"You have cataracts." my eye doctor declares.
"I what?"
You have cataracts, she says, this time a little more slowly since I obviously don't understand her the first time.
"But I'm 45 years old" I think.
Out loud I say, "Aren't I a bit young?"
She says "Yes but it was probably bought on by the low dose steroids you've been on for years due to your asthma.
There is silence.
She continues, "In 2 - 3 years, you can have this surgery that will repair your eyes to seeing better than you did when you were 20."
I'm not listening.
Who is going to take care of the kids and me when I have surgery? Who is going to help us for the days afterwards? Who is going to drive me to the doctor's office, go grocery shopping, look over Langston's shoulder while he's on the computer or do Pallas's hair.
And the rage punches me in the back.
In sickness and health, in sickness in health!!
What about my sickness Art? Huh!
I did your sickness, what about mine!!!
I leave the office deflated and feeling old and
full of rage.
full of rage.
"You @)(*#$! You skipped out on ME!"
I can totally relate to the shock that comes when we become aware of such realities... an hour before a group of us were going to sail to scatter my beloved Brian's ashes, the form for the boat required you to write your emergency contact person. Mine emergency contact was the cremains! I stood there, experiencing internal melting. My friend came over and asked me what was wrong and I told him. He said "Put me down as your contact." To which, I replied, "If the boat goes down you would be drown too." and he said "So what?"
ReplyDeleteI still have no emergency contact person. Somehow, it feels resonant with who I am right now. I know that sounds stupid. But I have done far stupider things as a widow, believe me!