Those of you who followed these posts last fall know that I suffered a detached retina over the summer (one doctor suspects Covid was the culprit) and so had to undergo surgery to smack the thing back into place. The ordeal, requiring I stay facedown 90 percent of the time following the operation, was documented, I hope, with minimal whining here. It was not a good time.
What I neglected to mention was that eventually I would have to go back to have an oil bubble removed that was holding the whole ocular mechanism in place while the retina healed. I just clean forgot about it till the surgery center goosed me for a follow-up. And then it was months before I could schedule a time to finish off the procedure.
And so on Tuesday last week I headed down to Albuquerque with Mr. Landi to meet up with my dashing and earnest Russian surgeon (who more and more reminds me of Levin in Anna Karenina) for a little pierce-and-paste maneuver in the OR. This time I was somewhat better prepared about what to expect and felt no fear as the nurses and attendants eased me into a gurney and pretty much left me for two hours to await the operation, interrupted only by forms to sign, an EKG, and other pre-op rituals. (Really, these people, men and women, are quite remarkable in their efficiency and cheerfulness. I could never summon those qualities day after day since my innate character is that of the gleeful curmudgeon—hats off to these tireless foot soldiers on the battle fields of medical care!).
I forgot my Kindle, which was distressing because I was deep into a thoroughly engrossing novel by a new writer I’ve discovered (Roxanna Robinson, also author of an excellent bio of Georgia O’Keeffe), and so I have to search for reading matter on my phone, which is not hard, as I pull up Maureen Dowd’s peppy and fawning profile of Calista Flockhart from The New York Times (remember Ally McBeal, her star turn in the ‘90s? I scarcely do, but it’s sort of irresistible to learn about the life of the woman married to Harrison Ford, and besides I thought I read once that they have a home in Santa Fe, a stone’s throw from me. I was wrong about that. They divide their insanely enviable lives between L.A. and Montana). I also pull up an engrossing personal essay by Mary Gaitskill in the The New Yorker about how female competitiveness in her teens led her to an embarrassing act of theft from her best friend.
And then at 10 to noon (I make note of the time because time disappears during surgery, or more accurately it acquires an elastic hallucinatory quality—maybe ten minutes pass, maybe three days). My job, I decide, while numbed up above the nose but still fully conscious is to monitor my thoughts during this whole process and see where the hell the brain goes when it really doesn’t have all that much to keep it focused and occupied. I later jot down a few notes.
The mind in this situation becomes something like a pinball machine (remember those? have they died out completely since the advent of video games?) The little metal ball goes skittering around in response to levers manipulated on either side of a tilted platform, and then it slides back down into oblivion after hitting or missing goals along the way. You really don’t have much control over where it goes, but it’s an absorbing pursuit on a level with slot-machine gambling.
But I was curious to note how many of my thoughts were in response to what I was mentally sucking up prior to surgery.
Gaitskill’s essay, touching on the importance of clothes and teen girls, made me think about whether I was competitive with my classmates’ wardrobes in high school. Not much, because we had to wear uniforms, but I never became so envious of my best friend’s real-life duds that I would steal from her closet. But remembering my best friend also makes me recall how her father the jeweler gave me the monogrammed ring I still wear which a nurse took from me before wheeling me into the O.R. (a moment of panic: where did I put it? Purse or bigger bag to hold my shoes? What if it falls out?)
And where did I put those big fake-gold earrings I like so much at home?
There was a girl in middle school, though, in Allentown, PA, Carol Clymer, whose parents owned a clothing store in town and so she was always stylishly turned out (by 1960s schoolgirl standards) in the cutest little outfits and shoes, and those I did truly envy. I remembered the mean things she said about my oily skin. I wondered if her clothes spurred my brief career in shoplifting until I got caught stealing a bra, and Jesus God was that humiliating when you’re only 11 and not ready for one.
I’ll bet Calista Flockhart has never shoplifted and can afford any clothes she damn well likes, and she still has a skinny slinky body. And Harrison Ford.
I do suffer adult female competitiveness, though. Mary Gaitskill gets published in The New Yorker. Maureen Dowd, I read somewhere, makes about $400K a year.
I wonder if my cat sitter will remember to show up.
I wonder from time to time what on earth they are up to, messing around with my eyeball. They’ve taken away my hearing aid, and so I hear only faint susurrations and murmurs and occasional laughter (you guys think this is funny?) I can swear I hear the dialogue from a sitcom or talk show on television, but they couldn’t possibly be watching anything on TV, could they? I think of operations in movies and how the doctors discuss football or listen to music while they work. What a fun job!
Did I leave enough hard chow for Sylvia if Ani can’t make it to feed her tonight?
