Cataract surgery, it seems, is a rite of passage required with age. Kinda like a similar rite of passage that often occurs in adolescence — braces on the teeth. Up to 75 percent of people could benefit from orthodontic treatment, claims the American Association of Orthodontics. Nearly everyone ultimately requires cataract surgery, says the National Institutes of Health.

Both involve a degree of discomfort: an orthodontist cranking away in your mouth or a surgeon poking into your eyeball. We undergo such rites expecting a brighter smile in the first instance and clearer vision in the second. Sixty-six years later, I’m still grateful to my parents for financing the process that eliminated a wide gap between my front two teeth.

Given modern anesthetics, discomfort from the eye surgery comes more from thinking about it than actually undergoing it. “Piece of cake,” was the most common description I heard from cataract veterans when I mentioned my upcoming procedure. 

Because my local hospital doesn’t offer the service, travel logistics — 200 miles round trip and overnight lodging — were more complex than the surgery itself, which can best be described as a medical assembly line. Cataract extraction is the most prevalent surgical procedure of all medical specialties in our country, says the NIH.

What happens if you don’t get your cataracts removed? Pretty much, you go blind. The NIH reports that globally, the number of people blind from cataracts is increasing by approximately one million per year. The number of people who qualify for cataract surgery is increasing by four to five million per year. Knowing that, I had no complaints about landing in the assembly line.

For my surgery day, the clinic required that I be accompanied by a “responsible adult.” A friend volunteered and was given a tag with my patient number. She could sit in the waiting room and keep track of me remotely. Patient numbers flashing on a large screen show who’s in pre-op, operating, or post-op. We chose for my friend to accompany me during the pre-op portion, which occurs in a banquet-sized room where gurneys are scattered about with minimal privacy. Nurses roam the room, hooking folks up to the vital tubes and instruments, each time affirming name, date of birth, and which eye was being operated on. Ultimately the surgeon stopped by to place a mark above my left eye — the one that had become especially blurry.

I have no idea what went on during surgery, other than awareness of a brilliant kaleidoscope of color. Finally, I felt adhesive tape being pulled off my face — the only real ouch of the morning. In post-op, the nurse offered coffee, tea or juice. I opted for coffee, since I’d been required to bypass my usual wake-up java. It was the best/worst cup of coffee ever.

Some two hours after we’d entered the clinic, a nurse was pushing me in a wheelchair to the exit. In the elevator she chatted with another nurse, who was also wheeling an outgoing patient.

“What’re you doing today?” asked the other nurse.

“Cataracts,” was the reply.

“Oh, today?”

“Every day is cataract day,” answered my nurse.

Sure enough, because Creator doubly blessed us, I get to do it all over again in two weeks. Maybe not a rite of passage. Next time the right of passage.