The Cure That Took My Tears

My vision’s clear, but my eyes forgot how to cry. Sounds like a country song, doesn’t it?

Well, we may be headed toward Armageddon, but in the mean time…

When I found out my cataracts were advanced enough to require surgery, I actually felt a flicker of excitement. Why? Because it meant I could finally get the fancy Toric PanOptix lenses. No more glasses—ever. I was ready to throw my progressives in the trash and toast my new 20/20 future.

And the surgery delivered—sort of.

What they didn’t tell me was that, while I’d be seeing the world in crisp HD, I’d also be left blinking through a haze of discomfort. That familiar “gravel-in-the-eyes” feeling hit a few weeks later, and it hasn’t let up.

When I went back to the eye doctor for answers, she casually mentioned that dry eye is a common post-op issue. “You’re not alone,” she said.

Great, I thought. Would’ve been nice to know that beforehand, so I didn’t spend weeks wondering if something had gone wrong.

The operation itself was like something out of a medical assembly line. Patients lined up in gurneys, waiting for their pupils to dilate like cars waiting to roll onto the lift. That part took two hours. The actual procedure? Five minutes. Whirr, zap, done. Then repeat with the second eye two weeks later.

Of course, the antibiotic and steroid drops didn’t stop after the surgeries. I was still using them for a week afterward—just long enough to complete the job of wiping out the natural microbiome of my eyes. Mission accomplished. No infection… and no tears, either.

My morning ritual: microwave mask, prescription pills, and a bottle of Blink. Not pictured: the warning I never got.

So now, I’ve got the vision of a fighter pilot and the eye comfort of someone who just did a faceplant in a sandbox.

Every morning starts with warm compresses. I microwave this little beanbag mask and lie back while it heats my eyelids—like some bizarre spa treatment from a dystopian future. Then it’s time for the eye drops. Not once or twice a day, mind you. We’re talking Blink drops on an every-few-hours rotation, like a baby’s feeding schedule. If I skip a dose, I pay for it. Burning, scratching, blurred vision—it all comes roaring back.

To really drive it home, my eye doctor prescribed doxycycline. Not for infection, but to reduce inflammation in the oil glands of my eyelids—the ones that help keep your tears from evaporating. Bonus points: I have to take it on an empty stomach, which means no coffee or protein shake in the morning unless I want to mess with absorption. Because apparently, dry eye demands both sacrifice and scheduling.

And here’s the kicker: all of this is normal. Or at least common enough that my eye doctor barely blinked when I described it. This is just the cost of doing business when you opt for modern cataract surgery with high-end lenses. They give you a new view of the world—and a long-term relationship with artificial tears.

So consider this a bit of a public service announcement—especially if you’re headed for cataract or lens replacement surgery yourself. I’m not trying to scare anyone off. Like I said, the results can be amazing. But it’s worth knowing the whole story going in, not just the shiny part.

My doctor even confided that she’s had a few patients tell her they wish they’d never had the surgery—had they known what the aftereffects could be.

That’s not me. The trade-off is well worth it.

I just wish I’d had the chance to understand what I was trading.

To be fair, my doctor never said the word “cure.” What she actually said was, “Let’s see how things look in about two weeks.” Not exactly a promise, but just hopeful enough to keep me hanging on. I think. Maybe.

But that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? The gap between what we hear and what we’re told—especially when it comes to side effects that don’t show up on a chart. No one sat me down and said, “Hey, you’re going to love your new vision, but there’s a decent chance you’ll be dragging around a bottle of Blink for the foreseeable future. Also, warm compresses. Forever.”

This isn’t some obscure complication, either. It turns out a lot of post-op patients go through the same thing. But unless you happen to Google the right phrase or show up at your follow-up looking like you’ve been crying through a dust storm, you might never know why your eyes suddenly feel like a desert floor.

The real kicker? This is largely caused by the very drops meant to protect your eyes. The antibiotics and steroids do their job—no question. They prevent infection and calm inflammation. But they also act like a scorched-earth campaign on your natural eye flora. The good bacteria that help regulate tear production? Nuked. The balance that keeps your ocular surface calm and lubricated? Gone.

It’s the classic medical trade-off: we eliminate one problem and create another, but only one of those shows up in the glossy brochure.

So yes—my vision is clear. I can read road signs, check my phone without glasses, and even track my golf ball (most days). But I also carry around a tiny pharmacy of eye care tools, and I’ve developed a Pavlovian relationship with eye drops. Blink. Relief. Repeat.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m grateful. The technology that made this possible is nothing short of miraculous. And I absolutely would’ve done the surgery even knowing the trade-off.

But I would’ve liked to know what I was trading for.

Because sometimes, the real adjustment isn’t to clearer vision—it’s to the fine print no one ever reads aloud.

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Here’s to clear vision, informed choices, and readers who stick around even when I’m ranting about eyeballs.