It’s T minus 60 minutes. Cataract surgery number two is about to happen and you’d think that I’d be far more relaxed second time around. Not so much. In fact, this time I have the expectation of tomorrow morning’s reveal as an added pressure. Will the result be as good as the last one? And more pressingly, will the headache that I’ve had for pretty much the last four weeks be gone?

I’m in the swanky waiting room of the day surgery centre. If it wasn’t for the anxious looking people sitting around me I could be in the foyer of a hotel. Alas, instead of sidling up to the bar for a vodka, lime and soda, I’m waiting for my name to be called by a nurse.

The pre-surgery process is always the same: brief description if what will happen next; introduction to the nurse looking after me for the next couple of hours; hand over your private health insurance details; confirm there will be someone with me after the surgery.

And now we wait.

I can feel my breathing quickening. My palms are sweaty. I’m trying to not think about the incision that will be made in my eye to remove the cloudy, cataract-riddled lens. I’m cursing that in a fit of stupid bravado I asked my ophthalmologist for a detailed description if the surgery when I went in for a check up last week. I’m psyching myself up for the conversation with the anaesthetist ‘Yes, I DO, want a general. Yes, you can call me a princess.

And now, I’m sitting in my lovely theatre gear (trying not to expose my arse), with my lovely husband gently reassuring me. I look out the window and think that tomorrow I’ll be able to enjoy those colours in their full brightness and sharpness. That’s what I’m holding onto right now. The hope of tomorrow’s vision.

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