I
have worn contacts since I was 13. I
have worn glasses since the 1st grade. I hated my glasses the first
ten years. I hid them, lost them,
forgot them, squinted, sat at the front of the class even, just to try to get
away without wearing them. And yet somehow they never really disappeared. Silver octagons. My mother picked them out, and I didn’t complain. But they were cold, and I had a slight
headache from the soft pressure across the bridge of my nose. Contacts freed me somewhat, but I still had
to care for them, and my prescription would change causing me to have to buy
new ones. Or I would forget the case
and some disaster would happen.
Once
during college, I stayed with my friend Emily at her parent’s apartment in New
York, and having forgotten my case, I put them in a glass of water, and set two
books on top. She got up in the middle
of the night, found the water and drank it while I slept. The next morning, she went into a panic that
somehow she was going to be permanently damaged by having two little plastic
discs in her stomach. Two months later,
I accidentally drank the next pair.
There was a bad hurricane that was supposed to decimate New York. My bag with the lens case was left behind
and all the stores were closed. The
hurricane turned out to be a flop, so my friends, including Emily, went out to
dinner and several clubs, and arrived back at the apartment at 5 am. Again, the contacts were put into a glass of
water, and I forgot about them hours later, dehydrated and bleary.
Eventually,
I settled down in my life so that I only had to buy a new pair every three or
four years. But still, they were
expensive, as was the care for them.
Backpacking and bike-camping were always tricky with wind and dust,
getting water to clean them, etc.
Swimming, long plane flights, staying up all night, campfires and smoky
rooms all required special care. But I was used to accommodating them so I did
everything I wanted to anyway, messing around with various solutions so I could
ride a bike for 10 hours, go out to dinner and drink wine, and then somehow get
them to work at seven am the next morning, for the next ride.
When
I heard that a friend was thinking of Lasik surgery, I secretly wanted to have
perfect vision, too, but I said apprehensively that I didn’t know about that,
it seemed risky and what if you ended up, statistically speaking, as the
failure? But after watching several
friends go through the process over a year, where they each had great
experiences, I thought about it as a possibility for myself. I looked into it in February, but wasn’t
ready; it was still overwhelming, too scary.
And then again in June, and finally with the deadline of graduate school
looming, I scheduled it for August. Then the few people I told about it said
apprehensively, oh, I don’t know about that, it doesn’t seem like a good
idea…. I knew exactly what they were
thinking, and yet I had shifted, but how to explain this? How do you calmly say that you aren’t crazy
for voluntarily requesting to have your corneas cut, and then alter your eyes
with a laser? That you are scared, but
doing it anyway?
To
prepare, I had three weeks of no contacts.
My glasses drove me to a constant mild headache, wearing them all the
time, annoying me, no peripheral vision, resting across the bridge of my nose. I have been so dependant on my contact
lenses, but in order to measure my eyes correctly, I had to let them return to
their normal shape.
After
appointments with the doctor for measurements and tests, I felt committed. I worried, even though he helped develop the
procedure and had done thousands of them.
I arranged for a friend, Ana, to take me. Three days before the surgery, I started antibiotic eye drops and
antiseptic cleanings. I was
apprehensive. I was not even aware of
how nervous I had become until the night before when I really started to
panic. What if I was part of the 1%
that failed, in my category, and the lasers ruined my eyes. What if it didn’t work out, I couldn’t see
and graduate school had to be ditched?
One
thing to think about in this situation is what to wear. Something special in case my cornea falls
out onto my shirt? A special non-stick
shirt, or maybe a special sticky shirt?
Thinking about this took the edge off and I started laughing out loud so
much, I couldn’t stop for a minute or two.
And of course, I wondered what state to leave the house for my
return. While walking out, I looked
around trying to memorize everything so that I could find it later. I would have eye patches on until I woke up
the next day.
At
the clinic, my stomach was heavy as they started eye drops, gave me a 10 mg
Valium, and sent Ana off to buy a blank video tape. There were other patients there too, and my doctor arrived. After some more preparation, I was led into
the surgery room. They popped in the
tape, and I was feeling much better, partly because of the Valium, and partly
because the staff seemed so competent.
