Food
'Can't be Bothered' Recipes
Where to buy goodies

Garden
Writings
Cuttings

Rants & Ruminations

Photography
Nature
Artsy-fartsy
 

Letters

The Shameless Hussies: read the novel online

Rumination:  Laser Eye Surgery

2 June

 It is the day before my ‘treatment’ as they call it.  It’s still not sunk in that, after tomorrow, I can dispose permanently of my glasses and contact lenses, which I have needed in increasing strength for nearly 30 years.  I scheduled the laser surgery deliberately on a Friday, to give me a few days of rest before facing the prospect of returning to work.  I can’t imagine what the weekend is going to be like:  no reading, no TV, no email.  What is left?  Listening to the radio in a darkened room. 

      How did it come to this?  I’ve considered laser eye surgery several times, but have always been inhibited by two things: fear and cost.  Over the past year, however, I’ve seen many people on TV makeovers do it, and it looks so easy.  I have read loads of testimonials from people, proclaiming the life-changing effects that I seek, and my fear has diminished to back-of-the-mind proportions.  The offer of interest-free credit has done the rest. 

      I have chosen Ultralase, which has a national network of clinics, and is the only provider to publish detailed statistics on their patient outcomes.  The initial consultation a few weeks previously was extremely thorough, and my confidence is boosted further by glowing accounts from their clients who started with the same prescription as mine.

     I’ve bought a herbal tranquilizer to use tomorrow.   Even though I’m committed to going through with this, and fully convinced of the benefits, I’m nervous as hell.  I’ve been told to expect the smell of burning while they are using the laser.  They are going to burn my eyes.  Correction.  They are going to slice my eyes first, and then burn them, which doesn’t sound any better.  I know that my eyes will be numb while they’re doing it, but even this is a grisly concept.  I experienced it when I went for my consultation, when they anaesthetised my eyes to check something or other, and it was not pleasant.  In fact, the word ‘unpleasant’ features several times in the literature, as does the word ‘discomfort’.  Everyone knows that this is doctor-speak for ‘unimaginable agony’.

     Aside from the eye-burning, and losing my sight all together, and how I’m going to sleep wearing night goggles, my biggest worry is—naturally—how am I going to survive two weeks without eye make-up??  I’m going to look like a rodent during this time, with little, pink-rimmed excuses for eyes.  I’ll just have to distract attention away from the eye area and onto the rest of my face, maybe by using lots of extra blush and lipstick in a traffic-stopping colour.  A rodent with red lipstick, then.  Nice.

     I try to fixate on the ecstatic freedom that I will feel when, after a few days, I wake up in the morning and can see the world.  All of it.  Without fumbling for my glasses/sticking lenses in my eyes.  I’ll be able to drive, and watch TV, and see if the funny shape in the drive is either a cat or a child.  Of course, it will be mere moments before I need reading glasses to see things up close, but for a while I plan to treasure every second of near-perfect vision that has been promised to me.

     Several visually-challenged friends are hovering, vulture-like, waiting for news of my experience.  I promise to phone them immediately I can see to dial.

     It’s time for bed, my last night for two weeks without goggles.  I say to my partner, James, ‘I don’t need the goggles.  I won’t rub my eyes in my sleep.’

     James responds, ‘Fine, leave them off.  I’ll just tie your wrists to the bedposts.’

     He seems worryingly keen on this option.

3^rd June

     I wave jauntily to James and enter the clinic.  He has gone to do the shopping and will return in two hours to collect me.  Having swallowed 8 herbal tranquilizers (out of a maximum 6 daily recommended), I am feeling calm but not stoned.  I decide to keep these pills in my desk drawer at work in case of scary meetings.

     The surgeon, a soft-spoken Frenchman, re-tests my eyes, and I sign the final consent form.  A nice young nurse takes me through to the pre-treatment room, and bathes my eyes in bright yellow antiseptic while she talks through the procedure.  She also explains the bewildering number of different aftercare products that I will need to use over the next few weeks.  Luckily, everything is explained in an accompanying leaflet, because I’m not taking it in.  I just really, really want it to be over. 

     We chat while they ready the operating room.  I ask her if anyone has ever freaked out on the table, when the moment arrives.  She says there was one woman who had to be coaxed into having the second eye done.  I wonder why, vaguely assuming that she must have been a wuss of the first order.  Little did I realise how unfair was that assumption.

     The nurse leads me through.  The operating room is nearly dark, and there are three people, masked and gowned, sitting at the head of the treatment couch:  the French surgeon, a young man operating the laser, and an older nurse.  I lay down on my back and they begin, starting with my right eye.

