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Topic: PUNCH (08/27/20)
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TITLE: Cataract Calm | Previous Challenge Entry
By Linda Lawrence
09/02/20 -
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Cataract surgery has advanced to a common, generally uncomplicated surgery that seems to be a part of aging. Signing the liability waiver did give me second thoughts—actually an unexpected jolt of anxiety. I mentally prepared for double vision or impaired depth perception. However, it never occurred to me that my visceral view of the world could suddenly be turned inside-out. I had no idea for years I'd been seeing the world through glory-colored lens.
I have a small, but inviting backyard—my own Garden of Eden. Year round it gently draws me in—welcoming, warm, soft-edged. The barely perceptible honey-colored cast warmed my heart and soul, enveloping me with a sense of the Lord's glory and grace. I joyfully anticipated morning and evening when the sunlight often glowed like amber through overhanging trees. I took this grace for granted, never suspecting other eyes saw anything different from the atmosphere I enjoyed. Half the year I practically lived outside, gardening or reading and writing.
My problem started when night vision and reading became bothersome. I went for new glasses but was told I should have my cataracts removed first. I accepted the recommendation without question, assuming it was inevitable. Cataract surgery appeared to be an obvious solution. My aging friends all reported great satisfaction in having their cataracts removed. They were pleased with the brightness and clarity that had been restored.
My surgery was pronounced a success.
The next day I was shocked when I woke to my bedroom flooded with what appeared to be bright LED lights—like a sterile operating room.
I quickly rose to look outside and was gut-punched to see that the warm, soft, golden, August landscape now appeared frosty-blue, cold and sharp-edged, like mid-January.
Inexplicable sadness brought a lump to my throat and tears to my eyes. Dismayed, I phoned my sister. I could tell she had trouble identifying with what I was describing. I wasn’t conscious before of being so affected by shades of particular colors—until those shades were gone. No wonder I found it so hard to explain. However, she could identify with my sadness; so much so that it made her sad for me.
That my perception of the world was affected puzzled the doctor and nurse when I tried to explain during post-op phone calls and appointments.
The outdoors did not draw me as it had. I hid inside—in rooms with honey-colored walls. I’ve always deliberately chosen warm lights, preferring incandescent lighting because of its welcoming aura, forgiving, and its sense of well-being. Harsh, unforgiving, cold light feels repelling, physically and emotionally.
The landscape as I saw it before was warm and welcoming, soft and comforting, more like a Thomas Kinkade painting. I admit it. I am a romanticist and can believe that Eden glowed. Now, overnight I’ve landed in LED land—cold and steely-grey, slate-blue, sharp-edged, uninviting to this sad soul.
I’m told my brain will adjust to this new way of seeing, but will my heart? Only time will tell.
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