Muddling Through Murky Waters:
An Honest Reflection Before Cataract Surgery
In three days, I'll fly to Anchorage, Alaska, for surgery. I'm scared. I shouldn't be—I hear a calm reassurance in my meditations and preparations. Plus, everyone tells me this is safe, and I'll be so happy afterwards. Yet, it's unknown. I live solo. I've been feeling a buzz of anxiety that comes and goes.
My legal paperwork and backup plans if something happens to me are a work in progress. And it's my eyes, my vision. Cataract surgery in my right eye is Wednesday, my left eye is Thursday, then a Friday checkup and I'll fly home midday. Anchorage is a 25-minute flight from home—or a three-hour drive through mountain passes. I'm grateful for our regional airlines. I do feel reassured after my pre-surgery appointment two weeks ago when I flew to the Pacific Cataract Laser Institute in Anchorage. Surgery was initially scheduled a year ago, except my brother had a brain aneurysm burst, and I ended up out of state in the hospital at his side for months last spring, and cancelled it. Then running my business all summer, and, and, and... Here I am today.
I'm aware of energy and the intent to create a vision (pun intended) for post-surgery, with the ability to safely drive at night again a real bonus. I'm told that colors will be amazing after the surgery. And yet the spectrum of colors appears beautiful now. I don't see a big difference when I cover one eye, and then the other, to compare and contrast. Most everybody that I talk to about cataract surgery says it's amazing. On the Cataract Grading Scale my right eye cataract is 3 of 4, left is 2 of 4.
With the lens replacements, I chose to correct my vision for distance. I'm told I'll need readers for everything that's within extended arm and fingertip width around me. I currently need readers on top of tri-focal contacts that don't really work very well, as my vision continues to change every 4-6 months. A question with an unknown outcome and slight concern is: will my close-up vision loss be more significant than what I live with now? The doctors and technicians answered my list of questions at the pre-appointment, yet this was hard to determine. I appreciate the facility where the procedures will happen. I've booked a hotel room downtown for my two nights, and transportation is arranged between the PCLI driver on surgery days and when I'll need to Uber. My daughter-by-choice will stay with me each night. My housemate will take care of the labradors and keep an eye on everything here.
I'm not being morbid, nor predicting something into the immediate future when I ask my nieces and nephews and daughters-by-choice to begin thinking about what they would love to have of mine when the time comes that my breath in this body will cease. In my mind, I am choosing life, open to the reality that there are no guarantees of how long any of us will live. All we have is now—the present. Perhaps I’m becoming both a death and birth doula for myself—to have passcodes and digital asset plans, writings, photography, belongings, desires, and business constructs all in order. And in this, a freedom can be birthed.
I choose to live with vision and discern steps along the way to put into place for this current traverse of life, my age, and future. Conceivably this will be a gift to my beloveds, and myself too, offering freedom and insight for the time I'm given to live. All the planning and preparation, informed in part from my past emergency management communications training, together with the aftermath of my father's unexpected death a year and a half ago, my brother's aneurysm last year—all of this life experience offers me an invitation and a decision:
Choose life. Rest assured your love will linger long after your vision fades and flows downriver.
Meanwhile, in this time and place, open the present.
Honor these musings and invites. Seek your truth and be not detoured. Trust the process.
Put everything in place as best you may. Identify resources you need. Ask for assistance.
Do the work. Love. Give, and receive.
I am reminded of Jesus' words in Matthew 6:22-23, and they accompany me:
"The eye is the lamp of the body. If your eyes are healthy, your whole body will be full of light. But if your eyes are unhealthy, your whole body will be full of darkness."
I’m entering into these final preparations and practicalities at home—with passcodes just in case, and yes, visioning my delightful future—I do choose to lean into what is to come. And trust the belief that eyes are the window to the soul. I desire and choose healthy, clear vision—physically, emotionally, mentally, and spiritually.
As this week begins, I pray that my vision be made whole again, as I open the present moment to all it gently reveals. I received a surprise this morning after writing this reflection in ink, on paper, that started as a prompt for a Substack note from Sarah Fay through her Substack Writers at Work. Nearing noon, I closed my journal and gazed out the windows on this unseasonably warm February day. The sun shining, the Kenai River has not frozen this year, and most of the snow is melted in the woods, even as the ground is frozen hard and icy. On a visible rock rising above the surface in low river flow, goldeneye diving ducks were sunning themselves! They usually do not arrive until later in spring, when the ice finally breaks up and the river begins to flow. I bundled up, shouldered my canon camera and big lens that I’ve not picked up for far too long and quietly made my way to the dock. The ducks had moved into the water, and floated in the slow current. Then, down river, movement on the opposite shore caught my eye—an immature eagle was shaking its wings, looking into the sunlight. For the longest time I breathed into the present. Surrounded by beauty, trusting in the present time, vision, and so very grateful to be alive.
I offer peace to you in your vulnerabilities and in those times when your vision is murky. Together, we can support, love, and care for one another.
If you find meaning in these words, kindly share them with someone who might need them today. You can find more reflections at Open the Present with Pegge (@pegge on Substack). Free and paid subscribers receive posts in their email inbox and Substack feed, plus will discover shorter thoughts and photos called "notes" in their Substack feed.
Pegge Erkeneff is a writer, photographer, and soul friend living in Soldotna, Alaska. As a coach, business owner, and founder of Open The Present, she creates spaces—through retreats, consulting, and conversation—where others can discover their own clarity and connection. This reflection was written in February 2025, three days before her cataract surgery.
Well. . .I'm not too sure about Jesus' comment! I think even with our eyes closed we are full of light, light being the main substance of what we are. A combination of love and pure consciousness? And with our wondrous imagination, we can imagine light so brilliant the physical eyes might not be able to handle it! So with that out of the way, I "see" you leaping to a new level with this surgery, which like my own heart surgery, gives us the excuse to suddenly be more, see more of what's here in 3D and what nonphysical life is like as well. And all through the procedures, remember, you have company from many loving beings. . .
Pegge, Thanks for sharing your journey to seeing clearly. My heart is with you.
I am also in the process of scheduling surgery for cataracts.
I am grateful for you sharing your prayers and preparations please know I am praying for you and your surgeon, in the words of Julian of Norwich , “All is well, all will be well and in all manner of things shall be well.”