Stop, operate and listen: my minor surgery was a minor attraction

At a certain age, surgical procedures become the bread and butter of conversation. Thirty years ago, a frank disclosure of a hangover would win the admiring attention of the group; now it’s triple bypass surgery or they hardly look up from their potato salad.

I may need to book in for a major operation, just to compete. I’m not without prospects. One doctor has already told me that I’m a “candidate for a knee replacement”, while another said I was a “likely candidate for glaucoma”.

The word “candidate” makes it all sound so aspirational. It’s like I’m in the running for a Rhodes Scholarship or a job at the UN. What am I meant to do? Dream that, one day, my candidacy might be successful?

Anyway, that’s for the future. Right now, I must square my shoulders in preparation for tomorrow’s ordeal.

The next morning, we hop into the car. Jocasta makes some show of bringing a million shopping bags and an Esky, observing that we are totally out of frozen peas. “I wouldn’t mind also picking up some bin-liners,” she adds, as if keen to rub in the mundane nature of the excursion.

Personally, I’d have preferred she be dressed in widow’s black, nervously fingering a rosary, and humming Chopin’s Funeral March. Still, you can’t have everything in a life partner.

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Once I’m there, the medical people attempt to ease my nerves. The laser, it turns out, is embedded in a large, stationary machine, your eyeball placed beneath it. The chance of a burning Zorro-style “Z”, emblazoned on my chest, appears small.

Instead, the surgeon marks the left of my forehead with a large “X”, which does seem a little One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. I wonder, momentarily, whether I’ve wandered into the wrong place. Should I say something? You’d feel a fool if you didn’t.

“Well,” the surgeon could rightly say, “I did mark the spot at which I intended to drill.”

As it happens, the doctor is patient with the patient. Maybe that’s where the word “patient” comes from. Large reserves of the stuff are required as soon as we walk in the door. The “X”, the surgeon explains, appears above the eye which needs the work.

From that point on, the whole thing takes about 30 minutes. It’s largely painless and they give you a selection of cheese and biscuits at the end, including at least five Jatz crackers, which borders on the profligate.

Jocasta arrives to pick me up. She calls me a “brave soldier” and holds my hand as we cross the street. At this point, I’m unsure whether she’s my carer or my lover, but her hand feels good in mine.

As we drive off, she tells me about her purchases in the frozen vegetable department, which I think is code for: “You’ll be right by tomorrow”. By the next day, she’s proved correct. I can already see perfectly through the new eye. Isn’t modern medicine a marvel?

Mind you, the perfection of the new eye draws attention to the eye they are yet to fix. I’m considering taking up a monocle. It may be my only way of winning some attention at the next neighbourhood barbecue.