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A Picture's Worth a Thousand (or so) Words
By Evan Piche
8/5/2008 |
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Blindfolded and shivering they escorted me down a long hallway. I was disoriented, nevertheless I had the impression that we were buried deep inside the mill. The heavy mechanized door shut behind us. Now sealed inside, I could hear no noise from the outside world. Placing my hand on the chair, I noticed it was still warm. Someone had been here before me. I sat down, my shoulders and arms were bound. The air was frigid, and the faint but unmistakable scent of burnt flesh hung in the air. A man spoke, he offered me no last cigarette, just a plush, pink bunny doll to steady my hands on. So much for my last vestige of manliness. For 21 years I had been held hostage by my coke-bottle-thick glasses. In twelve minutes, freedom. I would walk out of the Balin Eye Center able to see (sort of).
The decision to have Lasik eye surgery is not to be taken lightly. In the hands of a skilled surgeon LASIK is life changing, and there is a very high success rate. Still, there is something a bit unnerving about the idea. I’ve always gone to great lengths to avoid accidently looking directly into a laser pointer, and as such was reluctant to undergo the procedure. My decision to have the surgery was only solidified after a winter camping trip in Colorado’s Never Summer mountain range. Contacts and saline solution freeze pretty quickly once the sun sets and the campfire goes untended.
Many people I know are curious about the procedure. “Does it hurt, do you feel the laser, what’s the post–op like, what does ‘minor discomfort’ really mean?” So, in somewhat chronological order, I will narrate my experience with LASIK.
Even fans of the long running show General Hospital will grow sick of Brad Maule. The former TV doctor, who after undergoing Lasik, became the spokesman. His informational video is now played on an endless loop in the waiting room of every doctor’s office I visited. And I visited many before deciding to go with Dr. Balin. After a routine eye test, to determine if I was a good physical candidate, the nurse administered a psychological test. I found it unsettling that the nurse would ask, on a scale of 1-10, “are you a risk-taker and/or a perfectionist”. Whatever she was looking for, I must have passed.
So began my six weeks without contacts, as the cornea must be given time to reshape. I had worn contacts for more than eight years, they were as much part of my day-to-day life as eating and sleeping. For the record, this was the longest 42 days of my life. Running with glasses on is easy enough, but swimming was done completely blind. This resulted in more than a few ill-timed flip turns, jammed fingers, and swimming straight into aqua-joggers. I contemplated giving up peanut butter. I can not eat without, at some point, touching my glasses. Peanut butter, once hardened, does not come off of glass, ever.
Six weeks of stumbling around with peanut butter smudged glasses behind me, it was time for my pre-op. Again, I sat through the Brad Maule video, had my pupils dilated to the size of silver dollars, puffs of air blown in my eyes, corneas tie-dyed psychedelic colors, and poked repeatedly. I firmly believe the nurse performed these tests for his own amusement.
After the poking, I was asked if I had any questions. I had many. For six months I had been keeping a mental list of questions to be asked at this very moment. It was exhaustive, I would interrogate the doctor; I would become an expert in the field of laser vision correction. I forgot everything I wanted to ask. Everything except, “when can I um, do stuff, like go for a run?” I was pleased to hear, assuming all went as planned that I could take a light hike the next day and be running in 48 hours. Swimming was not recommended for three weeks, biking was okay, granted you wear the chic “protective goggles”. I was satisfied.
Surgery was scheduled for 8 am. I was glad to have a morning slot, not wanting to stew in my nervousness any longer than necessary. I would have the rest of the day to enjoy the gift of vision. A gift from my mother, who I might add doesn’t look a day over 25. The doctor led me into one of several dimly lit rooms, dilated my eyes (again), and taped on thick plastic eye patches. My eyes were to remain taped shut after surgery, it would be a long day in the darkness. I declined the valium. I was tough, I was stoic. I had made a terrible mistake. For nearly an hour I sat in my own private darkness, beginning to second guess myself. I could hear Brad Maule coming from next door. I wished I was heavily sedated.
