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Last Wednesday I had cataract surgery on my right eye. What makes this procedure a little odd for me is that I'm only 58 years old. I like to think of cataract surgery as something that "old people" do. I remember when my grandpa had it, and he was in his 80's. But that's not the reason for this story or this blog. 
    When I walked into the pre-op room, I was directed to a scale. My anxiety kicked in as I stepped up on the silver floating plate near the floor. Who knew that I would be weighed for cataract surgery. What does my weight have to do with my eyes? I watched the numbers in front of me start to climb. Up, up they went and then stopped at 101. Oh, that's nice, I thought. They have measured me in kilos. Now I won't have to know how much I truly weigh. The nurse then stood over my shoulder and started running her index finger along a BMI chart on the wall located right behind the scale I was standing on. I watched as her finger moved diagonally from the bottom left hand corner to the upper right hand corner and then stopped.  "Thirty-nine" she said. I followed her finger with my eyes straight up to the top of the chart. It fell in right between "obese" and "morbidly obese." 
    I'm 58 and if I gain one more pound I'll be in morbidly obese category...again. This isn't the first time. I've been down this road before. Many times. The feelings of guilt, shame, and failure returned for a few moments as I was walked to the reclining chair where I would later receive my IV to relax me for the surgery. 
    I sat in the chair trying to ignore the complaining from an older man on the other side of the curtain directly to my right. He was also having surgery that day, but was unhappy with the care he had received elsewhere and was going to make sure that everyone he met that day knew it. I on the other hand was thinking about me. I had to make a plan. 

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