Not A Dry Eye In The House

After eye surgery you have to keep your eye from getting wet. It must not get liquid in it. This sounds easy until you've tried it for a week or two. Try washing your hair without getting water or shampoo in your eye.

After my surgery yesterday, I was feeling a little emotional. Why? Well, honestly when DON'T I FEEL EMOTIONAL? As a writer, I've learned over a lifetime that I'm very emotional. I can be very very emotional. Only recently have I really understood this and also understood when it's good to let those emotions rip and when to hold back and keep things balanced. When the emotions end up on the page, in my writing, the results are good. When I'm just trying to go about my life, pay bills, do my taxes, paint a room, not so good sometimes. [Though I must say, rare is the policeman who can give me a ticket after the torrent of real tears I can make.]

So, I called the nurse to ask "Is it okay to cry?"

She found this funny for some reason. I didn't go into why I felt like crying. It was complicated.

I'd seen a red red red red red red ... did I mention red? ... cardinal on the white snow outside my kitchen window. Just a little red bird looking for little yellow and brown seeds in the snow on a winter day. It was shockingly beautiful. I was worried about this new eye. I knew with the improvement I experienced with one eye, getting two eyes fixed would be a little overwhelming.

I haven't written about this yet because I've been crying a bit -- good crying with joy, some sad crying too. Just a lot to get used to these eyes.

I can't help feeling these eyes and all this beauty they see are just about the most awesome gift from God anyone could receive. How the hell'd I get so lucky?!?

Then I got it. We've made a deal, me and God, I've finally figured it out. This is the beginning of something brand new for me. A born-again experience, but not that kind that holy roller type-thing crazy religious freaks talk about. More like he's got some work for me to do. And with this awesome set of eyes, it's got to be some awesome work.

I think he wants me to look at things. And then he wants me to tell you what I see. Write it down. And then he wants me to do that again and again and again. And then when I'm done doing that work, I'll die. It's such a simple job and I am so honored to have it.

I have to look at red birds. I have to look at kids bending over sand pails at the shore on a cornflower blue sky day. I have to look at big round pink babies' bottoms. I have to look at old people having a lot of trouble walking down a sidewalk as kids skateboard past in death-defying manoeuvres. I have to look at my lover's jawline, lips, kiss them, then neck, chest, watch his arms encircle me, wrapping me safely and softly like a most comfortable blanket. I have to look at the boy in school everyone is laughing at and tell you how his body slumps in sadness and embarrassment, his shoe scuffing a black mark on the linoleum beneath his seat. I have to tell you about a spring morning with everything blooming beautifully, giving everyone the wonderful feeling of a new start as they stride by the hospital, but a new mom in a window of that building, in a bed that morning crying her eyes out over a baby she just lost. I just have to go look and tell you what I see. It's a wonderful thing to be called to do. I can do that.

So when I asked the nurse "Can I cry?' The nurse said, "Yes, you can cry, just don't rub your eyes. That's the only thing. Can you do that?"

Yes. I can do that.