But I also felt like I had jumped face first down a long steep
slide. No turning back now. The doctor
asked if I felt good and I did, physically.
I mentioned the question I had addressed that morning regarding what to
wear. Everyone laughed nervously, like they hadn’t heard anyone laying directly
under the laser contemplate what sort of cornea-sticking shirt to wear, just in
case.
My
doctor pulled back the lid of my left eye, and there was a temporary blackness
while he applied some pressure, cutting and pulling back my cornea. Then he said that I should look steadily
into a red dot laser, while they pointed it into my eye. I concentrated hard. I was afraid of moving at all, terrified of
looking anywhere else. I kept saying
robotically to myself, look at the dot, look at the dot, just keep looking at
the dot. After 30 seconds, and a slight
burning smell similar to when a mole is burned off or teeth are drilled, the
doctor brushed my cornea back into place with some viscous liquid. Then they did the right eye. As they started to work on it, the doctor
said something about it being sticky. I
didn’t know what he meant, I couldn’t see anything, and I wasn’t sure if this
was bad. Again, the laser,
concentrating on the red dot. A little
burning smell.
Thirty
minutes later, they checked my eyes with the eye chart, and it was fuzzy, not
blurry like before. I could see some
new rows on the eye chart. They
bandaged me up and Ana took me home. I
managed around the house pretty well, and friends brought dinner. I sat at the dining room table when they
walked in, and started laughing at me, sitting casually with eye patches,
facing them.
My
house sounded different without sight. I couldn’t do too much, except tune the
radio. After two rounds of the same NPR
stories, and an unfortunate choice of DJ on KALX, I gave up. I listened twice to a tape of Jay McInerney
talking about wine. Eating was
interesting. Linguine with wild
mushrooms; try twirling pasta on a fork, gracefully, spearing mushrooms and
shallots, and reaching your mouth without dropping things everywhere. Or try salad with globe tomatoes and
corn. Even dialing the phone requires looking
at the address list, as there are only a couple of numbers I know by heart.
The
next morning I woke up an hour early and ripped off the patches. I could see perfectly. The hills had distinct trees; San Francisco
was crisp. I wanted to call everyone I could think of, but didn’t. I called
Marc, the only person I knew would be up at 6:15am. And emailed everyone else.
Then I remembered the video. I watched the first eye only. I was sort of relieved I didn’t watch the
preceedure before the surgery, despite all the research. Ana later told me the sticky comment
happened when they had trouble cutting the second cornea, and if I watched the
video I would see it. I decided to skip
it.
I
went to the orientation for school, and several times I wanted to say
something, anything, about 20-20 vision and how absolutely exciting it was to
read, 50 yards away, the Doe Library sign out the window, perfectly, no
contacts. I was on the verge, almost
spilling it, but I didn’t because I thought they would think I was crazy for
doing something like this the day before school started.
My
checkup later that day confirmed 20-20 vision.
The best part was that things I previously experienced partially or not
at all were now visible. It’s difficult
to describe to people who’ve never worn glasses, or have good vision. It’s like being in love and trying to tell
someone what’s happening, when they’ve never known it themselves. It’s an abstraction for others, but to me,
it’s a marvel, full of excitement and surprises, newness, relief, lightness and
ease. My contacts made my eyes
bloodshot by noon. My new eyes are a fresh, soft white and don’t sting at the
end of the day. I catch them in the
mirror now and then and I’m taken aback over the whiteness.
Now I turn off the light at night, and instead of seeing blackness, I have the new experience, after 5 years in this apartment, of seeing the Campanile lit up. Before, I wasn’t even aware that I could lie in bed and look at it. Now, I see it glowing, from the darkness of my room as I fall asleep. In the morning, I wake up and look at the hills, the sun jetting through the trees. I’m elated, and yet, instantaneously, I have adapted to a life where I don’t have to use contact lens cleaners and wipe my glasses all the time. Lasik was so easy, painless, and so casual, being able to see perfectly. I go about my life and something I’ve always had to care for, and fiddle with, is no longer a thought. It’s like it’s always been this way, and yet, I catch myself for a second, several times a day, flashing on some contact lens care. And then I remember; I don’t have to do it anymore. It’s a small bit of freedom.