“Comfortably Numb”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(3-20)

MTV.

Not something I considered to be part of the cataract experience.

When pondering my initial visit to the Kellis Eye & Laser Center in Chardon, many things crowded my mind-space for attention. Memories of being fitted with glasses for the first time, in Virginia. I was 12 years old. Persistent recollections of various stages in my evolution from a nearsighted child, to an adult with nagging vision limitations. Thoughts of going without corrective lenses altogether, in New York, when I was without medical insurance, homeless, and in a period of uncertain fate. Echoes of regular visits to optical specialists who fitted new eyewear and proclaimed good vision for another annual period.

One thing remained constant during this march from youth to maturity. I could not see very well without help. Everyone in the Ice household suffered from myopia.

As I reached my 40s this family curse of nearsightedness had begun to shrink my world. Over and again I realized that outside my familiar zone of comfort, things were blurred beyond recognition. Genuine sight came with a bit of cunning involved. I could not literally see, but deduced shapes, colors and locations based on my previous experiences. Often, this habit worked well enough. Sometimes though, it left me fumbling in the dark. Looking foolish and lost.

I started to feel disoriented in large, open spaces.

This blur of sight and senses soon had me avoiding travel, unconsciously. Especially after daylight had disappeared. I stopped taking trips beyond my neighborhood. Driving to work was sufficient. I did shopping at the supermarket where I was a salaried manager. Otherwise, my space to roam remained small. I became used to missing scores during sporting events. My TV screen often looked as if the tuner was broken. I became friendly with my cellphone as the computer proved to be a chore to operate. In summer months, I rarely reached for a pair of sunglasses. Often, I needed a flashlight to find things around the house.

This state of constant sunset frequently left me feeling drunk.

After being nudged into retirement at 55, I fell out of personal circulation. A hermit of sorts, content to walk my Black Lab and share summer fires with the neighbors. When both parents struggled toward the limits their own mortality, I made each journey only with a co-pilot on duty. Never alone. It had been years since I could read a street sign or highway marker. Fortunately, I knew the way after much repetition. Someone always offered guidance if I happened to get off our intended path.

An old adage said “The devil is in the details.” For me, such details were very difficult to discern, indeed. I had guessed my way through life, like a competitor lobbing darts. Usually on target, with luck. But sometimes completely off the board. Finally, after wandering into deeper hues of night, age brought me to a point of introspection. Looking into a mirror failed to reveal my plight. Instead, I needed assistance from someone who could peer at the sighted-self within. A doctor more skilled than those who routinely sold me lenses and frames, with a hint of disappointment.

I asked for counsel from my primary care provider, Dr. Mikhail.

My visit to the specialist she recommended in Geneva began as had all the other encounters, since my first with Dr. Lotano in 1973. I expected to endure a variety of optical tests, recite letters and numbers from charts on the wall, and receive a new prescription. Hopefully one dispensed with an extra measure of skill. I wanted my relief to last more than six months. The unexpected limit of what I received at a megacenter during my last vision appointment. I pondered choosing yet another set of frames while waiting in the exam chair. But then, the course of my ocular health changed drastically for the better.

“Rodney, you are wasting money on glasses,” Dr. Drought proclaimed. “Your problem is cataracts! Has this been an issue in the family?”

I could barely breathe.

“Dad was approximately 52 when he had the surgery,” I testified. “Somewhere in the early 1980’s. He had complained of seeing a halo around street lights and multiple images after dark. This became worse in the rain. A vexing problem as Mom did not drive.”

He smiled with authority. “Cataracts, my friend. You have all the classic symptoms. Get them removed and you’ll see ten times better than today!”

The optometrist referred me to Kellis.

I had no clues about the necessary procedures, except for good reports from a neighbor who had just visited the same clinic for vision help. My concept of treatment came from a blend of family tales and television dramas. But when my day for the first surgery arrived, it came with a hint of movie glitz and festive images in motion. I had only a light anesthetic and was still awake. Visible was a purple background, and two white rectangles often described by other patients as ‘Chiclets.’ In addition, a flow of various colors and transitioning shapes.

In a moment of childlike wonder, I observed that the experience reminded me of a video on MTV in the classic era. Something akin to watching a clip accompanied by Pink Floyd as the music soundtrack.

Dr. Johnson and the team must have been amused by this candid comment. During the second procedure, a few days later, they played a recording of ‘Comfortably Numb’ while my surgery was performed. A perfect touch. Quietly, I wished the visual could have somehow been captured, to share with others. But it was an experience unique for myself. One to be treasured, always.

After having the cataracts removed, the first sensation filling my head was one of pure energy. Of sunlight in all its glory and power. I had not truly felt the kiss of a sunrise in many years. The morning brightness through my kitchen window was intense. A celebration. One I beheld in silence almost as if I were a worshiper in a religious context.

I could see again!

I lingered on memories of that first burst of clarity, when I was 12 years old. An entry into living with focused sight for the first time. Now, my lost vision had been found again, through the magic of medical science and technology.

And a bit of old-school MTV.

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Write us at: P. O. Box 365 Chardon, OH 44024