My right eye — the one that works — has a problem: scar tissue impinging on the artificial lens implanted after the cataract removal. What’s more, the optometrist has to refer me to an ophthalmologist for assessment ASAP because I’m perilously close to dropping below the visual acuity standard for keeping my driver’s licence.
Ideally, the ophthalmologist would immediately whisk me into an operating room and laser away that scar tissue. In this world, however, I’ll be lucky to get a first appointment in less than six weeks, and only God knows when (and where!) the surgery can be done. And I’m supposed to sell my house and move this summer.
So colour me bummed out big time.
After my date with the eye doc, I made a grocery run and got nailed by a troop of Girl Guides selling cookies outside the supermarket. In my vulnerable state I bought a box and took them home. I made a big mug of coffee (decaf) with cream, opened the cookies, and sat down prepared to eat the lot — but I just could not do it. The vanilla ones tasted like sugary dust, and the chocolate ones were no better. So the rest of the box went into the compost bin.