Anticipating Cataract Surgery

Expect the worst and maybe you’ll be pleasantly surprised...

photo credit: I took this picture

I was sitting in my front yard, enjoying the beautiful weather and all the signs of spring. My rhododendron bushes were in full bloom, lavender and pink blossoms against a background of deep green leaves, highlighting the soft blue irises and the peonies about to burst into flower themselves. This year it seemed that I needed to be closer to them to see the colors clearly, and even then they seemed dimmer than in the past.

I glanced over at my birdfeeders, and, although I could see the shape of birds, I couldn’t make out a single feature. I had no idea if they were goldfinches, chickadees, or titmice. Unlike the flowers, which were larger and brighter, even the colors were indistinguishable.

“Well,” I thought, “in case you needed evidence that it’s time for the cataracts to come out, I guess this is it.”

In recent months I’ve experienced the steady decline in my sight that afflicts so many of us as we move through the Third Age. But unlike many of the friends, relatives and colleagues who have been through or are now, like me, preparing for the surgery, I’ve been dreading this day for a very long time.

Years ago, an older student in one of my reading groups informed me that she would be out the next week. “I’m having my cataracts removed,” she said. When she returned, she told the group that she was seeing better than she had in years. “I don’t even need glasses to read anymore,” she said.

Although I appreciated her excitement, I couldn’t imagine not needing my glasses. I’ve been wearing them since I was ten years old. I also didn’t like the idea of having a foreign object inside my eyes. I could never wear contact lenses because my eye shape and dryness made it impossible for them to adhere. The last pair I tried popped out as I was crossing Broadway one afternoon, and I took that as a sign that I was not a candidate.

That was fine with me. I hated trying to put them in or take them out. But it made me worry that my eyes would also reject any artificial lens, when it was my time to have cataracts removed. I had images of the new ones popping out through my pupils after the procedure.

I’m a worrier and an anticipator, so I have asked every eye doctor I’ve seen over the years if they knew of cases where an eye rejected the replacement lenses after cataract surgery. Everyone has said, unequivocally, “no.”

My wonderful ophthalmologist, who is going to do the procedure, tells me that I will see better than ever, because he’s putting in lenses that will not only be clear, but will also correct the astigmatism better than my glasses have ever been able to do.

I want to believe him. I’m collecting stories from friends, colleagues, and even strangers that affirm what he has told me.

But my dad’s life mantra reverberates in my head: “Expect the worst, and you’ll never be disappointed, and sometimes you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”

My psychoanalyst, many years ago, told me that it was the catchphrase of a disillusioned romantic.

I have found it to be a helpful practice to live by.

Counteracting all of the positive replacement lens tales I’ve heard are my own experiences.

My dad had a major stroke shortly after his cataract surgery. I realize there’s no cause and effect here. That doesn’t stop my worries.

My husband’s retinal pucker was discovered after his cataracts were removed, and his vision has never recovered. Again, no cause and effect, but like I said, I'm a worrier.

My brother had his cataracts removed several weeks ago and reports that his vision is worse post procedure. His doctor assures him that this will change over the next few weeks. His eyes will get better. He has a prescription for new glasses which will arrive in a couple of weeks, and the optometrist tells him they will also help.

But even friends who have been happy with their new eyes tell me that they are still troubled by glare at night when they’re driving. That doesn’t go away.

I’m not going to cancel my surgery. But I’m loathe to buy into my doctor’s beautiful predictions. I think I’ll stick with Dad’s maxim, but with a little dollop of something from the children’s book The Little Engine that Could. As you probably recall, the spunky little train’s mantra was “I think I can I think I can,” which made it possible for her, against the odds, to pull a stranded train full of toys over a very steep and difficult mountain.

My revised self-talk goes something like this: “I’m not sure how successful this procedure will be, but my vision is pretty lousy as it is. I’m going to think that it will be at least a little better. I think it can be better. I think my excellent eye doctor can do a good job. If it’s not any better, I of course will be disappointed, but not as much as if I truly expect to see more clearly than I ever have before. And, I think I can, I hope I can, keep my expectations low enough that I won’t be too surprised or disappointed, whatever the outcome.”

And then my psychotherapist self comes onto the platform and says, “You will be disappointed if it doesn’t work. But you have learned to live with disappointment. You’ll figure it out. Your doctor will help you figure it out. Disappointment isn’t the end of the world. It’s not pleasant, but it’s part of life.”

My guess is that it will go just fine, and that I’ll see better than I have been seeing, which will be great. Wonderful, in fact. I’ll put the idea that I’ll see better than ever before on hold. No, I’ll put it into the file marked “unrealistic expectations.”

And I’ll be grateful for any improvement.

Thanks for reading!!