Gill: keeping a sharp eye on an annoying condition

Several months ago my optometrist suggested I was a good candidate for the surgery most commonly known as “eye-lid surgery.” Time and age had allowed my eyelids to droop some, somewhat obstructing my peripheral vision.

Having recently been through my wife’s stroke, then her ultimate death, followed by my own mini-stroke, all within the past year, facing surgery of any kind, wasn’t appealing.

My insurance would cover the cost, but submitting myself to anesthesia didn’t sound like a good idea. Then I moved the care of my eyes over to the VA. Within a very few days, I received a call from the Optometry Department in Fresno. The VA wanted to provide this surgery for me, and I had an appointment with a civilian doctor in Visalia to arrange the procedure. By the time I could get in to see the Doctor, it was going to be nearing Fire Season. I had no desire to debilitate myself by surgery, and miss out on going to a fire. However, I reasoned, I could at least go discuss it with him. I’d schedule the procedure for sometime in the winter when I was unlikely to get called.

During the appointment, I was assured there would not be a full anesthesia, but what was termed a conscious sedation. When the numbing injections in the eyelid were performed I’d be far enough under to not experience discomfort. After those injections, I’d quickly be brought back to a level of consciousness which should even allow me to carry on a conversation with the doctor. I was also assured the discomfort of having your eyelids cut on would be minimal.

Learning these facts, I decided the benefit of better peripheral vision would outweigh any risks or pain. We set an appointment for midJanuary for the surgery. This would allow me to get through the holidays, and my annual appearance as Santa Claus at the Bakersfield Homeless Center. This, I reasoned, would also give me all winter to recover from any ill effects of the surgery.

Shortly after Thanksgiving, I received a call from the doctor’s office. There had been a cancellation in December. Would I be interested in moving the date up a month?

Because of COVID and the risks involved, Santa wasn’t going to walk the halls of the Homeless Center, and nobody else could come up with a reason to postpone the procedure into January. Great. Let’s get it done before Christmas.

And I have. While you’re reading this today, I’ll be recuperating at home. I had to report to Visalia at 7:30 a.m. for an 8:30 procedure. At 8:45 they wheeled me into the surgical suite, and the fun began.

The next thing I knew, or was aware of, was the doctor was started on the procedure. I had not felt, nor been aware of the injections to block pain. Of course, I was a bit foggy during this time, but was aware of the conversation around me among the various staff.

I wondered if I could speak, tried a comment to the conversation, and found not only could I speak but I got a response. I asked a question about vision during post-surgery, that I had a column to write. Of course, that prompted the question, “What is the column about?”

I told them of Mr. Boo and getting bovine kisses. They thought having a bull that gentle was cool.

I was soon wheeled into Recovery, where I was prepared to leave. Within no more than 15 minutes, at exactly 9:47 a.m. the nurse noted, I was wheeled out to the waiting car, wished a Merry Christmas, and sent on my way home. I was instructed to keep the ice pack on my eyes until 10 p.m., a good two hours later than my usual bedtime.

Before 11 a.m. I was in my big chair, snugly covered over, and resting at home. The rest of the day was spent keeping ice on my eyes, and being an impatient patient. I could hear the TV, but with the ice pack, couldn’t watch. Finally at 10 p.m. I turned everything off and drifted off to sleep.

I’d been advised to sleep in my chair to keep me from lying on my side and having blood pool in one eye or the other. Though the chair is comfortable, it’s not my usual sleeping spot, so by 2 a.m. I was wide awake. Shortly after that I started writing on this column.

By the time you get to read this, it will almost be Christmas Eve once again. Even though there are many restrictions on getting together with family, I hope your Christmas is a good one. As stated above, I’m not going to get to be Santa for the 19th time at Bakersfield Homeless Center, but the previous 18 have provided some marvelous memories.

Note: the surgery requires an application of an ointment four times per day. If any of the ointment oozes off the eyelid after it warms up, the result isn’t a burning sensation. It’s simply a blurring of my vision. I intended on writing a little more on this column. However, it warmed, it oozed, and now I’m typing nearly blind. Oh well. Merry Christmas everybody.