We interrupt this . . . well, everything. Getting interrupted seems to be a way of life with me. It’s easy, just get a more than three-ring circus going in my busiest summer in years, and then KER-SPLAT! Time for that cataract surgery.
Being a moving target doesn’t seem to help. These things always find me. What I get for being so damned obvious. Not that I’m complaining. Those cataracts were humongous.
It wasn’t bad for the first one. An abstract dream of swirling colored lights. Drugs! No loss of consciousness. Just a tiny incision (nothing like Un Chien Andalou), removal of the messed-up lens, and the implanting of a new one.
I’m recovering fast. Seeing clearer than I have in years, and they tell me it’s going to get better. Better vision–could it mean better art, better writing? Meanwhile, there’s that other eye . . .
No comments:
Post a Comment