     The surgeon inserts a double-clawed device which will hold my eyelids back during the procedure.  It does not hurt, thanks to the local anaesthetic, just feels wrong and uncomfortable.  Then my head is moved under the laser, and they attach another apparatus to my eye, the one which they use to create a flap in my cornea.  Pressure builds on the bones of my socket, more and more.  It feels as if my eye is being levered out of my head.  The pain is intense, and I feel cold sweat on my neck.  The nice nurse had offered me her hand to hold, which seemed silly a moment ago, but now I grip it with all my strength.  The pressure increases still further, metal edges digging into my eye socket.  Someone in the room is howling like a wounded wildebeest…oh, it’s me.  What is going on?  I didn’t expect this.  More pressure on my eye, accompanied by a stomach-churning vibration – then all goes black.   I’m in a world of pure pain.  The nice nurse keeps telling me to breathe, that it’s almost over.  I start to feel sick, when suddenly, the pressure eases, and the surgeon tells me to watch the red light.  This is the laser.  It’s very pretty—a scarlet starburst.  After a few more starbursts, other spots of colour appear, blue, green, white.  Something cold sloshes over my eye.  As I watch, it looks like a piece of clear film is waving back and forth.  That, I realise, is the flap of my cornea being laid down. 

     I sit in a chair in the treatment room while they recalibrate the laser, which is just as well because my legs are shaking.  The nice nurse squeezes my shoulder sympathetically.  They explain that, because my eyes are small and deep-set, there is not enough room for their instruments to fit easily into the socket.  They will make some adjustments before doing my left eye so that there is less discomfort.  I love that word.  Discomfort is a stone in your shoe; this was like something out of a David Cronenberg film.

     I lie on the table again, and we begin the same routine.  However, when they attach the corneal cutter, the pain is actually worse than before, and I now sound like a wildebeest in labour. The older nurse, shouts, ‘Enough, that’s enough!’  High, shrill screams burst out of me, and I can’t stop although I am mortified. I am squeezing the other nurse’s hand hard enough to feel the bones crunch.  I feel totally ridiculous—after all, I’ve read dozens of testimonials from happy clients, none of whom mentioned having their faces ripped apart—but it gets worse.  I hear muttered voices in discussion behind my head, the tones flustered.  There is an acrid whiff of panic in the room, not coming only from me.  The surgeon declares that he cannot continue under such circumstances and releases the pressure.  As soon as the pain stops, the tears start, as much from shock than anything else.  I had so not expected this.   They offer me the option to have another go right then, or take a real tranquilizer and try again in half an hour.  The surgeon is keen to press on, but I want hard-core pharmaceuticals before I get on that couch again.  I take the pill, tears pouring down my face, as they lead me to the recovery room.  I hear the other nurse say rather bitterly, ‘Well, we can’t help their anatomies.’  Ah, I understand, it’s my fault.

     In the darkened recovery room, I struggle to compose myself.  The nice technician comes in with apologies and words of comfort, but I am unable to stop heaving great, childish sobs.  My left eye socket feels bruised all around; my right eye does not hurt but I can see very little with it.  The whole situation feels unreal, out of control.  He is clearly distressed by my theatrics, says that he also found the procedure painful because his eyes are deep-set.  Why, I wonder, in that case, isn’t there some provision for people like us?  Maybe a pre-med?  Or a quick scout around the eye socket before the cutting begins?  After all, you wouldn’t bring home a sofa without first making sure that it would fit through the door, would you?

     Back we go to the treatment room, nearly an hour later, because another client has had their turn.  I don’t feel any tranquilizing effects, but I am determined to get this done. 

     On the treatment couch again, and they tell me that they have made more adjustments to ease the discomfort.  Why, I wonder, did I have to have hysterics for this to happen?  Never mind, we begin again.  Indeed, although it still hurts, it is just the right side of bearable.  When my inner wildebeest starts to snort loudly, a voice quickly informs me that they are adding more local anaesthetic.  A few moments later, after more starbursts, it is over.

     I return to the treatment room, totally exhausted.  Another patient is there, a man in his late twenties who I noticed earlier in reception.  I ask how he is doing and, without preamble, he starts to cry.  That sets me off again, and we hold hands for a minute, like two survivors of the Titanic.

     James arrives, expecting none of this, and quickly bundles me into the car, shooting me those typically anxious glances that men give tearful women.  Even through dark sunglasses, the dull, overcast Bristol sky is too bright, and I cover my head with the blanket thoughtfully provided by my driver.  My eyes feel as if they have been abraded with fine sandpaper.  But before I cover my head for the trip home, I notice something incredible:  there is a red car on the opposite side of the street, perhaps four car-lengths away.  There is nothing exceptional about it…except that I can read the number plate.  I start to cry again because, for the first time, I begin to hope that, despite the unanticipated drama of the procedure, I will indeed be able to see better than before.

