Early in my career, I was trying to decide to whom I should send my cataract patients. So I called a friendly local O.D. and I asked him whom he sent his cataracts to. He told me, and I asked him why he picked this fellow.

He said, and I quote, Because he is a great surgeon, so none of your patients will have any problems. And because hes a horses ass, so none of your patients will stay with him when theyre done.

Thats right. In olden times, back when hobbits roamed the earth, you referred cataract patients out and most likely never saw them again. Stolen away. Of course, since cataract surgery left them +20.00D aphakes, good riddance I guess.
Flash forward to the present. While its one thing to refer Mrs. Jones for cataract surgery, its quite another to send out MOM!

You would have to know my mother. She is, in a word, a fireball. She is very healthy (knock on wood) and very independent.

What do you think an 80-year-old widow would have in the trunk of her 15-year-old Caddy?

If you guessed two tennis rackets (she plays three days a week), one set of golf clubs, a case of champagne, and four pairs of rhinestone cowboy boots, you have met my mother and are probably a better person for it! Oh, I almost forgot her dulcimer, water-skiing vest, and a small suitcase always packed just in case somebody wants to go to the beach at any given moment.

My Mothers Son
So, referring my own dear mother for cataract surgery was a big deal. Oh, did I mention that she is amblyopic in the other eye? If you think she was concerned, guess how I felt. I would hate for any patient to have problems after cataract surgery. It would be terrible. But, if it was my own one-eyed momma, it would be catastrophic 24/7 for the rest of my natural life, which would not be not be that long once my brothers and sisters got hold of me.

I did not send her to the horses ass, even though hes a good surgeon. Instead, I opted for an ophthalmologist whos a good surgeon and a very close friend. I felt that he would give Mom his utmost attention, just as if she were his own mother, and just as if I, her dear referring doctor and son, were a psycho killer. No pressure.

He decided that I should come to the surgery. Never mind that the hospital has a zero tolerance rule against family members in the O.R., optometrist or not.

So, we conspired that I would be Dr. Montgomery, Mrs. Vickers referring optometrist. To keep the secret safe, I cautioned my mother not to call me son, Little Monty, idiot or any of those familiar terms.

When we got there, she had to go through an interview with a Surgicare administrator.

Next of kin? Her answer, of course: He is.

After that near disastrous interview, I found my way to the doctors lounge where I put on my scrubs, booties and jaunty plastic beret. I observed the surgeon with another patient while they gently prepped Mom in the next room.

As the Versed kicked in, I heard her exclaim, My boys coming in here in a minute!

I hitched up my mask, hoping my stoned mother wouldnt notice me. But, as I entered the room, I saw another familiar smiling face. One of the nurses was my patient!

Dr. Vickers! Busted!

I did get to stay, though, and Mom did great. So great, in fact, that she immediately wanted to have the amblyopic eye done. The cataract surgeon did such a good job that I hate to saddle him with the bad eye. No good will come of it. I may just call the horses ass for that one.