I do have a few more serious thoughts. What if Trump gets re-elected? What will we do? Where will we go? Could Taos secede from the nation? And poor Navalny, murdered by the Donald’s favorite dictator. What happens to his wife and kids? What does my Russian surgeon think of Navalny?
And I recall an amazing short story I read years ago by Jean Stafford, The Interior Castle, about a woman immobilized after an automobile accident and the way her poor brain caroms around just as mine is. I must read it again.
How much goddamn time has passed?
Did I put in that order for yellow legal pads for the gallery?
Why doesn’t my long-time editor at the Wall Street Journal respond to a query about reviewing Carmen Herrera’s show at Site Santa Fe?
Doesn’t this seem an unusually long time for this kind of surgery? I guess I can’t really ask that, and now I can’t remember if my mouth was covered or not. Even if I could speak, it doesn’t seem appropriate to grouse: Hey, are you guys about done here? Can I go home?
The most vivid brain fart of all, perhaps because of the mind-gut connection and because it’s close to lunch time and I haven’t eaten since seven the night before, is of some incredible Brussels sprouts with Parmesan and balsamic vinegar that I discovered at a nearby sports bar on my last trip to see the surgeon (yes, a sports bar!). And that is where I will take Mr. Landi after this ordeal is over.
When they finally spring me around two pm, I discover that he’s had kind of a rough morning too because the hotel where I made reservations wouldn’t accept the photo of his driver’s license on his phone and so would not give him access to a room. He had to wait in the lobby all morning, when I’d hoped he could have a swim and take a nap.
We’re both cranky and hungry and when we get back to the neighborhood around our hotel (not a “neighborhood”—a giant mall with offices for Boeing and the Retina Center and about seven fast-food joints), I can’t find the Craft bar that has the wonderful Brussels sprouts. And so we settle for a restaurant called Twin Peaks, which has at least 10 gigantissimo TV screens dedicated to sports and the waitresses all look like college cheerleaders, trussed into their darling little short shorts with tops calibrated to show maximum cleavage. I suddenly feel my age: old lady and disapproving.
“Remember Hooters?” I ask.
He does.
“I wonder if it’s discriminatory to hire waitresses on the basis of their bodies?”
But they are so sweet, these long-haired cuties, bouncing around and smiling mindlessly, that I can’t get too steamed, even though the service is slow and the food is godawful.
I can’t understand why the place is called Twin Peaks, since it seems to have no connection with the TV series other than the rusticated Kewpie-doll-meets-Paul-Bunyan outfits that are probably supposed to recall the Washington State locale of the David Lynch original.
Later I wonder if it’s possible—could it really be possible?—that the twin peaks referred to are the waitresses’ breasts?
Well, never mind.
A few days later I decide to look up online the specifics of a vitrectomy, as my operation is called, and I’m glad I didn’t read anything before surgery. This looks scary as shit to me, performed with tiny lasers and “precision instruments” and leaving behind an air bubble which is gradually diminishing over time, but right now bobbles around like a runaway floater. For a few days it looked to me like I might regain the vision in my right eye, but now I’m not so sure. I will know more next week when I meet with the doctor in Santa Fe.
Golly gee. What an adventure!
Parmesan-Balsamic Roasted Brussels Sprouts
Our failure to find the bar with the sensational Brussels sprouts led me to track down a recipe online, which I tweaked a bit to satisfy my own tastes. And I have to say, This is sensational! To me, a bowl of sprouts is a perfectly satisfying meal in itself, perhaps with some garlic toasts and a crisp Sancerre or Sauvignon Blanc. And it is pathetically easy, as I hope most of my recipes are (adapted from eatingwell.com).
1 pound Brussels sprouts, trimmed and halved
2 tablespoons extra-virgin olive oil
¼ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon ground pepper
½ cup finely sliced shallots
¼ cup finely grated Parmesan cheese
2 tablespoons balsamic vinegar or balsamic glaze
Directions
1. Preheat oven to 400ºF.
2. Toss Brussels sprouts, oil, salt and pepper in a large bowl. Spread in an even layer on a large rimmed baking sheet (use foil if you don’t want a dirty pan).
3. Roast for 8 minutes. Remove from the oven, add shallots to the pan and stir to combine. Roast for 8 more minutes. Remove from the oven and sprinkle the vegetables with Parmesan and vinegar; toss to combine. Turn off the oven and return the pan to the warm oven until the cheese is melted, about 2 minutes.
Note: Next time I make these I will probably add a handful of toasted walnuts. Finely chopped garlic could be a good addition as well.
I too love your writing!
I always love reading your memoir. I thoroughly relate to the pinball brain. I am sorry for your continuing seasons of hell. I'm hoping the jury is still out on this last surgery and that things will soon be looking up!