Copyright © 2019 by Ralph Robert Moore.

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It gets hard to see.

That happens.

Lying on my spine, on the green grass in my family's backyard, in a childhood that has since drifted far away over the waves, like a bottle that never found a shore, palms interlaced behind my small head, looking up at the blue sky, watching as the white cloud continents above me slowly, slowly passed by, it might take an hour or more for a continent arriving on the right side of the blueness to disappear beyond the green treetops to the left of my yard, a snagged red kite forever percolating on its tether to a top limb, and I was perfectly content lying there, daytime insect noises, dog barking three backyards away, watching this incredible slow motion, as if clouds were elephants.

We live in a beautiful world. We've even been blessed with waterfalls. Waterfalls! I mean, the world would be great even if we didn't have them, but how wonderful is it that in addition to everything else, we also get water cascading off high-up rocks, down into a pool of cold water expanding its impact circles outwards?

But it does get harder to see, over the years.

Mary and I have both been diagnosed with cataracts.

It happens.

In our case, Mary's cataracts were worse than mine. I wish it were the opposite, but I don't get a vote. (You don't either.)

She needed surgery to remove the cataracts from her eyes.

That's scary.

I mentioned it to our dentist, because there's that thing where you have to make small talk with your dentist after shaking his hand, to show you're glad to see him again, although of course you're not, who the fuck wants to go to a dentist (I read once they have the highest suicide rate among medical professionals), and he made a face while he checked my mouth for cavities, oral cancer, etc.

(While we were sitting in the outer waiting room for my appointment, me reading a few more pages in David Lynch's autobiography, which I highly recommend, a short old guy came in, marched up to the receptionist to let her know he had arrived for his cleaning, and started talking non-stop. I mean, non-fucking-stop. 'You can take a seat, Mr. Perlman. It'll just be a few minutes.' 'Notice how the creeks have a lot more water in 'em? Higher up on the banks? Must be the rain, I guess. Judith made some scrambled eggs for me yesterday, and in addition to ham cubes, she put in some chunks of green bell peppers. Don't know if I really liked them or not. They used to empty my recycle bin around two o'clock, but now it's more like six o'clock. I tried calling the company about it, but I couldn't find their number on the Internet.' And on and on. Never sat down. Stayed at the receptionist's counter the whole time, sharing his stupid observations. When he was finally called into the back for his cleaning I thought, okay, he'll finally have to shut up, they're cleaning his teeth, but when I was escorted back, he was still going at it: 'They say this is the severest Winter in years, but I just think things go in a cycle. Judith and me eat a lot of frozen meals for dinner, but it seems like they've made it harder and harder to tear the packages open.')

My goateed dentist's face going inwards. "Preventive procedures are important, but…I don't know if I want someone operating on my eyes. It's just…it's my eyes. You know?"

I agreed, as I stuck my tongue out and he grabbed the tip of it with white gauze, twisting it left, right, to see if I had any malignant spots.

We trusted our ophthalmologist's skill, and in fact the old white-haired guy we bought our sliced deli meats from at a local supermarket had had the same surgeries from the same doctor, so we felt somewhat reassured.

Because Mary had a stroke, and is currently on Coumadin, which can affect her susceptibility to bleed, we had all sorts of procedures we had to go through prior to the surgeries to make sure cataract removal would be safe for her. We met with a cardiologist twice, who took an EKG of Mary, and an echocardiogram, because she would have to stop taking Coumadin five days prior to the procedure.

All of this was in the worst of Winter here in Texas. Each time we went to the cardiologist, we had to park in a tall, huge parking garage blocks away, then walk hand in hand through the cold, whipping air to get to the entrance of the building where he had his quiet offices.

In addition to that, Mary had to take different eye drops throughout the day for a week before her surgery, and then a month afterward. And that was just for the first eye. We had to do the procedure all over again for her other eye.

But it was worth it.

The day after the surgery on her first eye, her left eye, we went back to the ophthalmologist, on a Saturday morning, I didn't even know they came in on Saturdays, and they removed the large plastic shield bandaged over her left eye.

Mary's eye, bloodshot from the procedure, roving around the room.

She burst into tears.

