A TRUISM: YOUTH IS WASTED ON THE YOUNG: THE RECALCITRANT RETINA

It’s Friday, June 26th, and I’ve just learned that the recalcitrant growth on the retina will have to undergo a shaving. The “cellophane retinopathy,” an old medical term no longer used in the prestigious halls of UCLA Medical School, heretofore known as the “epi-retinal membrane," will have to be surgically peeled off.

Now, why I get these little hanger-oners, I have no idea, but I’m damn tired of it. First it’s the herniated disk that refuses to unherniate, even after the good doc does the surgery; then the thumb joint decides to do away with anything as helpful as some nice little cushioning between bones; next the cataract decides to obliterate my vision, while hiding the fact that stuff was piggybacking on the retina, so now I have to get that sucker peeled off before I go blind.

I asked the good doc how the procedure was carried out. He said to imagine trying to remove a piece of Scotch tape from a photo. If you go real slow and hold your mouth just right, it might come off completely clean, without taking any of the photo paper with it. However, and here’s the sad part, if some of the photo paper (e.g. the epi-retinal membrane) decides to come off with the Scotch tape,(e.g. the paring knife) then… he stopped right there, shrugged, and said not to worry. Anything could happen, he continued… “I could drop the knife in your eye, an earthquake could shake the building and then…. or the knife could get a little germ on it and it would be transferred to the eyeball…”

ENOUGH! I cried. If he wasn’t so dang good looking I would have run from the room, screaming, but alas I'm a sucker for a gorgeous face.

There is definitely something to be said about “The good old days.” Why didn’t we appreciate those days when we had them? I guess we… (“We” as in anyone over 50) just took those days as they came, always thinking of what the next day would bring and never realizing that the good days were slipping away as we pushed them aside and called on the next day. Oh, I want them back!

But I digress:

Here’s what the good doc told me when I queried, “Just tell me the risks because I already know the benefits.” He didn’t hold back…

For starters, how about: vitreous hemorrhage; infection; elevated eye pressure (glaucoma); non-healing corneal defects; double vision; eyelid droop; loss of circulation to vital tissues in eye, resulting in decrease or loss of vision; permanent blindness or diminished visual acuity; loss of eye; anesthetic complications, including death! Now, how could I refuse to undergo such a noninvasive surgery?

Actually, he said that the odds were 1 in 1000 that things could go wrong. I would have preferred a 1 in 100,000,000, but he didn’t offer that. So, I go, because I have no choice. No go…no license…no driving…no shopping…no freedom…a whole lot of “nos.”

Wish me luck!

RETINA RIDES AGAIN!

Well, pshaw!!!!!

The cataract surgery was not successful.

It seems that the retinal growth reared its ugly head and decided it wasn’t to be ignored. If the doc had removed the cataract AND the retinal growth at the same time, my vision would be WONDERFUL! I think! However, he felt the two surgeries together might not be the best way to go in my case. He thought by just removing the cataract it would give me enough vision to pass my DMV test in four months. No changes, in fact, I could barely read the line above the 20/40.

What did change, though, with the removal of the cataract, was that colors became so much more vivid and bright. There’s a new world around me now. Up close, that is. My distance leaves much to be desired. I still can’t tell the difference between a theater marquee or a house on fire.

But, I can actually read the text on the television and movie screens. Before the cataract surgery, my husband had to read it to me. You know, such as...Directed by, Produced by; Written by, Grip guy, and other miscellany I really didn’t need to know, but he felt the need to tell me. Probably because his hearing left him a few years back (which he denies; says I mumble my words), and I have to repeat almost every line of every TV and movie for him. What a team! By now I should be a card-carrying SAG member!

So now it’s a waiting game. If the swelling in the retina has receded by my next visit on June 5, they will consider removing the growth; if it has not, then @%@#$@#$!#@, and same for the horse you rode in on!

Will keep you posted.

A POET AT LARGE

Just got a lovely email from www.writerschatroom.com that they've accepted a poem I sent in. It was one of those crazy days when everything I thought turned into rhyme.

Now, I know some people think rhyming is not about poetry, but ole' Edgar Allan sure had no problem with it, and he's my hero.

I started writing rhyming poetry in the seventh grade when the class had to pick a poem, memorize and recite it. My aunt, an avowed Poe devotee, decided I should learn The Raven, all one-thousand, eighty-eight words of it. As I have (had) a wonderful memory, this was no problem, and I’ve loved his poetry ever since.

For my poem, I took "The Raven" and adapted it to a writer’s world. It has won several awards, some even actually paying me for the submission. So, Poe is still with me.

The name of the poem is: Quoth the Experts: “Write Some More.”

If you’d like to read it, it will be in the “May Spotlight” of http://www.aweber.com/z/article/?chatroom on Tuesday, May 5th.

