My dad had his second cataract surgery this morning. He sneezed three times during the procedure.
After the first sneeze, his surgeon warned, "Don't do that, I'm in the eye here."
"I can't control it," Dad replied.
"We'll then let me know when it's coming," said the surgeon.
Dad sneezed again, with no warning. They had the same conversation.
On the third sneeze, Dad let her know. The surgeon said, "We're going to call you Sneezy."
When I went back to recovery, Dad was in a wheelchair, eating a graham cracker and drinking some O.J. Every time I see him in a vulnerable state, I see the boy in him. All cozy in his long-sleeved shirt (it's 45 degrees here in FL) with an eye patch the diameter of a baseball, he looked like he was 5, having his mid-morning snack.
It made me smile, and I kissed his head. "How you doing, Pops?"
"I sneezed three times," he told me. "The doctor told me I shouldn't do that."
"Oh my," I said. "I would think not."
Within minutes, the surgeon appeared, a wonderful doc from Haiti. We all like her. She wore colorful scrubs and was rubbing lotion on her hands. "It went beautifully," she reported.
"He sneezed, I heard," I said, wondering if there had been any repercussions from that.
She smiled. "He did. But, no harm was done." She winked at Dad and added, "God is good."
He nodded, munching the last of his cracker. "Yes He is."
"See you tomorrow," she said and returned to her duties.
The discharge nurse went over the final paperwork with us. "The only thing he was given is propofol," he said. (Interesting that the surgeon was a woman; the nurse was a man.) "That wears off very quickly."
"Propofol," I mused. "I bet you get a lot of comments about that one."
The nurse rolled his eyes. "People FREAK when they hear they've had that. 'You gave me propofol? That's what killed Michael Jackson.' No, I say. Sadly, stupidity is what killed Michael Jackson."
"I'm glad that's over," Dad remarked, oblivious to my conversation with the nurse. "I won't ever have to have cataract surgery again."
"Nope." I rubbed his fuzzy head.
On the way home, Dad told me again how he sneezed three times, and the doc kept telling him not to do that without warning.
I gave him a Christmas cookie that I brought along, and that got his mind off the surgery. Circumstances always improve for Dad if you give him a cookie.
Back home, I tucked him under a blanket and kissed his forehead. "You can rest now, Pops."
"I will," he slurred, half asleep already. "If I get a good nap this afternoon, I might make Bingo tonight."
I love my dad. He's the best mix of a kid and a grown-up.
