It’s the day after the hurricane, which came, swirled above
my life, threated mass destruction and death, and left, leaving no scars but
the tiniest one in my left eye, and greatly improving the landscape. How was it
all for you? A normal Tuesday.
It was a minor procedure—nothing like the old days, when
having a cataract removed was a one-week affair of lying in bed, patch
shielding the afflicted eye, and nurses guarding you around the clock. I would
have hated it, and yet, I miss it. Recuperation, recovery of sight, should be
marked by something more than a discharge from an ambulatory clinic an hour or
so after light and clarity were reclaimed. Nor should it be I putting in the
sacred drops, the potent elixirs, the magic potions into the knived or lasered
eye, but rather virgins dressed in white, their nursing caps pinned firmly to
their hair, their appearance marked by the swish of their starched dresses.
And so I have spent two days progressively seeing more and
more. The black of the words on my computer screen, for example, is a
revelation: before, they had appeared as my face does in the morning mirror,
after my shower. Now, each letter snaps out at me, screaming, demanding to be
seen.
Oh, and did I mention that the floor is back to having black
and grey tiles, and that grout appears between them? Previously, it had just
been grey….
So sight has returned, and I rejoice, and yet… Something is
missing. Yes, it’s wonderful that modern medicine has found a way to put a 450$
lens into my left eye in a procedure that lasted only fifteen minutes. Yes, it
is wonderful that I walked into the surgery, and wobbled home from it
afterward. And certainly, it’s wonderful to hear the doctor say, “no
restrictions,” meaning that I could go back to work, go back to playing the
cello, go on with my normal routine.
Wonderful—or is it? Because today, I’m tired, listless, a
little over-caffeinated but feeling lazy. Yes, the weather—it’s been raining
for three days—doesn’t much help. But there’s something else.
I feel gypped. I went through a long period in which I was
losing my sight incrementally. This document, for example, is being written at
200% amplification, not the 100% that I used in the past, and always assumed I
would use forever. I have had several prolonged fights with an excellent
insurance company—excellent except that it had no ophthalmologists on the
island. So that involved calling California, and having multiple conversations,
all variations of this theme:
Insurance Lady: Marc, you
absolutely covered by the plan!
Marc: OK, but my doctor would like
to know how much the plan will pay for the procedure…
Insurance Lady: We’ll pay 100
percent!
Marc: Yes, but 100% percent of
what?
Insurance Lady: 100% percent of our
usual and customary fees!
Marc: And what is that, exactly.
Insurance Lady: 100%!
Marc: but 100% of what? If the
doctor charges 10 million bucks for the operation, will you pay 100% of that?
Insurance Lady: Oh no, 100% of our
usual and customary fees.
Marc: Ahh, and what is your usual
and customary fee for a cataract operation?
Insurance Lady: Well, we can’t tell
you that.
Marc: Why not? What am I supposed
to tell my doctor?
Insurance Lady: Tell him you are
100% covered!
It went on for weeks, during which it developed that if they
actually told me what they were willing to pay the doctor—what their “usual and
customary fee” was—that would amount to a “preauthorization,” which they
utterly could not do. So I dithered with the insurance company, during which
time life became dimmer and dimmer. It got to the point where I could no longer
read the numbers on my cell phone. And then, blessedly, because of the court
case Windsor, the company Raf worked for decided it wasn’t going to be in the
business of deciding who was married where.
Because it was obviously going to be a Human Resources
nightmare—especially for little companies like Walmart, with over a million
employees in the United States, and even if you could figure out who was
married where, and who was working where, and what that state’s policy was…well,
what happens when you transfer that excellent gay manager from Massachusetts to
turn around that region in Alabama? Because that health insurance for his or
her spouse is a major part of the compensation package.
And so all three components were at last in alignment: we
had the blind eye, the surgeon who could unblind the eye, and the company who
would pay for it. What didn’t we have?
Well, trawling as I do for things to write about, I came
upon Brené Brown talking about vulnerability. That resonated, since lying on a
stretcher, moving from slot number three, seeing patient number one get wheeled
off, moving to slot number two, only to see the new slot number one get wheeled
of, only to arrive at slot number one? Meaning that in twenty minutes it will
be your turn to entrust your eye to an essential stranger—though you have
looked him up on line, and peered at his board certifications and wondered:
were they real, or were they purchased for five cereal box coupons and fifty
dollars?
Your mind, in short, knows perfectly well: everything will
be OK. Your body, however, is telling you: there’s still time, get the hell OFF
this stretcher! You can still write. You’re not walking into too many walls,
yet. You can get it done later.
That, Dr. Brown, is vulnerability.
Then I pursued Dr. Brown onto another show, with Jonathan
Fields, who has The Good Life Project. And that’s when I broke my vows to
Brené, and listened to Fields talking to Sara Gottlieb about biohacking your
hormones and reclaiming your life.
So I was fifteen minutes in, when I got the strangest
feeling: something is completely disordered. After months of growing
progressively blind, a surgeon in less than half an hour has restored my sight,
and after one day I can go back to my life. Which should have meant that I
could go back to teaching my classes at the island’s biggest bank. I should
have stopped writing. I should have stopped worrying about the debacle that was
the midterm elections. So where should I have been?
Flat on my back in a hospital bed, with the blinds carefully
drawn to shield against the harmful, blinding light, with doctors appearing
carefully to peer into my eyes, and with nurses gently, oh so gently, turning
me to my side, so that they could give my nightly backrub.
We have perfected medicine so much that we have eliminated a
crucial component of healing, and that is recuperation. Yes, it’s expensive.
Yes, it’s non-productive. But I wonder if, indeed, it is. I spent one day
recovering from the morning’s surgery. The next day I was listless, irritable,
and completely unproductive.
Today, I have to worry about biohacking my hormones, and it
might be a good thing to do. I definitely should check into it. But I’m too
tired—not in body but in spirit. Know where I really want to be?
…in bed!
