Stick a Knife in My Eye

This blog is not meant to be catalogue of middle age ailments. The fact is that I have been so blessedly free of ailments of any sort my whole life I have no tolerance at all, and I am a big fat baby. Add to that a natural skepticism of doctors, a fear of hospitals, a cynicism about medicine, pharmaceutical trials, doctor's distance from pharmaceutical companies, a leeriness of medicines' often unmentioned side effects, and the sudden appearance of allergies to medicines and bee stings I never had, and I am in trouble.

So, maybe that is why I cannot sleep. And was close to hyperventilating in the doctor's office. And picked a fight with my husband over nothing this morning.

On Friday an opthalmologist will operate on my eye to remove a pterigium. Basically, it is a condition that afflicts fishermen, farmers, and pale people that were meant to live in foggy climes but instead live in sunny California--like me. It is not serious. Nothing will be done that really affects my vision. And yet the legal documents you have to sign before you get an operation seem designed to terrify (I understand I could die or lose my vision or damage it significantly...). It is hard to get an accurate sense of what is really going on.

Basically, a doctor will cut this thing out of my eye and graft some eyeball from another part of my eye into the old hole. The skin will be held in place with four neat little stitches and some glue. The cutting, slicing, stitching and sewing will take a half hour. Then I have to wear a patch for a few days, and my eye will be irritated for awhile. And then I will be better.

Still.

It is my eye. I like my eye. And I am scared.