Columnist looking forward to better life by the eyeful after her implants

I’ve decided to get implants.

Hopefully, they’ll improve my social life, my attitude and my outlook.

Others tell me there will be an immediate noticeable difference.

Everyone says how easy it is, and I’m hoping that’s true, even after reading and signing that piece of paper warning about all the things that could go terribly wrong during surgery but probably won’t.

My doctor comes highly recommended, and I keep bumping into people she has operated on. I’ve checked her out, and I’m confident in her skills and ethics.

I confessed to her that I might need a little anti-nausea cocktail Wednesday, based on prior unpleasant experiences with anesthesia (unpleasant for me and everyone around me). She said we could do the two surgeries without much anesthesia at all, and I could be awake. Thanks, but no thanks. Not only am I a hurler, I’m a well-known wimp. Put me out, please, put me out.

Yep. I’m getting implants.

Lens implants.

What did you think I was talking about?

She’s going to remove my cataracts, too. One eye next week, the other the following week.

My life will be improved by seeing better, not by being bustier, although that might spice up my appearances on “Nevada Week in Review.”

Colors should be more vivid. My night driving should be less treacherous. Implants are going to make a difference in my quality of life.

But I have to get over the constant suggestion that I am so young for cataracts. Every time I hear that, it adds five years to my age. Right now I’m feeling 120.

My eyes are not my best body part. Once I die, they can use any body part that’s useful, although I draw the line at being a medical school cadaver. I’m a big believer in donating organs. My eyes are so bad, I’m not sure they would want them.

I started wearing glasses in the fourth grade, long before glasses were smart accessories. Remember those awful black cat-eye glasses? Yep, I wore those in high school. My senior year I got my first contact lenses and went from no boyfriends to three boyfriends. I considered this one giant step for womankind and a testimonial to the benefits of contacts. Sure, I cry a lot when it’s windy and dusty, but the whole boyfriend thing made meaningless tears worthwhile.

The lens implants should mean that I’ll be able to see the moment I open my eyes in the morning. Maybe having cataracts when I am so young isn’t a bad thing. Maybe I’ll see better for more years than I would have otherwise.

It’s so easy, they say.

Well, the part leading up to it isn’t easy. It’s a nuisance. Because I’ve worn hard contacts for so long, my doctor needs me to keep the contact lenses out for a week before each surgery so that the eye returns to its normal shape. She needs to slice and dice it just right.

So I popped the lenses out and discovered that my Ben Franklin glasses with the Coke-bottle lenses are so old, they’re totally useless. As I write this, my face is nearly touching the computer screen, and I’m squinting with my one good eye. My boss calls me Deadeye. One friend calls me Cyclops.

This past week, I’ve walked into walls, smashed toes and slammed knees. I considered driving with an eye patch, but that threw me off kilter and made me queasy. I didn’t want to take the chance of hurting anyone else, so I am depending on the kindness of my dad to get me around to the really necessary places, such as eye appointments and the grocery store. I canceled most everything else because one can call on good ol’ Dad for only so much.

I look forward to having the surgeries behind me and seeing colors and faces more clearly, even though my boss says the excuse for my typos will disappear along with the cataracts.

By the way, if I appear to have snubbed anybody in the past few months, cut me some slack; maybe I just didn’t see you clearly.

See you soon. Really.

Jane Ann Morrison’s column appears Monday, Thursday and Saturday. E-mail her at Jane@reviewjournal.com or call 383-0275.