Monday, 15 June, 2026
On the subject of 20-20, I looked back at my first post of that year. I remember typing it. Lockdown hadn’t been announced yet, but there were quiet rumours of an epidemic that could become a pandemic. That didn’t sound possible at the time. Nevertheless, I had high hopes for the year. It was 20-20, perfect vision, after all. What could go wrong?
The concept of ‘home’ came to me again today. I am following a couple on social media. They are from the USA and left to find a different life last year – they’ve been in Mexico some years back, and recently the UK, Spain, Crete, and Holland. They want to live in the UK, but that’s not easy. They do have a three-year digital nomad visa to live in Spain so, after some stays in these other countries, they are in Valencia for their three years, still hoping for an entry way to the UK. Inevitably, they get a lot of comments – some hateful – from mostly US and UK followers asking what they can possibly see in the UK, how they are traitors who will regret their decision, and so on. People don’t get it. Somehow they think they should. Oh, I’ve been there. I am there.
So let’s talk about me. Because I’m trying. Really. What makes us love a place? Honestly, who knows? We can trot out all the reasons we love a place, or a person, but there will always be things we don’t love about them. After living in London, Toronto, Southern California (LA area), and San Francisco, and travelling a bit in Europe, I can say that there are things I love and don’t love about everywhere I’ve been. However, there are constants, the things that a place must have for me to love – or like – them at all. In my introspective way, I follow a handful of people from Canada and the US who have relocated to London, and an equal number of people who have moved from the UK to Toronto. Fascinating. The North Americans in London interest me with their mixed reports of falling in love versus pure confusion-frustration over the UK way of doing things. They report missing things from home, often junk food items that make me go ewww. But I get it. Now, the Brits living in Toronto are another breed. They’re starstruck. The skyscrapers, the summer (and winter) sunshine, the ‘nice factor.’ They love their sparkling condos, their mod cons. They’re young and stride around the city- they’re used to walking places – checking out all the boogie coffee shops and eateries. Toronto is next-level luxury to them. What I came to appreciate was that the things that impressed them were not the things I wanted. I get it. But it’s fun to watch them brim with joy in a Dollarama, gape at the produce in Farm Boy (and yes at the prices too). I keep hoping their enthusiasm will rub off, and try to see this place through (their) new eyes. I have a cousin whose middle name is Bitter. Yes, that one. She smirks at me and then gathers her bitterness, telling me that I wouldn’t love East London if I’d lived there as long as she had, if I’d endured the hard life she had no choice to live. Once when I was staying in Liverpool, my dad visited on business. He screwed up his nose and asked me how I could love being there when it was so poor, so dirty. I told him, honestly, that the things he saw as ugly were the things I loved. I couldn’t help it.
Am I wearing rose-coloured glasses? Am I romanticising? Does it matter? Is my cousin right? Honestly, I understand her history is longer, but no matter how you paint it, I honestly did and still love my childhood home even as I know I had my eyes open about how ‘poor’ it was. (We were never truly poor, but you may know what I mean.)Â Is the grass greener? There’s that, but it’s also different, and different can be a lot of fun.
Since I last wrote anything, there’s been a gap because last Tuesday I had my first cataract surgery and, since it makes some people squeamish but I want to document it, it follows on the next page.
Meanwhile, some photos to document what else I’ve been filling my time with.
Friday photo:
Princess Margaret Cancer Centre sent my eye surgeon’s office my eye results on 7th April, it was quite a while before I heard from them. They called me a day before my personal deadline to nudge them, and suddenly my surgery was scheduled for just about two weeks away. Two days before my surgery, I got the time to arrive – 7:30 am! Meanwhile, I had started my drops to be taken three days before the surgery date. All set.
I was more nervous about the elevator ride than the surgery, but it all went well. In the corridor after a blissfully easy elevator ride (yay), a woman was halfway through a talk to the dozen people queuing up about what would happen next. I regretted having opted not to bring my walker, which has a nice seat.
There was an hour’s wait in the waiting room, and I went into the pre-op area. There I had an IV line inserted in the back of my hand, and numerous drops that numbed and prepared my eyes. They marked my forehead to show which eye was going to be worked on and then marked my eye – that was the weirdest feeling and probably, although fleeting, the most uncomfortable. I went into a small operating room. There were four people in there – the doctor, a resident, an anaesthetist who would administer the sedative, and a nurse.
When I’d done my research, my question was what would it be like? AI told me it was “like a light show.” So true. Once I got my sedative and a nice pillow under my head, the surgery began. There was zero pain or sensation. What I saw was coloured shapes that seemed to move around each other — turquoise-green, pink, white on a black background. I imagined myself on the set of Wicked with that colour scheme and almost said so. There was little noise other than some vibration and the soft voices from the surgical crew. Nothing was scary. Result!
Then I was in the post-op chair, getting juice and graham crackers and then being helped into a chair to wait for Krish. Writing all this, I realise how brief and non-detailed this was for me, who likes to describe each detail. There was no bandage, just a clear eye protector held on with the paper tape I’d insisted on. Krish arrived, and we ordered a cab after dropping into the lobby opticians to have the lens in my right glasses popped out.
That day I had four naps and my eye was very sore. I wondered how I’d manage my drops, but they all went well. The next day my eye was a bit less sore, and I was less tired. I was also heartened by a phone call from the resident doctor asking how my eye was doing. That meant a lot to me. No pain, I said, just aching and my vision was distorted. That’s all normal, she said, carry on with your drops. Definitely!
The drops schedule is lengthy but fine if I follow my handy chart, marking off each drop I use, to keep on track. My eye itself isn’t sore, but there’s aching that gets worse if I use my eyes too much. I got that glasses lens popped out but actually feel I see better without them, one eye out of focus and the other (operated eye) slowly showing me how things will look when everything is healed. Print is clearer, detail is more obvious – I discovered yesterday that my countertops were textured with white dots. How had I never seen them before?
I see the eye surgeon for a follow-up on Tuesday and will probably get a date and time for my next surgery. It feels like I’ve waited forever for this. Now to learn to live with the pruney skin around my eyes, till now hidden by glasses. My vanity will not let me walk around like that! I’m going to be a good customer for fashion glasses. Besides, up till now my far vision isn’t acute since they were concentrating on saving my near vision. She’d hinted at that. C’est la vie.