A week ago, I was sitting at my computer in the early morning hours, writing a post about the cataract surgery I was going to have later that day.
I was really worried about it
dreading it, even.
To be honest, I did not want to do it.
I’m entirely too young, I told myself.
No normal person has cataract surgery when she is ONLY 69.
Of course, I was only going to be 69 for one more month—
but that was not the issue.
The issue was that only OLD people have cataracts.
And, therefore, cataract surgery.
My definition of old has changed considerably over the years.
Old used to be so much younger than it is now.
These days, I believe old is at least twenty years older
than whatever age I happen to be.
Technically, I need cataract surgery because of a previous retina surgery—
not because I am old.
I consider that an important distinction.
Anyway, that’s what I was writing about.
But then the phone rang.
It was the surgeon’s office calling to cancel my surgery.
Apparently, the surgeon had called in sick.
So the surgery I did not want to have was cancelled —
and no one could tell me when it might be rescheduled.
It sounded as though I was getting exactly what I wanted.
But, like so many things we think we want
until we unexpectedly get them,
I didn’t want it anymore.
In fact, I was mad.
I had spent days preparing myself for this surgery.
I had worried about it.
I had dreaded it.
I had imagined every possible thing that might go wrong—
and probably invented a few things that have never gone wrong
in the entire history of cataract surgery.
But I had finally gotten myself ready.
Not eager.
Not calm.
But ready.
And then they cancelled it.
Apparently, courage has an expiration date.
Mine was stamped
GOOD FOR ONE DAY ONLY,
and they had just wasted it.
So I spent the next week being angry about the surgery
I had spent the previous week wishing I didn’t have to have.
I called the surgeon’s office.
More than once.
I explained that I needed to get back on the calendar as soon as possible.
After all, if I needed cataract surgery,
then I damn well wanted cataract surgery.
I had already rearranged my life around it.
I had already done the worrying.
I had already made peace –
or at least negotiated a temporary ceasefire
with the idea of someone doing things to my eyeball while I was awake.
I should not have to start the entire emotional process over again.
Eventually, they found another date for me.
One week from today.
So now I have an entire week to work myself back
into the frenzy I had achieved ten days ago.
I think I can do a good job with that.
But I’m going forward with the surgery.
I fought to get it back.
It’s on my calendar.
It has my name on it.
I still don’t want cataract surgery.
But this one is supposed to be mine.
And apparently,
nobody gets to keep me from having something I don’t want.
-Pattie
Third Act With Pattie 