“Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.”
from John Prine’s “Stick a Needle in my Eye” and a 1900s poem
Making my way slowly down the stairway I placed my right hand on the wall while my left hand covered my eye. There was no handrail to depend on, so I stepped carefully.
At the bottom of the stairs Sam asked, “What are you doing?”
“I’m practicing what I’ll have to do after my eye surgery,” I said. “You know there’s a lot of things to consider.”
Navigating the stairs was one; I did very well. There’d be more stairs to get to the bunnies to feed, and the walk across the field to the lake for the ducks’ feeding, and out to the perennial garden and pond for the goldfish, and back to the house for the kittens — they’d need feeding. And there’d be Sam.
Sam said he’d be fine; we’d stock up on one pot “bag food” and frozen pizza with a couple of chopped salads thrown in. He was right. Sam can cook in a pinch.
The surgery date came up quickly before I checked my calendar. There was a reception I really didn’t want to miss. The event would allow me to see a young friend, and I was looking forward to it. The young friend had been a child of 4 or 5 when I met her, and she was now 19.
The doctor said for the first three days after surgery I’d have to wear a patch over the eye. Immediately I imagined a patch like the pirate in Peter Pan. This was doable. With a black dress it could be a fashion statement.
Wearing a black eye patch took me back to my single days when my friend Jan and I were going to a costume party. Jan dressed as a swashbuckling pirate with a colorful scarf on her forehead, large gold hoop earrings in her ears, shiny satin pants and tall sexy black boots.
I, on the other hand, had dressed in a red apple outfit I made myself. On my arm I’d fashioned a worm puppet wearing dark glasses and a hat. The logistics of getting in and out of a car and through doorways proved unfortunate, not to mention unattractive. In light of that memory, the eye patch was looking not so bad.
When I read the brochure of my intended surgery I saw the eye patch was not a dashing black pirate patch but a white plastic cup that looked like a poached egg taped over the eye with surgical tape. It seemed certain that I would miss my intended event and could perhaps see the young friend later. There’s never a good time to wear a plastic poached egg taped over your eye.
Frankly, I’m looking somewhat forward to the opportunity of a few days of good rest. There will be no exercising or lifting, not even cooking. Perhaps I’ll get my reading done with the use of my very good eye. And no doubt Sam will bring me coffee and slippers.
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