"I can see everything again! Like when I was a kid." (

I told people in shops and other physicians' offices, when they inquired, once they removed the shield she burst into tears when she looked at my face with her cleared-up vision and realized how old I had gotten. That joke got such a good reaction, I shamelessly started using it everywhere, with neighbors, supermarket cashiers, gas station attendants. It became my 'I just flew into Vegas, and boy are my arms tired' joke.)

But what I'll remember most from this experience, one of so, so many experiences across the rich, wide expanse of our lives together, is when Mary had the surgery on her right eye.

It was another cold, wet morning. Sun not yet up.

Slanting backwards down our driveway in the early morning hours, I turned on our headlights, yellowy illuminating our garage door, something we never did anymore, because we so rarely needed to exit our home during the darkness of the early day.

Once we arrived at the surgical center one town over, we walked inside, checked in at the front desk, then sat in the reception area until Mary's name was called. She had to go in by herself, but I'd be allowed to see her once the pre-op procedures were completed.

When that time came, I had to wash my hands with a sterilizing ointment. Held Mary's small hand as nurses kept putting eye drops in her right eye. Made nervous small talk about our cats back home. Greeted her ophthalmologist, who drew a small, black 'X' under the eye that was the site for this day's operation. Met her anesthesiologist. After about an hour it was her turn to have her gurney rolled to where the procedure would be performed.

I had to go back out to the waiting room. Picked up David Lynch's big book again, read some more, praying for my wife's safety.

About an hour passed.

A young nurse came out, called my last name.

I stood up.

Mary and I reunited inside the post-op recovery area. We gripped hands, kissed. Our grateful faces made us look like kids. You and me, again.

A nurse would escort Mary out to the front waiting area while I swung our car over to the exit door, so Mary wouldn't have to walk any distance while still coming out of the effects of her general anesthesia.

I strode across the wet parking lot, happy, pulling out my black car beeper, aiming it at our silver CRV.

The CRV didn't beep back at me.

Which was odd, but whatever.

Manually inserted the key into the CRV's front driver's door.

Folded myself inside, looking forward to Mary and me swinging by a fast food place, bringing the hot white bags back to our bed, where we'd eat while watching Judge Judy.

Put the key in the ignition on the right side of the steering wheel. Twisted it right, as I always did.

And…nothing.

Nothing.

No engine even attempting to turn over.

Nothing.

Realized, sinking in my driver's seat, the battery was dead.

I turned on the headlights when we exited our garage hours before, but never turned the headlights off when we arrived at the surgical center. Stupid me.

So here we are, one town away from where we live. It's a cold, wet morning, Mary has a big, blue-plastic shield bandaged over her right eye, she's still groggy from her general anesthesia, and I have no way to get her home to our safe bed.

I trotted across the cold wet parking lot, back to the brightly-lit surgical center, where a nurse was waiting patiently with Mary on her arm to release her to me, and explained my car was dead. Asked if there was a phone I could use. And the address of the surgical center. She was very helpful, on both counts. When she didn't have to be.

I called Triple-A. Explained our situation.

"I can get someone out to jump your battery in about three to four hours, Mr. Moore."

Mary sitting in a dead car three to four hours, out in a cold, dark, wet parking lot, blue plastic shield over her right eye, still under the effects of general anesthesia.

I explained the circumstances. "My wife's just had eye surgery."

"I'll see what I can do."

Holding Mary's warm hand, I escorted her to the passenger side of our dead CRV. Had her sit inside while I stood by the back fender, smoking a cigarette.

Worrying about her well-being.

And do you know what happened next?

A pick-up with a garage's name on its side cut across some parking lots, entered this parking lot, where I waved him down, fingers trailing smoke.

He hopped out of his tall driver's side door, popped his hood, asked me to pop ours, and charged our battery. Didn't ask for any thanks. Got our engine running, shook my hand, then backed-up out of his parking space, and took off.

So I am so grateful.

I'm grateful that Mary's two cataract surgeries went as well as they did, so that now she can see so much better than before, like she used to see as a teenager; and I am grateful that a man we never met before in our lives, and will never meet again, cared enough about strangers to rearrange his schedule to make sure we got safely home. He didn't have to do that. There was no profit in him doing that.

But he did it anyway, because he knew on this cold, wet morning these two strangers needed his help.