After a pre-op appointment and all of the financial logistics were taken care of, the big day came. My mother came with me to drive me home (and she kept insisting on moral support, but I am a big girl and really didn't need it...or so I thought).
I remember when I was diagnosed with lack-worthy eyesight. I was 20 years old, lived in Boston, and was pregnant with Luke. My friend Michelle came to visit me and we were driving down Commonwealth Ave. when I jokingly picked up her glasses and put them on. Instead of my expectation of having everything magnified ten fold like I was looking through a set of magnifying glasses, I was welcomed with a pleasureful crisp view of Boston, it was absolutely amazing. I can't even describe it, my eyes were bad?!?!? I didn't want to give Michelle her glasses back. I immediately went to an eye doctor, who proudly explained to me that he knew why I was there. He explained that my pregnancy slowed me down and made me read more, which made me realize I needed glasses...ummmm ok. I got to pick out new frames and went for a set of sexy librarian dark framed glasses. Through the years I've experimented with many different eye glass frames, styles, etc. It became my identity. It's crazy how much you can stand out from the crowd with a brazenly awesome pair of eyeglasses.
Back in Canada, I am getting ready to have my surgery. There was myself and two others (a woman and man) that were scheduled for the same surgery at the same time. We were brought from a bright, cheery, waiting room and shuffled into a tight little elevator. Next, we were shown into a dimly lit waiting room and told to put surgical caps over our heads. Kind of awkward, we all looked like factory workers. Prior to the surgery I was offered anti-anxiety medicine, which itself scares the crap out of me, but I wasn't scared of eye surgery. I already had a c-section, a breast reduction, and many psychotic ex-boyfriends, eye surgery would be a piece of cake. We waited in the waiting room for 20 minutes or so, striking up small conversation. The lady was nervous and told me that if I started screaming during my surgery, she was "out of here", the guy was quiet and didn't converse at all.
The surgical assistant came out of the operating room and called my name. Here goes nothing. I walk in and crawl up on the table. They ask how I feel and I feel great! For the zillionth time, they explain the procedure step by step. The doctor comes in and introduces himself. He starts to show me his tools which look they came off the workplace of a medieval torture chamber. "I'd rather not" was my response to looking at his tools for slicing my eyeballs..."but thanks". He puts a spring in my eyelid...so far so good. Then he takes a round metal thingy and explains that he is using it to open my eye wider so he can expose my cornea so will enable him to make a small incision. Now, I have pain drops in my eye, so the eye is numb, but the orbit around my eye...not so much. He is explaining to me that my eyes are kind of small so I'm going to feel some pressur....OUCH!!! He is pressing this thing around my eye hard!!!! I start deep breathing and suddenly am feeling slightly panicky. I am going to my happy place...happy place..."hummmm...hummmmm". When I was having my C-section, my midwife told me that if I was feeling scared while not being able to move any of my body parts (paralysis is slightly scary), I could just sing. So I reverted to the old method of calming myself and start singing angel from Montgomery by John Pryne. The surgical tech starts laughing and asks if I want a stress ball to squeeze. I ask for two. When is he going to stop pressing down?? I am double armed with stressballs and am pumping away like crazy to the beat of angel from Montgomery, when he finally stops pressing. He explains that I can look at the laser, it will automatically go off if I move my eyeball....great. It smells like burning hair (did someone bring my hairdryer?), and a few minutes later...waahlah! The second eyeball was much easier now that I know what he is doing, I left the room shaky, but intact.
The lady in the waiting room is waiting for me to say something. I mutter "well....that was interesting...", it was the best I could do. The pain meds are still in full effect, so I have no pain. They give me a set of terminator style sunglasses and instruct me not to take them off, open my eyes, or rub them. Not rubbing them is no problem since I'm starting to feel like Mike Tyson punched me in both of my eyeballs. Mom and I get in the car and start exiting the parking garage. The parking attendant asks mom if she needs directions, she says "yes...ummm we are going to Alex Bay?", he says "huh?", she says "La Fargeville?", he says "ummmmm, lady, your in Canada, those places are in the states, I have no idea where those places are...". That was the highlight of my day. By the time we make it to the border, I am in full effect crisis. My eyes feel like I had a major poking from a woodpecker. Even the border patrol agent told me to immediately put my sunglasses back on after asking me to take them off. What I didn't realize was that I had blood spots all over the whites of my eyes. I get home, lay down, and recover...after a few days.
One thing I never realized about getting lasik eye surgery is how much it effects your identity. For quite a while, I just didn't trust my eyes, I only trusted my glasses which are now obsolete to me. I didn't need the glasses? Why is this a surprise to me? You mean I can walk into target and buy a pair of sunglasses off the shelf?? Strange... It took me awhile to get over the horror that I let someone do that to my eyes. What if they messed up??? What if the blood spots didn't go away? They did. I am used to it now...a new me. Back to taking my eyes for granted and armed with a story to tell. Would I do it again? Nope.
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| Glasses |
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| No Glasses! |
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