Learning To Love Reality.

The visit to my retina specialist yesterday was disappointing. The film over my left eye and the large twig-like floater will have to resolve on their own—or not—no YAG laser procedure for me. 

When I asked about  YAG as a possibility, my doctor recoiled, “God, no! Do not do that! Who told you that??” “This condition will either resolve on its own,” she said, “or we can talk about removing it surgically later.”

I was crestfallen. And sad. And tired because I had waited five hours to see her. 

I walked out of the building with dilated eyes into the bright sun and G’s waiting car at the curb.  She had driven me up and had patiently run errands and done office work in Corning for the entire afternoon.  

I was tired and hungry and sad. “I have a follow-up in three months,” I said. “In the interim, I’ll have to decide if this is something I can learn to live with.” 

When we got home, made myself a cold martini, and fired up Dr. Google. I typed: “Do floaters ever go away?” The answer was: “No. You just get used to them. Staying hydrated is important, and lysine and Vitamin C can help prevent new ones from forming, but that’s it.” 

So, this is my new reality; and I must learn to fall in love with it.

Amor fati, as the Stoics say.

I cannot lie. I was profoundly sad and disappointed. I’d been led to believe I might be a candidate for this YAG laser procedure, which promised to dissolve this dirty gray film and vanquish The Twig.

Now, I will simply have to learn to live with it, just as I’ve learned to live with my tinnitus. 

The doctor’s advice was to give it more time. But this felt like false hope. I think this “time cure” of hers is to allow me more time to get used to it, not for it to resolve on its own. I do wish Drs wouldn’t do this—kick the inevitable into the future. She knows this won’t go away. And she also knows a vitrectomy might be too risky for me.  

So, this is how my cataract journey ends. Overall, I have been only mildly pleased with the results. Everything certainly looks much brighter, like changing the world’s light bulbs from warm white to cool. My reading prescription has also gone from 4.50 to 2.50, which is no small thing, and I do appreciate that. However, I still need glasses or contacts to read, and one eye now has a dirty window I must learn to live with and, eventually, love.

This will involve pausing and noticing when I feel sad and consciously not allowing myself to “go there” every time Twiggy tracks along the pages of my book or is mistaken for a large bug out of the corner of my left eye. 

I will also have to stop hoping it will go away, and just work on getting used to it.

I have to stop suffering. 

Buddhists make a distinction between pain and suffering. Pain is inevitable, they say. Everyone, without exception, will experience some kind of physical or emotional pain in their life. 

But suffering is optional. We can learn not to suffer through mindfulness practices (like noticing and pausing) and by understanding the nature of reality. 

Suffering is an add-on to pain. It’s like a big dollop of mental anguish we dump onto an already painful experience by dwelling on it, wallowing in it, or having sad little pity parties for ourselves.

The Stoic approach to reality is learning to love whatever shitful thing happens to you. If you can change things to mitigate pain and increase happiness, by all means do so! But if you can’t, the Stoics say you just gotta learn to love it. 

And this Stoic path will be my strategy going forward. 

It is what it is. Amor fati. Control the controllables.

I already feel slightly ashamed to even be writing about this. I feel ashamed of being this sad over such a minor thing. When I think of all the losses people have to endure: death of loved ones, chronic pain, financial loss, housing crises, mental illness, dementia, and here I am whining about fucking floaters? 

Really, Kath. Get a grip, hon.

So I’m not going to complain about this any more—not one little bit. I’m going to fall in love with my Twiggy floaty dirty window reality, which is so blessed and mind-blowingly lucky and amazing. 

I feel so appreciative and privileged to be able to sit here in perfect health and write about it, and have readers like you to hear and indulge me.

Thanks for coming to my little pity party.  It’s the last one.