Through my bionic eyes

Five a.m. is a good hour. Early enough not to be disturbed by the clank, thud and grind of the garbage guys; late enough to miss the last-call crowd lurching down the street home alone or paired off; and just right for a few roosters crowing -- at least half a block or so away in every direction, thank heaven. (Robert thinks chickens at the house would be cute. He is misinformed.)

It's a good hour to look up and see Orion through fronds -- certainly not this well, but far more clearly than I can remember. Without glasses, I'm now better than 20/20, thanks to my implanted lenses.

The scars are healing nicely, though the eyeballs themselves are not reacting well to post-surgery drugs.

My left eye, which has always been Old Reliable (stronger, more vigorous, the last to go blind, decidedly not the one that had the tumor when I was 5), has proven particularly treacherous: For some reason, the steroid drops prescribed to "calm" the surgery's wounds have spiked my eye pressure -- so now I'm on the same glaucoma drops my Mom takes, while doing the steroids five times a day, up from two, which was down from four.

This makes daylight difficult. And photography. And reading.

A crisp Orion at 5 a.m. is fantastic compensation.