Lying Eyes

“And yet, the only exciting life is the imaginary one.” – Virginia Woolf

One day, while driving into the sun on my way to the dog park, I thought I saw Mother Goose walking on the side of the road, holding a long shepherd’s crook and leading a large white goose. You may think that I should have pulled over and called the mental health squad, but I was too flabbergasted to do anything but exclaim, OMG, OMG, OMG.

The closer I got to the figure and the more I rubbed my eyes, a clearer picture came into view. It was a big man in a wide-brimmed hat, holding a walking stick and leading a large white dog. I pulled the car over and called my best friend to describe this apparition. All I could hear was her hysterical laughter. I quickly told her that I was serious and that I hadn’t taken hallucinogens. After all it is no longer the 1960s. 

Once her hilarity subsided, we began talking seriously about my sleep habits, exercise, diet, and stress level. She concluded I was probably sleep deprived, needed exercise, was eating too much sugar, and my children were making me nuts. That is the comforting part about having a friend who has known you for fifty years. They know how to cut through the bullshit and make you feel better immediately by diminishing your concerns that you’ve suddenly gone senile. Until I spoke to her, I had been certain this incident was my first step toward the nursing home.

A few weeks later, while walking in the park, I saw a person standing by a picnic bench. I was at least 75 yards away. As I got closer, I became concerned because the man was not moving. He was as still as a statue. I thought this was odd and continued toward him. As I approached, I realized it was not a man but a stand for dispensing doggy poop bags with a waste container attached. The poles reminded me of arms. And I thought the dispenser with green plastic bags sticking out was his hair. While this may seem too crazy to be true, my grandson’s bright green hair has kept me from ever getting surprised about someone’s hair color. 

I stopped and laughed at myself. This time I didn’t call my friend. I called my ophthalmologist. He could not see me immediately, so I settled for an appointment two weeks later. At that point, I was far more worried about my sanity than my vision.

I had undergone cataract surgery two weeks before the shepherd sighting but was well and allowed to drive. I didn’t think the two were related. More like I had glanced too quickly and my brain went more “Mother Goose” than “Man Strolling.”

I also began to worry about the little specks that seemed to drift before me, like tiny insects. I tried to swat the flies and gnats that flew around my head while I was reading. My brain told me I was imagining them, but they still made my nose itch. 

I was somewhat OK with those pests, but one night I thought I saw a mouse run across my bed. I jumped out of bed screaming bloody murder and threw a basket of magazines at it. Then I grabbed my pillow and my inhaler because the thought of mice makes me hyperventilate, and ran out to the hall. When my husband found me, I was curled into a fetal position. Turns out it wasn’t real.

Finally, my wait was over, and my eye appointment was that afternoon. I brought my three-page list of concerns along with the literature about the “rest home” I had toured. I wanted to be prepared for his diagnosis. 

After describing my recent occurrences, he looked at me skeptically. I am sure I am not the only older patient he has with these complaints. He assured me that most of my concerns were age related and advised me to go on and live my life because eventually I would forget about them. He added I should not forget to smile. He actually talked to me like I was a preschooler. I am surprised he didn’t pat me on the head. I resisted my urge to punch him.

After examining me, he said there was some good news and some not so good news. Turns out my visions resulted from a protein buildup behind my newly implanted lenses when I had cataract surgery. A small laser procedure could easily solve this. I told him I’d forego more surgery and figured my brain would adjust. 

The gnats, flies, and mice I had seen were caused by floaters. They appear as little shadows on your retina.

I asked him what could be done about them. Nothing, he replied. Most floaters don’t require treatment. They’re an annoying part of old age, and your brain learns to ignore them. 

I left his office feeling a little better and not so concerned about my sanity, which I'd need to tell my girlfriend about and remind her it wasn’t all that rock concert air we had breathed in.

Now I don’t see dogs looking like geese or men resembling doggy bag dispensers, but I continue to swat at flies and gnats that don’t exist.  

Getting older is strange. It creeps up on you without noticing. The changes in my body and mind are disconcerting and sometimes make me question my sanity. But every time I experience a new age-related bodily dysfunction, I laugh at myself and view this new stage of life as another adventure. I may not live through many more of these hallucinogenic escapades, but one thing is for sure: my active imagination guarantees no one in my circle will ever be bored.