I woke to soft rain and a cup of dark coffee on my bedside table. Downstairs a small cedar fire was burning in the woodstove, fall perfume for a cool morning. I’d slept the whole night through, not usual for me, but yesterday was kind of shattering. I had a follow-up appointment in Vancouver with the specialist who repaired my retinas in July. I hoped everything would be fine but it turned out I had 3 more tears in my right retina. Because of the location of the tears, the procedure for repairing them is awkward and painful. Lasers, yes, but also a kind of q-tip (you can tell I have sophisticated medical knowledge…) to prop open my eyes. This procedure took an hour and a half and I was in pain the whole time. I tried to take myself away, tried to imagine myself swimming in the lake under a blue sky, but the green lights and heat of the laser beams made it difficult.
I woke to soft rain and a cup of dark coffee and the scent of cedar. I will read a poem, I thought to myself, and picked up Adam Zagajewski’s Asymmetry (trans. Clare Cavanagh), letting the pages fall open to “Orange Notebook”:
A whole life is contained in every day. It must
squeeze though the day, like a young cat awkwardly exiting
a tree.
Yesterday I walked back to the Broadway Station from the eye centre, tripping a little here and here, wearing my dark glasses against the sunlight. As we sat together on the train, then bus, then ferry, I held my husband’s hand. He told me the things he could to do to improve the bow I am using on our back lane–finger-guards, new arrows, a canvas back for the target. My days won’t end with the green lights searing the tears in my retinas closed. Or at least I hope they won’t. Later this morning we’ll go down to the lake for a swim in the mist.
Jósef Czapski frequently advised me: when you’re having a
bad day, paint
a still life.
John’s still life for me was myself, holding the bow, the arrows nocked, my aging and damaged eyes on the target. I let the pages fall open. My still life for myself: my body gliding through the green water I’ve loved all summer, a single kingfisher perched on the cedar that is my guidepost.
...Theresa Kishkan 
Oh, beautiful! I love Adam Zagajewski. I hope your eyes are better than ever as you recover from the surgery, and see only beauty.
Thank you, Lainie. I’m hopeful that maybe now all the tears have been found and repaired (like Boro) and that I can get on with stuff.
Ah I envy you your kind companion for these outings. Will need someone with me for the eye surgeries. Ugh, I hate asking people. But no choice.
I am grateful to have his company on these medical adventures. I wish you luck with yours, Susan.
Thinking of you both this morning, sitting at my café again, with writing paper, and reading material. Thinking about the miracle, and the fragility, of vision, and about living a full life, and how to squeeze it into every day. Thank you for the lovely post, and for sharing that beautiful poem.
Yes, it is both a miracle and a fragility. And what luck we had Tommy Douglas to advocate for universal health care — I thought of that as 3 ophthalmologists specializing in retinal anomalies hovered over my chair, each so skilled and careful. Thanks for reading, M.
I hope you heal quickly and the procedure was a success.
Thank you for these good wishes. I’m hopeful that my retinas will stop teaing! This was the fifth procedure, though the first three were a bit less painful.
I am so sorry to hear about more issues with your retinas. Wishing you a speedy recovery and I sincerely hope all will continue to be well with your eyes in future.
Thank you, Violet! A little better this morning…