If you remember my most recent post, my left eye, on which I had cataract surgery a few years ago, had grown cloudy again. This made reading tough and night driving an adventure. My ophthalmologist assured me that this cloudiness is a common condition for former cataract patients. Thankfully, it’s easy to treat with a few zaps from a YAG laser, whose name I love. (If you’re curious, YAG stands for yttrium aluminum garnet.)
I was scheduled to have my eye yag-zapped in January at the same clinic that performed my original cataract surgery. Unfortunately, that clinic doesn’t take my new health insurance, which kicked in on Jan. 1. The out-of-pocket expense for the procedure: $5,500. And that reflected the “generous discount” the clinic provides to patients who either have no insurance or whose insurance is deemed substandard. I’m in the substandard category, as my insurance only covers procedures that are necessary for my continued survival—and, according to my provider, I could certainly muddle through life with blurry vision.
After a chat with hubby, we decided that it wasn’t worth postponing the laser surgery until I had better insurance. So, I called a few other clinics that perform the YAG procedure. I found one in Portland, Oregon, that would do the procedure for $900—and that included having the procedure done on my right eye, too, if the doctor also found cell growth there. After a check of the Portland clinic’s credentials and patient reviews, I signed up.
The clinic got me in quickly, evaluated my vision, recommended that both eyes be zapped, and said they could do it that day, if I wanted. I wanted! Within the hour, my eyes had been lasered and my vision seemed 100% better. I couldn’t believe the improvement.
Turns out, it was a good thing we saved $4,500 on the procedure, as we ended up spending most of that on car repairs.
When we drove down to Portland for my first follow-up eye appointment, my car died. Now my car is a 25-year-old Mercedes, but she’s a beauty. Thanks to hubby’s conscientious care and attention, she still looks great (think lady of a certain age who’s had “good work” done), and she barely has 100,000 miles on the old speedometer. Hubby has tried for years to get me to consider getting a new car, but I love my baby. We even named her. Her first license plate started with the letters YVT, so we naturally called her Yvette.
But, when Yvette died in the middle of downtown Portland and hubby had to push her into a parking space while I attempted to navigate with a locked steering wheel, I started to reconsider our relationship.
Yvette was promptly towed to the Portland Mercedes dealership. The service manager later emerged, like a surgeon delivering bad news to family members gathered in a hospital waiting room. He said Yvette would be fine but that she needed a new battery.
Hubby was confused. New battery? Were they sure? Yvette’s current battery was only two years old, and she’d exhibited no signs that it was wearing out. There’d been no periodic struggling to start the engine, no warning lights on the dashboard. But the service manager insisted it was a battery issue, so we agreed to replace it.
At about 4:30 p.m., Yvette—new battery in place—was ready to go. We drove out of the dealership and eased our way into Portland’s afternoon rush-hour traffic. We were about 6 miles from the dealership when Yvette died again. And, naturally, we were in the middle lane of the busy interstate. I frantically waved out of the passenger window at surrounding cars, indicating that we needed to cruise to the shoulder. Thank goodness we were on a downhill slope and could use gravity to get Yvette safely off the road.
After another diagnostic session at the dealership, the same service manager we’d had earlier in the day now said it was the alternator that needed to be replaced. Hubby was skeptical. Yvette’s symptoms didn’t seem to point to alternator trouble. But again, the service pros insisted that they had nailed the problem.
A few days later, the dealership called to say Yvette was repaired. We asked if they’d test driven her to ensure that she was fixed. They said they had. Hubby asked if they could please drive the car for at least 10 miles to ensure it didn’t die again. They agreed. Yvette conked out during the test, and they were back to the drawing board.
Another two days passed, and we were told that Yvette now needed a new crankshaft timing mechanism (whatever that is). Our repair tally was already over a thousand dollars, so sure, let’s throw in another $1,700 in parts and labor.
When Yvette was ready to be discharged, we arrived, charge card in hand. Thankfully, the service team felt badly about the unneeded battery they had installed and comped us that cost. Then it was time for a white-knuckle, two-hour drive back to Olympia. Hubby followed me, as I was anxious that Yvette would die again at any time. But she made it, and we’ve driven her for the past week without incident.
I can’t say that my relationship with Yvette is completely healed, but she is slowly working her way back into my good graces. I think the old girl still has a few more miles in her.
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