Fuzzy

My mama waves goodbye as I leave her apartment after spending a pleasant afternoon with her and my dad.

Yes, I'm posting this blurry photo on purpose, in honor of my mom who has not been able to see clearly for about six weeks now. Not only is losing clear vision difficult for an 86-year old woman, but Mama has gone through this while making a move from a 2000 square foot home in Washington to a 900 square foot apartment in a senior living building in California. That amount of change in a short time is breathtaking, and yet my mama is smiling readily and making the best of it that she can.

The saga of the fuzzy vision started when our long-time friend Art, who previously worked as an ophthalmology faculty member in a school of medicine, pondered my mom's thick glasses and her age, and said that it was very likely that she had cataracts. He thought he could make her sight much better. Art kept inviting her to call his office and make an appointment, but my mom never got around to it--a typical response for this time of life. Finally, Art had his office staff call my mom and make the appointment.

Long story short, my mom had her cataracts taken out, one during the first week of August, and the second during the second week. I was in Nashville when the first surgery was done, keeping in touch by phone. When we flew back in to our home airport, my parents picked us up, and there was my Mama without her glasses. She was so excited that she could see bright colors again, she told me, she hadn't been able to fall asleep the night before. She had never realized how much her eyesight had dimmed with the cataracts. Her excitement and the lively expression on her face brought tears to my eyes.

Mama with Art. We like him a lot. He has brightened Mama's life, literally.

So Art fixed the second eye on my mom, and a few days later we loaded up the moving van with both households. Husband and I flew south with my parents to meet the moving van on the other end, and to settle into our new living situations.

Art had arranged for my mom to see a faculty ophthalmologist (let's call him Dr. #1) when we got to California. All three of us--my mama, my dad and me--went to the appointment.  Dr. #1 came into the exam room after his assistant had done all the preliminaries. He brought his resident along with him. With an air of tidiness and exactitude he sat down and examined Mama's eyes.

And he froze.

We saw it right there in front of us, Dr. #1 going very quiet, his concern evident. In very guarded words he explained that Mama's eyes were some of the smallest he'd seen, and that everything was crowded at the front, and there were floaters in her eyes. He needed to go talk to Art, he said. He left to make the phone call, his resident in tow.

It was what he didn't say that scared us. With my parents being retired physicians, and me also having experience as to how professionals act when they they are frightened, we were aware that something was dreadfully wrong. There was a long, long wait, and then Dr. #1 returned. He was a little more relaxed, but sat down and examined Mama's eyes again. Then he repeated his observation that Mama had very small eyes, and things were crowded at the front, and there was risk of glaucoma although her eye pressure today was fine. She should have some laser surgery as follow-up to the cataract surgery, and he also wanted to have a glaucoma specialist and retina specialist check on Mama's eyes.

And he was going to Europe the next day to present a research paper and would be gone for a month.

As time has passed, my parents have spoken of how freaky that visit to Dr. #1 was, and that they didn't like his manner very much. Art explained over the phone, while checking up on us, that he knew about Mama's unusual eyes, but his friend, Dr. #1, didn't. So maybe Art should have forewarned him, he said. Art is quite certain that Mama's eyes will be okay, that the floaters won't interfere with her vision, and that she'll be able to see as well or better than before.

In the meantime, Mama can't read except occasionally, when things seem a little clearer. And reading her is very favorite thing to do in the world. This is frustrating.

After a two-week wait (in an unfamiliar place with boxes all around them, may I add), we finally got to the appointment with Dr. #2, the glaucoma specialist. Dr. #2 was very pleasant and kind, said that Mama's eye pressure was fine, discussed that doing a little procedure to put a hole to serve as an extra drain might be good as a prevention of glaucoma, should something else get plugged up.  "I'll do some research over the weekend," she said, "and get back to you."  I emphasized that it was distressing that Mama couldn't read, and could we hurry this up in any way and get things settled?

Dr. #2, as did Dr. #1, suggested drugstore readers. We explained to her that we'd already checked that out, and Mama says she can read better without the readers than with them. Dr. #2 was sympathetic, and said again that she'd do some research, considering how crowded the structures were at the front of Mama's eye, and call me back.

We're two weeks out from that appointment and I've gotten no call.

This week we finally reached the appointment with Dr. #3. She is a loud, brash lady with a specialty in the retina. Mama said Dr. #3 made her ears hurt. I suggested that she turn down her hearing aids. Mama said that her hearing aids were on the lowest setting.

Dr. #3 said that Mama's eye nerve was great, her retina was great, and the floaters were there but shouldn't mess with Mama's vision. She gave the verbal equivalent of a slap on the back, and said that with the laser surgery done by Dr. #1, Mama should be able to get glasses that were much lighter than the thick, heavy glasses she's had all her life, and see as well or better than before.

"Please," I said, "can we get this done sooner than later? My mom's favorite thing to do is read, and she hasn't been able to read for a while. Everything is fuzzy."

Tell the appointment person to get us the "first available appointment," she said. It sounded like it was some code message.

"Is there someone else who can do the surgery?" my mama asked. "We didn't like Dr. #1's way of interacting very much."

Whoa. Dr. #1 is well-known for being good. On the other hand, when you're in the faculty medical offices, every specialist should be good. And Mama has to feel comfortable.

"Well," said Dr. #3 loudly without batting an eye at the request, "Dr. #3 is excellent, but how about Dr. #4?  He's a sweetheart."  We had been looking at Dr. #4's certificate on the wall, and his little family picture below it--Asian wife and two fine-looking kids. The certificate said he did a fellowship at Mayo Clinic.

Sure, my parents said. Sign us up for Dr. #4.

The "first available appointment" is in two weeks. Mama is on the waiting list in case an opening emerges before then. And this appointment will just be for him to get up to speed before doing the procedure, so the surgery will come after that. Mama is still seeing fuzzy.  Sigh.

I can't imagine what it must be like to not be able to read for two months. I know that older people do lose their sight, and I never thought about how traumatic that is for them and their families until seeing my mom deal with a fuzzy world and long days in which she can't read.

I just want this to be over. And I'm glad that [as far as we know] we're not facing a permanent loss of clear vision.  So glad.