The surgery itself was not at all painful, that is not to say it was enjoyable. Not in the least. I suppose the protocol was inspired by Stanley Kubrick’s adaptation of A Clockwork Orange, eye clamps and all. Instead of violence and destruction, a blinking yellow light was projected onto my eyes. The laser was turned on. An electronic tick-tick broke the silence. “Do your best to remain still. Focus on the light, the laser tracks your eye movement instantaneously.” The word “instantaneously” was somehow comforting. I panicked when the light became progressively blurrier, then vanished. I clutched the bunny doll, wringing its neck. With trepidation, “I can’t, stop, I can’t do this,” I forced through clenched teeth, fearing even the slightest jaw movement, the kind required for coherent speech, would result in blindness. “Evan, relax. We’ve already made the flap on your right eye. We’re more than halfway done. Can we go on, please?” I could hear a nurse giggling. In truth, there was no pain. No pain what so ever. A lot of “pressure” my eyeball, but no pain. Imagine putting on swim goggles and pushing hard, pushing really hard. That’s as uncomfortable as it ever got.
Before I had another opportunity to embarrass myself, it was over. Twelve minutes in the chair, the actual lasering lasted only a quarter of that. I was relieved, but joy was fleeting. My eyes were to remain covered until the next morning. When the reality of this set in, I was not a pleasant person to be around. Thankfully, the remainder of day faded into a haze. I had enough sense to not turn down the sleeping pills. I remember eye patches and pirate jokes, dribbling soup down my shirt, missing the toilet bowl entirely, and passing out in the passenger seat, spilling cherry coke on my mother’s upholstery
I awoke the next morning at 4:00 am. That is, technically, morning. And as the doctor had not specified what hour of the morning was appropriate, I began to remove the patches. I froze with fear. Leading up to the surgery, my greatest concern was not total blindness, but rather slight improvement. There is no guarantee that Lasik will result in perfect vision. I would rather have been left totally blind than to have vision that was just barely good enough to drive. Being a perfectionist, a small step up from my -4.75 prescription would not suffice. I wanted 20/10 or nothing. This is not sound thinking, I am aware of that. It’s the “all-or-nothing” approach to life shared by many triathletes. I thought back to the “are you a perfectionist” question. The one which I had obviously lied on.
Mustering the courage, I removed the patches. I noted the time, the clock on the living room wall read 4:45 am. Had spent three quarters of an hour fretting. It took me a moment to realize that I had just read the clock, the clock which hung a good 30 feet away. Yesterday morning I wouldn’t have known there was even a wall in front of me, let alone been able to read a clock on it.
At the post-op check up I was given eye drops. For the next four weeks my life would revolve around eye drops. I left Eastern Standard Time, I operated on Eye drop time. There are the sticky yellow ones, administered first thing when you wake up, and repeated every 4 hours until bed. The milky white ones, every 6 hours. The ones that drip down into your soft-pallet and taste like pennies, four times a day. And use the lubricating eye drops as needed. Do not poke yourself in the eye. Not with the dropper, not with the ski-goggle like mask. Someone, no doubt several people, have blown several grand on Lasik, and messed it up with a 25 cent piece of plastic to the cornea.
Drops and fear of poking aside, the entire recovery was unproblematic. I was doing some easy hiking 24 hours after surgery, and back to my normal-ish self within 48 hours. I found my day to day vision fluctuated for about one month. This is nothing to worry about, and not just cause for an emergency trip to the doctor’s office. I was not an easy patient.
Well over two months down the road, and I am still blown away. My vision is 20-10, better than with contacts, “starbursts”, “halos”, or any other biblical-themed complications. I still catch myself getting up to take out my contacts. I still steal my roommate’s saline solution when I go away for the weekend. There is really no other way to put it, Lasik has changed my life.
Evan Piche is an intern at Fuel Belt and Xtri.com. His mom really doesn’t look a day over 25. |
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