MARKETING AND BOOK PROMOTION 101
From the Stakeout to the Kill:
Or: Secrets from a Self-Promoting Slut
I've had several writers ask me to talk about marketing and how I go about it. I wrote this blog a year ago, but nothing has changed, it's just gotten harder. Marketing is something that you have to do whether you want to or not, whether you're tired or not, whether you'd rather curl up with a good book and forget the world.
Okay, here’s the deal. We have to promote ourselves! There’s only one person who knows the book and thinks it’s the Greatest Story Ever Told; and that person is the author. I have no shame when it comes to promoting, selling or getting in someone’s face (or dinner plate) to sell my book.
The first thing I did after my cover was designed was to design and make a bookmark. It was easy. All I had to do was set my margins on my word document to the size of a normal bookmark (2”x7”) and then start typing….In this laugh-out-loud memoir, Dodie Cross…yada, yada, yada. You’d a thought I had just been awarded the Pulitzer by the way I bragged. But, why not? Whose going to walk up to you and say: “Hey, I read your book, and it wasn’t a ‘Laugh out loud.’”
Next I called around and got some quotes on 500 bookmarks; some prices were higher than my mortgage payment, some companies took six weeks to deliver. Then I found Office Depot. They were fast, did the work in-house, and the bookmarks turned out lovely! Then I began my attack:
The Stakeout: Every time I left the house I made sure I had at least 50 bookmarks stuffed into my purse. The second I saw a straggler, a woman sitting alone, two or more women together, or husband and wife, I began reaching into my purse. “Hi,” I’d say, giving my best local author smile, “I’m a local author and this is a bookmark for you.” “Oh, thanks,” most would mutter as they haltingly accepted it, hoping I wasn’t a rabid cult member trying to lure them into my church.
The Assault: I can’t tell you how many times my cheapo little cards sold a book for me. In restaurants: I’d scope out the room looking for happy faces—crinkles around the eyes shows a propensity for laughing; women chattering over a glass of wine (I always approach drinkers, they’re happy people). I’ve left the restaurant with two people trailing me to my car for an on-the-spot purchase. I suspect it might have looked like some sort of a drug-buy, but hey, you’ve got to market at any cost! On airplanes: I walk the aisles looking for women reading. They’re easy prey. “Hi,” I say brightly as I check out the name of the book they’re reading. “You look like you’d enjoy this type of book,” as I insert a bookmark into their book. There’s really no way to avoid a sales pitch on a plane. Where are they gonna go to get away from you? At the post office: Lines of women, just waiting to get their minds off of the dreary duty of picking up “held” bills. I think they’re the easiest marks. They have no book with them; they are bored beyond endurance; and their eyes light up when I tell them that the back of my bookmark is “for women only.” Then I lurk just outside the door, knowing I’ve interested a few of them, and sure enough, I have captured at least one to three bored housewives longing for some excitement in their lives, and honey, I tell them, this book will do it. Once I ran out of bookmarks before the line of women ran out, and I actually had a lady look ticked off. “Where’s mine?” she asked. Doctor’s offices: Another sure-fire captive audience. They’re all reading; either books or magazines left over from the pterodactyl period or boring health leaflets. “Hi,” I say, giving them the “local author” bit, “I’ll bet this book might be more interesting than reading about the heartbreak of seborrhea and psoriasis.”
Coming in for the Kill—The Guarantee: “This is a woman’s book,” I tell them. “Very funny, fast reading, and if you don’t laugh out loud I’ll refund your money.” “Oh!” some would reply, suddenly interested. “Well, gee. Okay. Um, where can I get it?” they’d ask while turning the card over and reading the hilarious synopsis I devised to trap such hold-outs. “Well, if you’re interested in saving some money in shipping and handling costs, I have copies in my car for just your type of smart shopper. Plus, I can autograph it for you if you purchase it right now.” I do believe I have sold more from my trunk than from my website.
I guess what I’m trying to say with all this airy persiflage is: don’t be a bunch of nattering nabobs of negativism. Get out and be a self-promoting slut!
Addendum: I need to add here that you must also try to find every book club in your area, and sometimes they may not be near you (I've been to Hawaii and Mexico to market my book), but if you don't get it out, who will?
Unless you're a King or a Grisham, you better get yourself some good walking shoes, and get hopping!
