Yesterday afternoon, Walt, Tasha and I drove up to Blois for my appointment with the ophthalmologist who about three weeks ago diagnosed me as having growing cataracts in both of my eyes. It's a 45- to 60-minute drive to Blois depending on which route you choose to drive and what traffic is like. On the most direct route, there is a town you have to drive through on a ridiculously narrow main street which always seems to be blocked by some over-sized vehicle (bus, big rig, tractor, or harvester).
We had the farm equipment scenario to cope with yesterday. We rode behind some enormous engin at about 20 mph for what seemed like forever. I was convinced I was going to be late for my 3:30 appointment, which was supposed to take an hour. I had been told (orally and in writing) that I wouldn't be allowed to drive myself home after the appointment because both of my eyes would be dilated as part of the procedure, which was described as taking measurements of my eyeballs.
While I was in the doctors' office, Walt spent some time just sitting out in the parking lot in front of the building and then he took Tasha for a walk in some parkland just across the street... Anyway, we had arrived there on time, or maybe 10 minutes early. After I scanned my national health service membership card in some kind of card reader, I was sent into a waiting room to, well, wait to be called in by the doctor or one of his assistants. There must have been 15 or 20 other people in the room. I wondered how long I would have to wait. But I needn't have worried.
I was called in by a doctor's assistant not more that 10 minutes after my arrival. I thought it was interesting that he was dressed in a white T-shirt, dark blue jeans, and white tennis shoes. The whole atmosphere was relaxed but really professional at the same time. The assistant had me put my chin up against a big light-box of some sort. I saw nothing but a bright green light shining in each of my eyes. The assistant was taking pictures of my eyes, I guess. Maybe that was how eye measurements are taken, I thought to myself. In five minutes' time I was seated back out in the waiting room to, well, wait for the doctor to call me in.
That didn't even take five minutes. This is the third time I've seen him, so we sort of know each other. The first time I saw him, about 18 months ago, he looked at my name, looked at my face, and then asked me if we needed to speak English. I told him no and added that I had spent nearly half my life in France. I could cope. This time, and the time before over in Montrichard, he didn't need to ask me that question.
He had me put my chin up against another light-box type machine and took some more pictures of my eyes. That took all of five minutes. The doctor said, you know, the surgical procedure for each eye takes only about 15 minutes. He also said that my weaker eye would be done first, and if that went well they'd do the other eye two weeks later. Good plan, I thought to myself. Then he sent me back to the waiting room to, well, wait some more. After, well, waiting for about five minutes, I was called over by a woman sitting at the office's reception desk.
Monsieur Bro-ah-dyurst, she said, hesitantly. Did I say that right, she asked. I told her yes, that's how I pronounce it when I'm speaking French, adding that the pronunciation is different in English. She looked at me as if she wanted to say no kidding. She told me that another employee in an office just behind me would be calling me in in a couple of minutes to make appointments for me for the actual surgery. And then she said, that'll be 60 euros please. I paid with my French debit card. She looked past me to the office where the appointments employee was sitting and said I didn't need to go back into the waiting room; I could go directly into the office behind me. I did.
The employee in the office told me she could schedule the first of the two of appointments with the surgeon for May 15. The second one, to do the other eye, would be for May 30. Can we put that off until June, I asked her, telling her I had other things to do in late May. No problem, she said. How about June 11 for the first eye and June 25th for the second one. That would be perfect, I told her.
She asked me if I had somebody who could drive me to Blois and then drive me back home again. I said yes. The doctor said the procedure for each eye will take only about 15 minutes, I told her. Well, she said, not really. You'll need to be here for three or four hours each time. Oh, I thought to myself, that won't be very convenient for Walt and Tasha. Would they wait all that time, or would they drop me off, drive back home, and then drive back to Blois to get me later in the day?
I asked the scheduler if she thought I might be able to have the national health service pay for a taxi for the round-trip for each eye. Somebody had told me that might be a possibility. Avez-vous une mutuelle, she asked me. Yes, I said, with MMA. That's my complementary insurance plan. The mutuelle will pay for the taxis, she said. Just be sure you show the taxi driver(s) your mutuelle membership paperwork so that the taxi rides can be correctly charged. She said that later I would also need to schedule a pre-operation appointment with an on-staff anesthetist. For that one, I can drive myself to Blois and back home again. I won't need a chauffeur.
There will also be post-surgery medical exams I'll need to have, the employee said. She looked at my paperwork. So you live in Saint-Aignan, she asked. Is that closer to Montrichard than to Blois? Yes, I said, much closer: 15 kilometers rather than 40 kilometers each way. Okay, I'll schedule your post-operation meetings with the doctor at our Montrichard outpost, she said. That was nice.
And that was it. I was free to go. It wasn't even four o'clock yet. From the employee's office window, I could see Walt walking through the parking lot outside. As I left the building, I realized that my eyes hadn't been dilated during the whole process. Walt and Tasha could have stayed home and I could have driven myself up to Blois and back. Oh well... La perfection n'est pas de ce monde, as my late friend Charles-Henry would have said.
A couple of days ago, I mentioned the ferme-auberge (farm inn) a mile from our house. Its owners make and sell goat cheeses at the farm and also at the outdoor markets in Saint-Aignan and Montrichard. Above is a picture of Mme B. her cheese stand, and her farm-made cheeses, with customers waiting to be served.
At the farm they raise goats, rent rooms and gîtes, serve meals, and make goat's milk cheeses in several styles and shapes. There are Sainte-Maure de Touraine logs like the one I bought to have with our Easter dinner today. They also make Selles-sur-Cher disks, Valençay pyramids, and little Chavignol (Sancerre) rounds called crottins. I'll post more photos tomorrow after I've our Easter dinner this morning.
