean by this is that each and every one of us will be at the whim of our DNA and its interaction with the world. In my case it was a young onset, quickly-developing cataract of the right eye and the remediation of this insult to my bastion of youth, opened my eyes to being a patient.
Over three years my eyesight was noticeably worsening. For a brief interlude, I experienced a 30-something improvement in long-distance vision. I expected I had personally beaten myopia and was smug about it in the privacy of my own cranium. My 40s beckoned and then catapulted me into their midst in a way that suggested I had pressed accelerate on my own TARDIS dashboard. It was in this period that things started to get harder to see, both up close and far afield. Once a year it seemed I would return to my optometrists to plead for an upgrade, and on the third year, a cataract was discovered. The lens, a specialised convex soft tissue which focuses light on to just the right part of your retina was in my youth crystal clear, but for some reason now going cloudy in the middle. It would, if left alone, continue to spread outwards and light would be scattered. This looks like ghosting around sharp edges like words on books, posters and signs, and glasses that are trying to improve vision become less effective. What worried me most was that this was my good eye. As a child, I experienced a phenomenon called Amblyopic Eye or Lazy Eye. This is a result of misalignment of the eyes and my left eye (without the cataract) had poor brain development due to the misalignment and so has only peripheral vision,. I cannot read with it and so losing my good eye presented a problem to future work, reading and leisure. Cataracts are remedied by surgery so a modicum of catastrophising by yours truly was at play for some months before having surgery. After meeting with a surgeon in Palmerston North, my eye worsened in my experience, in a mere five months. I decided to go ahead with surgery. One of my reasons for writing this account is to pass the baton on to others awaiting this procedure, that is the baton of "you have absolutely nothing to worry about". I had quite a few Phacoemulsification nightmares on my way to the surgical suite, and they were based on my own made up fantasy world of how I thought it must be done.
Myths that I felt reasonable preoperatively: needle jab in the eye while watching it approach from the side. Luncheon sausage slicer style tool to cut lens off. Watching scalpel-wielding surgeon move in, then suddenly be staring at the ceiling with temporary soft focus blindness. Dental assistant suction device slurping up my pulverised lens…
This is where good education is essential, but if someone wants to believe the worst, they probably will, and then in the case of this procedure, eventually feel prompted to say "is that all?" or "is it over already?".
You have a choice of intraocular implant, which is elegant jargon for an artificial lens. For me to see the South Island from my kitchen sitting behind the Durie Hill Tower, the Mares on the Moon and recognition of faces around town is most important to me. I apologise to all who have felt snubbed by me in the last year or two. The reality has been I simply can't tell it's you until we are passing. I could always tell Paul Brooks thanks to his retroverted contranutated pelvis, rolled up sleeves and golfers elbow salute, but not everyone gives such luxury to the blinding eye's recognition.
