You see

You see, because I can’t see so well any more, I have to have cataract surgery. When I was young I was always being told, “Don’t read so much, it isn’t good for your eyes”. Maybe it wasn’t. But although I have known about the surgery for months, even known the date when it will happen, I haven’t told very many people about it. This is because I am scared witless about it.

I can be quite brave about anything that happens below the neck. I can engage with it, watch what is going on, make suggestions as to how it can be done differently, or better. Above the neck, it is another story. For example, I am terrified of the dentist. You will have seen dogs being dragged into the vet, all four legs braced, whimpering and shivering. That is how I go for a routine dental check-up. So the prospect of surgery on my eyes just totally freaks me out. 

And I am not telling anyone about it because there are only three basic responses, none of which I find at all helpful. Some people manage all three in the course of a short reply. 

The first response is to tell me not to worry, how tiny the risks are, what a minor procedure it is. Barry, who works in the office, was back at his desk by lunchtime! I know all this. But this fear isn’t rational. Reason has nothing whatever to do with my visceral terror. It is my Inner Chimp who is acting as project manager on this one, and he is sitting in the corner, gibbering and messing himself, and I would very much rather that he was left alone than that someone trying to be kind poked him with a stick. 

The second response is to try to talk away my fear by explaining what is involved in the procedure. I DON’T WANT TO KNOW. I don’t want to hear about curved needles and scalpels and eyeballs. NA-NA-NA-NA-I CAN’T HEAR YOU. Why would anyone think that graphic detail could possibly help? My imagination trumps it every time.

And finally, there is the kind person who assures me that what happened to Auntie Flo won’t happen to me. Her eyeball popped out altogether and rolled into the fluff under the operating table. The surgeon had to spit on it and rub it on his sleeve and put it back in, but he put it the wrong way round and ever since then, all that Auntie Flo has been able to see is the inside of her skull. But I won’t be that unlucky, for sure. And if that was meant to be a joke to cheer me up…

Update: surgery all over now, and my Inner Chimp is nonchalantly hanging from a top branch with one arm while peeling a banana with his feet. As if nothing had happened.Until the next time.