Operation Cataract

    In 2009, I had cataract surgery.  After overcoming the usual trepidation about having something sharp enter your eye, on purpose, the procedure itself is a smooth operation indeed.
   The process  can be likened to  driving your car through Hoffman's Deluxe Carwash on a busy day.  Upon entering the anteroom to the sterile operating room, a team of workers descends on you in rapid order:  an attendant clads you in a gown while another puts a protective covering over your hair at the same time you're being seated, at which time another person puts the little booties on your feet, someone else slaps a wristband on you, somebody blocks off  the eye that's not being operated on, and you're asked, for the first of at least a dozen times your name and birthdate and the reason for your visit, and which eye is being done that day.  That team disperses, their work done for now, on to the next patient in the stall next to you.  The medical specialists enter next, and start the process of IV and again ascertaining if you know who you are and why you're here, and of course, which eye.  Different practitioners insert drops, in a series of 10 or more applications spaced over a period of time. The anesthesiologist interviews you, letting you select your drug of choice from his list, and of course then  disappears, as is their wont, only to be manifested later as a stealth apparition existing somewhere from above and behind; you're pretty much blind by then anyway because of all the drops and since your good eye is covered.  The surgeon drops in to let you know he's here, and to check to see if you're in operable condition.  He times it so that you're partially sedated by then and are not likely to tie him up with chatter; his time is far too valuable to spend on conversation.  What you thought was a chair that you were sitting in is actually on wheels, and so you're whisked into the operating arena in a semi-conscious state, enough so that you don't move during surgery.  You're transferred to the operating table, and subjected to a lot of noise and light, at minimum discomfort, though you realize your head is being restrained in some fashion, and that could bother you a little. In a little while you will be chaired out of the operating theater and offered crackers and juice before you are released.  I think you're supposed to be un-sedated  enough to be able to chew and swallow  before you're released.  And, leaving behind your old dried-up lens that is called a cataract because it makes you look at things as from behind a waterfall, you embark on a life of new vision.