The Miracle Workers

It all started with Dr. Stevie Young.  A PYBED at Contacts and Specs on Broadway. (Pretty, young, blonde eye doctor.)

“I can’t help you,” she sighed.  “Your cataracts are so bad that I can’t give you a prescription for any more glasses.”

Hold up.  It started back before that.

Way before that.

Like when I was born.

I’ve never been able to really see.  My eyes were whacked out from Day One.

I had a “lazy” eye and 20/10 vision in one of them and 20/200 in the other.

I couldn’t see two inches in front of my nose and I was subjected to to the ignominy of wearing a patch and then ugly, ugly glasses ever since I was about four.

But I did eye exercises diligently, and by the time I was in junior high, I had ditched the glasses for good.

True, I had to wear them for driving later on.  But I wore prescription sunglasses.  And I could never see anything at night- but that was merely an inconvenience.

I was spec-free 90% of the time and that was all that mattered.

But ten years ago, my eye doctor in Aspen gave me the bad news.  I had cataracts and sooner or later, what little vision I had was going to crap out on me.

He was right.

My world was growing dimmer.  The last straw was my visit to Potash.

I went to the one on Clark because I wanted to check out their gourmet food department.

Was I disappointed.  The epicurean selection look moth-eaten and not up to the Potash standard I had remembered. Sadly, I gazed around the crummy-looking store- boy had it gone downhill- bought some yogurt and went home.

When I was unpacking the yogurt, I looked at the receipt.

I had been in a Big Apple Convenience Store.  It wasn’t Potash at all.

I went to see Dr. Stevie the next day.

“You have to have the surgery now, ” she informed me.  “Do you need a name of a doctor?”

Just for fun…

I didn’t need one.  My brother Kenny had a name.

The best.

Dr. Steve Brown.  Harvard graduate- and more important to Kenny- a great former pitcher on his New Trier West baseball team.

Good enough reference for me.

I saw Dr. Steve.  He confirmed Dr. Stevie’s diagnosis.  I had a bad case and he had the cure.

Two surgeries were scheduled at Glenbrook Hospital.

And boy, were they eye-openers.  (Sorry.)

From the moment the gal called to give me the check-in information, I knew I was in for something way different from the usual, old school hospital experience.

She was so nice.

And so was everyone else who I came in contact with in the Ambulatory Surgery Unit.

When I arrived to have my left eye done, I was cosseted, petted, spoiled and treated with with utmost in professionalism and concern.

I have to single out Nurse Cathy Goldberg here.

What a doll.

Another New Trier graduate. And beautiful, smart, so congenial- and a great touch with the lidocaine needle.  When I came back for the second surgery on my right eye, she smiled.

“I remember you,” she said.

And she proceeded to treat me like an old friend.

Hot blankets, good chit chat to ease my pre-op nerves (not too many butterflies, I have to admit, but still…) and deft hands that made all the drops and other procedures a walk in the park.

The other nurses, Karen and Sarah, were cut from the same cloth.  Florence Nightingale would have been proud.

Virtually everyone I came in contact with- the gas passer, his assistant, the guy who brought me the bagels and cranberry juice post op- were smiling, patient and concerned about my well-being.

A big change from the old, cold, take-a-number hospital system I remember from the past.

And I have to hand it to Dr. Brown.

Wow.

He’s the man.

Everything went just as he explained it would.  No muss, no fuss, and here I am and I can see.

(And I can see that he’s hunky, ladies.  Just sayin’…)

For the first time in my life, I can read an Arrival/Departure board at O’Hare.

I can read street signs and actually know where I am.

I can see the real colors and graphics on my computer.

I can see dust on my floor. (Not so great, I must admit.  I am now forced to get out a broom once in awhile.)

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Doc.

You may be a great pitcher to Kenny, but you’ll always be MVP (Most Valuable Physician) to me.

And finally, after sixty plus years, it’s a very great pleasure to be able to say:

See you around, Dear Readers.