Let me know your thoughts on it. You don’t have to be a writer to enjoy it!

THE HATEFUL EYE CHART

My high-risk surgery on 4/20/09, for removal of a despicable cataract in my left eye, went well.

My thoughtful best friend, Gail, took me to UCLA Jules Stein Eye Center, where Dr. Caprioli did the surgery. After a wonderful cocktail of magical potions, I drifted off to LA-LA land, and awoke, prone, watching the surgeon’s shadow while he was mid-suture with 9-0 nylon. I wanted to tell him to take an extra stitch to keep everything in place, but my mouth wouldn’t form the words and my voice was nowhere to be found.

After surgery, with very limited vision in the surgical eye (which was covered with a metal patch with tiny holes), and no vision in the other (due to amblyopia), Gail led me (steered me) to the car. As I’d had no food since 6 p.m. the night before, my intestines were doing the macarena. After a short nap at our hotel, Gail led (pushed) me across the street to Ralphs, where they had an incredible bakery, which I just knew would improve my vision after ingesting a gooey sweet and some coffee.

I only walked into two walls and three people, so I felt reasonably sure I could drive soon. But, while we stood in line to check out, I was having a very gut level talk with Gail about losing my eyesight. In the middle of my gut-wrenching tale, without my knowledge, she left me for a second to grab something from another aisle. Of course, I babbled on, talking very animatedly (I later learned) to a shelf of canned, pitted olives and artichokes canned in oil. Very embarrassing! I could hear passers-by comment on the poor homeless person talking to herself, and debating whether they should help me or report me to the manager.

The next day I removed the patch from my left eye and was delighted that the world around me looked a little brighter and much clearer than before surgery. Alright, I admit it, I’m a cockeyed optimist. After a hospital cafeteria breakfast of powdered eggs and very tired bacon, Gail packed the car and drove us back to her house in Orange County.

The next day, three days post-op, I was sure I was ready to drive back to my winter home in Palm Desert, CA., a trip of only 121 miles. Gail, ever the realist, suggested we go to Wal-Mart and see if they would give me a quick eye test.

Now, according to the State of Washington DMV, I can only get my license renewed if I can read 20/40. Last September, after trying desperately to read 20/40, I was told I would have to take another eye test before my birthday in September of this year. If I couldn't pass the test, they'd yank my license. So you can see why I was desperate for 20/40 vision.

When the Wal-Mart optometrist put up the lighted chart and told me to put my hand over my right eye, I could read so many lines I expected her to cheer. However, I later learned they most assuredly were lines extemporaneously placed there by the guy who made the chart to fool people into believing they had good vision, or else proof that they knew the alphabet.

But then the optometrist scrolled down a line and asked, “Good, okay, now what do you see?” I faltered.

“Ummm, I can’t read that line.” And so it went for three more lines. Okay, but hey, I did read four lines, isn’t anyone excited about that besides me? “What’s the vision line that I read without a hitch?” I asked the optometrist.

“You were just below 20/40,” she replied, “but you were close on a couple of the letters.”

I was devastated. How could that be? I had my cataract removed; I was ready to take on the DMV. Then she asked when my surgery had taken place. When told it had only been three days, she giggled with her hand over her mouth, as if not to offend the idiot sitting in her chair.

I was disappointed that my distance vision had not changed after the surgery. But, she said it would take a month to really see if it was a success. If it was not, then I will have to undergo another surgery to remove a retinal growth; that's where the danger of swelling comes in. So, in three more weeks I’ll know whether I’ll be home free or back to UCLA.

Wish me luck!

TO SEE OR NOT TO SEE, THAT IS THE QUESTION

HI-HO, HI-HO, IT'S OFF TO UCLA I GO! Next Monday's the big surgery day. I've been told that, because I am one-sighted, (can see out of only one eye) no surgeon would take the risk to remove a cataract from my "good" eye. Growth on Retina, Glaucoma, and all that risky stuff.

But when you can't tell a house on fire from a theater marquee, I think it's time to do something drastic.

So hail to the Bruins at UCLA Jules Stein Eye Center! They say "Bring it on! We do high-risk surgery all the time. We can help you."

As my husband's a rabid USC fan, he isn't taking this too well. I hope he's not pulling for a failure, but you know those football fans.

Anyway, at my last eye test, the sweet little DMV clerk wanted to pull my license right on the spot.

She became a bit suspicious when I couldn't tell a Q from an O, or a G from a C. "Are you having difficutly, dear?" she asked.

"Oh, no, I'm just being silly. Of course I know what it is."

"WHAT is it?" She had just morphed from a cute little old lady to Nurse Ratched.

