Eyes.

Never gave them much thought the first six or seven years of my life. Then the school nurse had me look at some letters on a chart and sent home with me a cryptic note to my parents: "Pohla's eyesight is 20/30 and 20/30."

I can't remember their response, so it must have been nothing out of the ordinary. It wasn't until a year or two later that I found myself being fitted for a pair of glasses. The frames were a pretty shade of pink that pleased me.

What pleased my parents was the comment I made after we picked them up and drove home, passing the graveyard where my paternal grandparents were buried.

"Look, they put up a sign -- 'Prospect Cemetery,' " I said as I pointed to a modest bronze marker.

"She never saw that sign before," my mother marveled.

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For the next few years, until I was about 11 or 12, my life took on a pattern. Every summer I saw the eye doctor, and every summer he prescribed stronger, thicker glasses.

The spectacles got pretty thick, but after a while the optic milestones became -- thankfully -- further spaced apart.

Then at 15, I got contact lenses.

I thought I'd just pop them into my eyes and be Miss Cool and Pretty, but they were scratchy and made my eyes water. I blinked a lot and complained even more.

Then I made the mistake of complaining to my friend Louise, who wore a glass eye due to a childhood fall on her glass baby bottle.

"You don't know how bad your eye can hurt until you have to take it out and clean it," she said.

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The yearly eye exams continued for decades without much change. I switched from hard plastic contact lenses to gas permeable lenses because of dry eyes. Like most sight-challenged Baby Boomers during the 1970s, I got wire-rimmed glasses, but I only wore them at night when I took my contacts out.

Then when I reached my mid-30s I was told I was picking up some farsightedness, or hyperopia, to go with my myopia and astigmatisms. I was advised to get "readers."

I had too many things wrong with my eyes to benefit from the new miracle laser surgery called Lasik. But by that time, I was secure enough that the prospect of wearing glasses again was no big deal. I just found it ironic that I was wearing them over contact lenses.

Then, before I knew it, the frequent optic milestones started again.

At 48 came a pronouncement from my vigilant ophthalmologist William McVay that I had the beginning of ocular hypertension, or glaucoma, a condition that if not treated properly can lead to blindness. Mine has been controlled since with daily (and very expensive) drops.

In 2004, when I was 52, Dr. McVay added the diagnosis "immature cataracts."

A double optic whammy.

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Usually but not exclusively afflicting seniors 65 to 70, cataracts progressively cloud the lens of the eye and need to ripen to the point where they can be removed and be replaced by an artificial lens. Mine finally reached that point this spring, and surgeon Robert J. Noecker of the UPMC Eye Center told me he'd get me back "as close to zero (20-20) as possible," one eye at a time.

Right. Like I was going to get my sight back to what it was at 6 or 7.

Dr. Noecker made good on his promise.

Regaining alertness after the first surgery -- the drug bersad that is used along with pain relievers fentanyl and lidocaine gel creates some amnesia -- and looking at the world through my (good) right eye was astonishing. Even with no contact lens or glasses on my (bad) left eye I could see better than I had for decades. Like I'd gone through a Chlorox bleach-enhanced wash cycle, everything was lighter, brighter, sharper.

Regaining alertness after the second surgery I awakened to a miracle, which was confirmed at my one-month followup when I measured 20-20 in my right eye and 20-30 in my left. I am legal to drive without glasses, though I still have to wear reading glasses for close work.

Because of my glaucoma and my extremely strong lens prescription, I couldn't get one of the newer implants that correct both near and far vision. But I don't care about that a whit; my new eyesight has made me as happy as a proverbial pig in slop. Dr. Noecker is my hero.

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The surgery he performed is called phacoemulsification. During the brief procedure, an incision about a tenth-of-an-inch long is made, the clouded lens is broken up by ultrasound, the pieces are vacuumed out and fluid is run through the eye to rinse it. A prescription lens is inserted in its place. From setup to surgery to exit from the operating room, the procedure took about 20 minutes.

"This is the standard way. At least 95 or 99 percent are taken out this way in the United States," he said. The procedure has been around a few decades, but Dr. Noecker said it's been perfected over the past 10 years.

Prior to phacoemulsification, the procedure was extracapsular cataract extraction, which involved making a large incision and squirting the lens out of the capsule it sits in "like a lot of watermelon seed. There were a lot of sutures."

At one time, cataract-removal surgery was so primitive the lens could not be replaced. After a lengthy period of lying around with sandbags holding their heads still, patients would wear "Coke-bottle glasses" or, if they were lucky, contact lenses.

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Along with vanquishing my cataracts and giving me shiny new lenses, the surgery also may help my glaucoma improve to the point that I no longer would have to use the drops. I'm off them for now and Dr. Noecker is, ahem, keeping an eye on my eye pressure.

If the pressure does go back up, I'll go back on the drops. And if there comes a time when the drops don't work, various glaucoma surgeries are available.

I would go back to surgery unafraid. As Dr. Noecker said, "the bottom line is it's very treatable."

It would be just another optic milestone.

Cartoonist Rob Rogers does "Rob's Rough," an early look at his work and his creative process, exclusively at PG+, a members-only web site of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. Our introduction to PG+ gives you all the details.