3-month anniversary - It's not fair!

Today is February 18, exactly 3 months since my surgery on November 18.   I am home from work today (due to a furlough at City Hall, where I work as a city planner), and the dreary weather today looks just like it did when I was home during my long face-down recovery.  In a strange way, it feels like no time has passed.  Being home today, with the familiar chill in the air and the sound of the rain pouring through the downspouts, brings back a lot of insecurities.  Most days lately, I prefer to dwell on how far I have come, how much my vision has improved, etc.  Today, though, I can't help but indulge that unproductive worry that still nags me.  Will I ever be the same?  Will I ever fully recover?

In a prior post, I explored the "will to be 'normal,'" which is really just a way of accepting change by reframing what "normal" is.  I can't see as well as I used to, but I get by.  It is probably more healthy to dwell on the positive, to appreciate what I can see, what I can do.  Still, some days, I can't help but long for pre-surgery normal.

I want to go back to seeing the world through both eyes.  I have worn glasses and/or contacts since second grade, so I have always had a sense to appreciate my vision.  The older I got, the stronger my prescriptions became.  I knew my eyes were "bad" when they no longer made off-the-shelf, soft contact lenses in a power strong enough to correct me, so when I discovered custom gas permeable contact lenses, I appreciated them immensely.  Contact lenses, whether soft or gas permeable, give you your peripheral vision back in a way that glasses just cannot.  I have always appreciated them for that.  Being able to see the world crisply is a blessing that I think I rarely took for granted, and now, I miss it deeply.

I think the growth of the cataract in my left eye is accelerating, but it's hard to measure.  I try to ignore the haze and rely on my unobscured right eye to sort of make up the difference, and most of the time, that works for me.  Today, I'm just really tired of it.  I want my eyes to be normal again -- normal-normal, not "new normal."  It seems like 3 months should be enough time to recover, but the reality is that my vision will get worse before it gets better.  This cataract will have to grow before it is considered "medically necessary" (i.e. covered by insurance) to remove, and then I will have to accept the risk of side effects (e.g. another retina detachment) to have the cataract surgery.  Hopefully then it will be over.  Hopefully.  Please.  Seriously.

And the issues of vanity just won't disappear.  I am thankful to be wearing eye make up again, but I worry my left pupil will never go back to normal.  It seems permanently dilated now.  It's probably 3 times the size of my right eye, and it never quite contracts in the sunlight.  I hate how it looks in pictures, and I hate the idea of paying a professional photographer to capture it that way for our wedding photos and engagement shoot.  I keep waiting, hoping, praying it will go back to normal, but as more time passes, I have a sinking feeling that it might not.  I have read some people saw improvement in this condition over 6 months, so I guess I can give it another 3 months of waiting and hoping and praying.  Right now though, I just feel defeated about it.

Why did this happen?  Why do I deserve this?  Why did I have to have this heinous surgery?  Why did it have to take away from me the only feature on my face I ever thought was pretty?  Why are grown-ups not allowed to exclaim, "It's not fair!?"  It just isn't.  Debatably, fairness applies to crime and punishment, but it does not apply to health, not always.  People who smoke may get lung cancer, and that might be "fair."  People who perform risky stunts sometimes fail and break bones, and that might be "fair."  But what is fair about congenital heart defects or childhood leukemia?  I know a retina detachment, by comparison, is hardly so dramatic.  No one dies from partial blindness, but it absolutely impacts one's quality of life adversely.  And nothing about it feels "fair."  I am 30 years old, and I fear my vision is forever changed.  It doesn't feel fair.

Maybe tomorrow I'll regain those positive "everything is going to be OK" feelings, but today I am wallowing in self-pity.  I feel entitled to it once in a while, and a dreary winter day feels like just as good a time as any.  Thanks for letting me indulge.