By: Dodie Cross
Monday, August 31, 2009
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
LOOK OUT DRIVERS, HERE I COME!
I distinctly remember the first time I scooted behind the wheel of an automobile. It was the summer of my Junior year (notice how I ignored the year?), and my uncle had come to visit for the weekend. He called me aside and asked if I’d like to take a drive with him.
Now, in the 50s, there was usually just one car per family (okay, now I’ve given away my age), and the idea that I might have a chance to drive my father’s car was a non-starter. No one drove it but him, and I always wondered what the big deal was. It was an old beat up Mercury, spewed black smoke and the interior headliner was always sagging at some inappropriate spot. But he loved that car, and it was off limits to me.
When my uncle asked me that question, I knew immediately what he had in mind. My heart raced as we pulled away from the curb. “Don’t tell your folks about this,” he said, “they’d kill me.” What a brave thing for an uncle to do, or anyone to do for that matter.
In the 50s, we had Driver’s Ed as an elective in our Junior year, so I’d already aced the test (well, after hitting a few curbs and nearly running down a few little old ladies), and knew I’d be up to the task.
We parked about a block from our house and we changed places. It was a feeling like no other. My hands were clammy and my mouth was dry. I had to do this perfectly so he’d tell my folks that I was ready for my first car. I knew there would be no such item coming, as we were just plain middle-income working class people, and to have two cars in the driveway signaled some sort of prosperity. We couldn’t be show-offs.
My uncle launched into a five-minute speech about rules; turning to look out the window when pulling from a curb, left arm out straight, or bent up if going right, down if going left, etc. Basically it was the same sort of car that our class instructor used, so I did know the names and places for the stuff on the floorboard. I'd just never drove anywhere other than the school parking lot. But,I felt I was ready.
I looked out the rear-view mirror, the side mirror, put my arm out straight, and was ready to go when I realized that I’d forgotten what to do with the two floor pedals and the one large gearshift at the same time. I put my hand on the gear shift, put both feet on the clutch and brake. Nothing happened. “Give it the gas,” my uncle prodded. “Oh, yeah, right.” I then put my left foot on the clutch, right foot on the gas, and slowly pushed down. Nothing happened. “Put it into gear,” my uncle said, patiently. “Oh, yeah, right.”
I then grabbed the gearshift like a long-haul truck driver, pulled it down, pushed on the gas, held in the clutch…and we were off. But I forgot to look out the window before doing so. There was a deafening screech as an old man swerved around the car, honking and giving obscene hand gestures.
All of a sudden it wasn’t so fun. My hands were still clammy, my heart was racing, but for the wrong reasons. I was no longer excited, I was scared to death. “No problem,” my uncle said. Just sit there awhile and calm down. You can try again in a few minutes.
“Can’t we go to a parking lot?” I asked, terrified he would think I was a big baby and wasn’t ready to drive. He got out of the car to take over and drove to a parking lot. I got out with shaky legs, not sure I wanted to do this.
After several bump-and-runs, and giving my poor uncle whiplash, I finally mastered the gear-shift and gas pedal at the same time and was flying high. I felt that I’d just passed puberty; I’d just ascended into the realm of young woman and no longer a kid. I couldn’t get the smile off my face.
Well, here’s the thing. My cataract surgery and retinal surgery was a success (YEAH!) However, the surgeon did say that the growth can return, but I’ll worry about that later. For now, I’m back on the highway again.
Today I picked up my beautiful Versace glasses (if you have to wear glasses, might as well look cool). I drove home with a stupid smile on my face. I felt like a teenager again. I could see trees two blocks away, not to mention pedestrians and cars. What a thrill. I had been driving like I did in my Junior year, hoping that no one had the misfortune to step in front of me while I was behind the wheel.
Okay, I exaggerate a tad, but it has been scary. Last week, before my glasses were ready, I had a scare. On the 91 Freeway, whether you want to or not, you must drive 80 miles per hour to keep from getting rear-ended. So as I’m streaking down the freeway I see something strange ahead of me. You know those rubbery yellow poles that separate the FastTrack Lane from the other lanes on the freeway? Well, they came up on me so fast that I didn’t see them, and I mowed about ten of them down. Of course, they popped right up again, but I was glad they weren’t humans.
