You have cataracts.” my eye doctor declares.

“I what?”

You have cataracts, she says, this time a little more slowly since I obviously don’t understand her the first time.

“But I’m 45 years old” I think.

Out loud I say, “Aren’t I a bit young?”

She says “Yes but it was probably bought on by the low dose steroids you’ve been on for years due to your asthma.

There is silence.

She continues, “In 2 – 3 years, you can have this surgery that will repair your eyes to seeing better than you did when you were 20.”

I’m not listening.

Who is going to take care of the kids and me when I have surgery? Who is going to help us for the days afterwards? Who is going to drive me to the doctor’s office, go grocery shopping, look over Langston’s shoulder while he’s on the computer or do Pallas’s hair.

And the rage punches me in the back.

In sickness and health, in sickness in health!!

What about my sickness Art? Huh!

I did your sickness, what about mine!!!

I leave the office deflated and feeling old and
full of rage.

“You @)(*#$! You skipped out on ME!”