Celebrating Firsts

Perhaps we should have a cake for every first.

As a self-proclaimed writer, I spend much time thinking, referred to in the industry as lolling about or procrastinating, among other terms. This time leads to deep insights including this week’s: life is a series of firsts. We celebrate the ones that appear early: first tooth, first word, first step, first day of school, first date, first job. Those are the promises of growth and progress.

The firsts appearing in the second half of life indicate decline, and we are reluctant to celebrate them. I experienced two firsts this week.

My heart skipped a beat when I noticed blood on my pants, smeared from my right forearm, triggering images of my mother’s wounded arms. A layer of skin was pulled back. This was not a nick from trimming roses; it was a skin tear and could have come from anywhere. It was not painful. “Shit” passed through my mind but not out my mouth, Mike standing next to me. I cleaned it and applied ointment, bemoaning that this is a first to be followed by many more.

My arms have never been beautiful, trimmed in dark hair and freckles. The cute freckles have enlarged into ugly splotches but refuse to merge and create a tan. I long to see the arms of my youth; were they really as unattractive as I thought? My eyes came to rest on another irritating reminder of aging: a skin blotch my dermatologist calls birthday marks. Sometimes I want to smack her. This is my 50ish dermatology PA whose office is associated with an aesthetics clinic, she of the perfect skin who laments her fight with rosacea. As she manipulates her magic wand of liquid nitrogen, I search in vain for any imperfection on her fine features.

But that may be due to a cataract. Mine, that is. Another first: cataract removal. People will tell you it is simple, nothing. I am here to say WRONG. It is the equivalent of dental work: very uncomfortable during the procedure giving you time to rethink doing the second eye in two weeks. This is followed by a few hours of mild pain or discomfort (relieved by Tylenol) but worse, one eye working and the other completely fuzzy.

Today is my first day after my first cataract surgery. I now realize that the women (never men) in ads enthusiastically expounding the power of their detergent to make clothes whiter and brighter had probably just had cataracts removed. My iPad gave me the first hint. I opened it to see a bright white background. I dimmed the light, already set on high to accommodate my decreased vision.

Coming out of the bedroom, I squinted to avoid the white glare from the windows in the den, normally dull. Heavenly light filled the kitchen. I walked outside and looked at my shed (Norway). The blue siding was very blue and . . . Did an elf repaint the white trim? It was glowing. Following my usual routine, I sat on the patio to read but found the brightness overwhelming. I retreated to the living room which I usually avoid because of its bleak darkness. It now appeared light and cozy.  

Throughout the day I played with my new eyes: When an object appeared bright white, I covered my repaired eye to view it through the cataract-covered eye and marveled that everything was light brown. The brown box of Kleenex was actually purple!

Wrinkles began to criss-cross my face in my 30s. I did not celebrate. When I noticed the appearance of crepe skin, I blogged to cover up my anguish. I started wearing bifocals in my mid-40s, but failed to advertise that fact. I surreptitiously donned hearing aids in my 60s. Those are firsts we like to ignore. While I love my hearing aids and glasses, I detest the wrinkles and blotches and crepe skin and skin tears and cataracts.

But today I say they deserve to be honored if nothing more than to attest I am alive and kicking at 75. I don’t want the plastic face of Cher or the clownish features of Goldie Hawn. Give me the life-affirming creases of Maggie Smith and weight-loss jowls of Annette Badland.

But give me eyes to see. I want to find the flaws in my dermatologist’s skin.

BTW, most of us wait to have cataracts removed when covered by insurance. I see now (pun intended) that Big Brother doesn’t care about our quality of life and hopes we kick the bucket before he has to pay. Those cataracts affect your life long before Big Brother agrees to address them. If you have the money, I encourage you to take care of them as soon as possible. If you must wait, do not choose any paint colors until you do them.