Thanks for those of you who wished me well. I will be taking the test for my driver’s license for renewal in the middle of September. Glad they don’t have gear-shifts and clutches in cars anymore.
Now, in the 50s, there was usually just one car per family (okay, now I’ve given away my age), and the idea that I might have a chance to drive my father’s car was a non-starter. No one drove it but him, and I always wondered what the big deal was. It was an old beat up Mercury, spewed black smoke and the interior headliner was always sagging at some inappropriate spot. But he loved that car, and it was off limits to me.
When my uncle asked me that question, I knew immediately what he had in mind. My heart raced as we pulled away from the curb. “Don’t tell your folks about this,” he said, “they’d kill me.” What a brave thing for an uncle to do, or anyone to do for that matter.
In the 50s, we had Driver’s Ed as an elective in our Junior year, so I’d already aced the test (well, after hitting a few curbs and nearly running down a few little old ladies), and knew I’d be up to the task.
We parked about a block from our house and we changed places. It was a feeling like no other. My hands were clammy and my mouth was dry. I had to do this perfectly so he’d tell my folks that I was ready for my first car. I knew there would be no such item coming, as we were just plain middle-income working class people, and to have two cars in the driveway signaled some sort of prosperity. We couldn’t be show-offs.
My uncle launched into a five-minute speech about rules; turning to look out the window when pulling from a curb, left arm out straight, or bent up if going right, down if going left, etc. Basically it was the same sort of car that our class instructor used, so I did know the names and places for the stuff on the floorboard. I'd just never drove anywhere other than the school parking lot. But,I felt I was ready.
I looked out the rear-view mirror, the side mirror, put my arm out straight, and was ready to go when I realized that I’d forgotten what to do with the two floor pedals and the one large gearshift at the same time. I put my hand on the gear shift, put both feet on the clutch and brake. Nothing happened. “Give it the gas,” my uncle prodded. “Oh, yeah, right.” I then put my left foot on the clutch, right foot on the gas, and slowly pushed down. Nothing happened. “Put it into gear,” my uncle said, patiently. “Oh, yeah, right.”
I then grabbed the gearshift like a long-haul truck driver, pulled it down, pushed on the gas, held in the clutch…and we were off. But I forgot to look out the window before doing so. There was a deafening screech as an old man swerved around the car, honking and giving obscene hand gestures.
All of a sudden it wasn’t so fun. My hands were still clammy, my heart was racing, but for the wrong reasons. I was no longer excited, I was scared to death. “No problem,” my uncle said. Just sit there awhile and calm down. You can try again in a few minutes.
“Can’t we go to a parking lot?” I asked, terrified he would think I was a big baby and wasn’t ready to drive. He got out of the car to take over and drove to a parking lot. I got out with shaky legs, not sure I wanted to do this.
After several bump-and-runs, and giving my poor uncle whiplash, I finally mastered the gear-shift and gas pedal at the same time and was flying high. I felt that I’d just passed puberty; I’d just ascended into the realm of young woman and no longer a kid. I couldn’t get the smile off my face.
Well, here’s the thing. My cataract surgery and retinal surgery was a success (YEAH!) However, the surgeon did say that the growth can return, but I’ll worry about that later. For now, I’m back on the highway again.
Today I picked up my beautiful Versace glasses (if you have to wear glasses, might as well look cool). I drove home with a stupid smile on my face. I felt like a teenager again. I could see trees two blocks away, not to mention pedestrians and cars. What a thrill. I had been driving like I did in my Junior year, hoping that no one had the misfortune to step in front of me while I was behind the wheel.
Okay, I exaggerate a tad, but it has been scary. Last week, before my glasses were ready, I had a scare. On the 91 Freeway, whether you want to or not, you must drive 80 miles per hour to keep from getting rear-ended. So as I’m streaking down the freeway I see something strange ahead of me. You know those rubbery yellow poles that separate the FastTrack Lane from the other lanes on the freeway? Well, they came up on me so fast that I didn’t see them, and I mowed about ten of them down. Of course, they popped right up again, but I was glad they weren’t humans.
Thanks for those of you who wished me well. I will be taking the test for my driver’s license for renewal in the middle of September. Glad they don’t have gear-shifts and clutches in cars anymore.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
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!
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!
Sunday, May 17, 2009
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.
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.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
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!
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!
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
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!
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!
Monday, April 13, 2009
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!
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!
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