Well, come next Monday I'll know if the surgery was successful, but right now, I'm dreaming of showing up with a patch on my bad eye and shouting Q-O-G-C, neener, neener, as I pass with flying colors!

Any one-sighted bloggers out there who have had this procedure done???

Wish me luck!

AN EXPAT’S WAKE-UP CALL

I wonder how many of us even think about where all our conveniences originate.

Before I moved to Iran, I never considered where my drinking water came from, other than my kitchen faucet. I never considered where my electricity came from, other than the switches on lamps, walls, various and sundry plugs located at convenient intervals throughout my home. I never considered where the heat and air conditioning came from, other than the cutesy little louvered registers at ceiling level all over the house that blew out the required heated or chilled air.

I didn't consider what made them all work; how the gas went into the furnace, was then heated by a flame that warmed the heat exchanger, which in turn warmed the air, which then circulated through the vents and then was forced from the register to warm our house, our bodies, and made life in the winter comfortable.

Then we moved to Isfahan, Iran, in the 70s. As a new expat, I found myself worrying about everything that I had taken for granted: the heating pump in the basement; how to keep it full of oil (Naft) that kept us from freezing in 20 degrees, that kept the old radiators in each room putting out warm air and drying our clothes that stretched across them, or worrying about the cooling system when it reached 120F degrees outside, and which worked arbitrarily.

It all came down to when the "AC" or "Naft" man came to town to make it work. Some days he was busier than others and just couldn't get to our house. Busy also meant taking his four hours of Siesta time, prayer time and various obligations that he must attend to before showing up, if, indeed, he came at all.

I also had to fret about the water that came through our rusty pipes. Well, either the pipes made it rusty, or it came to us just plain rusty. I never did figure that one out. Where did the water originate?

A brief walk through town revealed water canals (jubes), running down both sides of the street, which were used for many conveniences; rinsing the vegetables that merchants sold from their carts, tossing rotted bits of produce into, urinating into by the merchants, or any male passersby if the urge to purge hit them, and a quick lap for the scabrous dogs who prowled the streets.

Which brings me back to my original thought: Sometimes we forget how lucky we are to live in the U.S.A.

IRAN IN RETROSPECT

As I delve into my next memoir, the story of living in Iran during the revolution of the 70s, I feel a need to post this somewhat revised blog to get myself in the writing mode.

I realize my Iran memoir won't be as easy as my first memoir: "A Broad Abroad in Thailand." The Thai people were gracious, happy, smiling and welcoming.

In the70s, with the revolution already in motion (of course we expats had no clue), the Iranian people seemed unhappy, cross, maybe even pissed that westerners had invaded their land.

In retrospect, it’s easy to look back now and understand why the Iranians so hated Americans, but at the time we assumed they weren’t happy campers and let it go at that. In our ignorance, we thought the shah was all about bringing his country up to the 20th Century, and not leave it lagging in the Old Testament era.

Hiring expatriates from all over the world to help bring his country to a new global respect seemed like a generous undertaking. But, retrospection is a wondrous tool. We seem to want to look at casualties “after the fact” and then sort out the problems. But, at the time, we didn’t know there were problems.

The people wanted their country back. Back from the onslaught of foreigners hired by the shah to make more money for his coffers. I guess ignorance is bliss, as they say, because we went on our merry way thinking that we were welcome. Oh how wrong we were!

What I did take notice of was the country and the incongruity of it all:

The well-dressed driver of a Mercedes-Benz lays on his horn as he is surrounded by a herd of sheep. They slowly meander across the potholed dirt road, brushing against the front, sides and back of his gleaming car with their filthy, wet coats, while he screams obscenities at the sheep, the herder and at his illiterate countrymen that would allow this to happen.

A chador-clad woman stands in the street. As she waves her arm and tries to hail a taxi, her chador rides up revealing a bare arm dripping with a fortune in pure gold bangles, while an ancient, blind woman squats at her feet, begging for money or scraps of food.

A towering mosque, laden with gold and jade, stands in tribute to the incredible architecture of centuries past, while beggars with limbs missing seek shelter in the shade provided by its magnificent minarets.

In the capital city of Tehran, a theater marquee stands twelve feet high and pictures a female strapped to a pillar; she is wearing black fishnet stockings, garter belt, stiletto heels, and black bra with cleavage pouring forth. Lined up on the sidewalks and spilling over into the dirty streets are throngs of men, salivating as they wait to enter the theater. Walking by the theater and on both sides of the street are other figures, covered from head to toe in the traditional black chador, eyes, nose and mouth the only indication that they are women, yet having to hide every strand of hair and femininity to insure they do not cause a man to have “unholy thoughts.” Hellllooooooooooooo!

Okay, now I have to get busy and turn this into a 300-page book and sell it.

Agents, feel free to contact me!