     On arriving home, the aftercare begins.  Antibiotic drops every two hours, anti-inflammatory drops every four hours, and artificial tears as needed.  After the first round of drops, although it is only early evening, I drift off to sleep—the tranquilizer making a belated appearance.  James wakes me moments later, anxious to affix my night goggles. 

 Pervert. 

 4^th June

     I wake at 5 am, too excited to sleep any longer.  I rip off the goggles and stumble around the house looking for my drops.  My vision is hazy, like someone has smeared Vaseline on the world, but I can perceive things at a greater distance than before.  In the mirror, I look like a victim of domestic violence:  the inner half of my left eye is totally red, and there are bruises above and below my eye, and a small wound in the lower lid.  However, the raw feeling of the day before has virtually gone.

     We set off for my first post-op check-up.  I keep challenging James to read road signs that I can read clearly with my new eyes, until he gets thoroughly bored with this game.  When we arrive at the clinic, it is clear that the staff all know my name.  That Hysterical Woman is back. 

     Everything is fine, they tell me.  The haziness is caused by the inflammation of the corneal cells, which turn opaque from all the pressure.  As the inflammation goes, they tell me, the cells will become transparent again.  My visual acuity is normal for this stage of the healing process, and there is no sign of infection.  Any discomfort that I feel now, they tell me, is probably due to dryness, as the procedure disrupts normal eye lubrication (not according to my performance in the recovery room), so bring on the artificial tears.  The battered woman look of my left eye, they tell me, is also a common side effect, due to the pressure that is necessary to create the corneal flap.

     Later, back at home, I try blearily to catch up with email but I can only look at the screen for brief moments.  As I sit at my desk, however, I do notice something astonishing:  across the valley, maybe ¼ mile away, a man is walking his dog.  The dog’s fur is a patchwork of black and white.  The dog’s collar says ‘Buster’ (I may be exaggerating the last part).  It is a miracle, albeit a hazy one.

5^th June

     The haziness has diminished somewhat, and my left eye is slightly less red than before.  I am starting to understand why people say that this is a life-changing experience.  It will take some time before the joy of seeing stuff in the distance wears off.

     Now with the benefit of 48 hours of hindsight, I realise that I have learned some things about myself.  The first is that, under torture, I would last about as long as a five year-old child.  I have told all of my friends and family that they should consider any secrets told to me as being in the public domain.

     Second, I now know what I really look like first thing in the morning.  Before, without glasses or contacts, my morning face was an indistinct apparition, not difficult to stomach.  Now, as soon as I open my eyes, I see myself clearly, and have developed a new respect for James, who wakes up to that every day and doesn’t run screaming from the room.

     I look back on the experience and wish that I had asked more questions, like ‘tell me how much it hurts, on a scale of 1-10, 1 being a paper cut and 10 being childbirth?’, and ‘can I have a pre-med?’  But there was nothing in the literature or the testimonials to alert me to the possibility that it could be so painful.  Clearly it isn’t for most people, and I must be part of a very unfortunate minority. 

     I did not want to think about the procedure itself too much, because it is just so icky. I would urge anyone considering laser eye surgery to engage with the facts of the procedure—what happens exactly and how it feels—in all their sphincter-tightening detail.  If you do, you will be better-prepared than I was.

8 July

     Just over a month since my surgery, and my vision is fantastic – everything and more that I had hoped.  For the past two weeks, I’ve been able to wear eye make-up again, which has restored my sense of self in a way which would be alarming if I thought about it too much.  I was warned that the dryness in my eyes could persist for months, and I still need to use the artificial tears several times a day.  I went on a long-haul flight, which was excruciating because of the dryness of the air, and I still see halos around lights at night.  I find that I need to moisturise from the inside as well.  Interestingly, if I get dehydrated—as after a recent cocktail party—my vision becomes cloudy, giving a whole new meaning to ‘blind drunk’.  Another side-effect:  reading glasses have made their first appearance on my night table.  Now that I have some perspective on the surgery, and the memory of the pain has almost gone, I can categorically say that it was worth it.  However, it took about three weeks—not the three days claimed by many people—for my sight to become really good.   And this, I think, is the key point:  it is laser eye surgery.  It is not like having your lashes tinted, and as for all surgery, it is important to have the right information and expectations. 

 Published in the Times newspaper.

 Vanessa

 Have another point of view?  Email us with your own story.