A few weeks ago, I let a virtual stranger use a laser to burn ("gently reshape", he corrected me, rather sternly) my eyes. A few weeks ago, I couldn't read a thing without either glasses or contacts, or the letters almost touching my nose; now I can read, drive and recognise my children in public just by looking in the right direction.
In the intervening days I have discovered a tolerance for Valium (two pills did nothing noticeable, maybe prayer had already made me as calm as I could be?) and sleeping tablets (when I got home I lay in bed awake for two hours before giving up), and that stress balls only make me feel more stressed (only a crazy person squeezes stethoscope-wearing ducks to relax).
Most people who have laser eye surgery opt for the kind where they cut a line in the surface of your eye, lift it up, reshape the cornea, then stick the flap back down (LASIK). But because I have large pupils (news to me) my surgeon suggested I have the version where they rub away the surface of the eye, do their thing, and let it grow back itself (PRK).
I went with his recommendation despite the far longer recovery time, partly because I had to trust he knew his stuff - if I didn't trust him, what was I doing letting him near my EYES with a LASER - and partly because I didn't like the idea of a permanent flap (it's not recommended for those whose practice martial arts and I have two energetic boys who regularly practice their own version on me).
The surgery part was supposed to be the easy bit - simply looking at a small light for thirty seconds per eye. The hardest part was to do that with both eyes when one was covered. I was told my mind might play tricks on me and make me doubt the covered eye was open, let alone looking in the right direction, and this is exactly what I experienced. I was told to just keep directing the eye to "stay open and focussed, stay open and stay focussed" no matter what I thought it was actually doing. I was (slightly) reassured by the knowledge that if the eye they were gently reshaping (burning) didn't stay focussed the machine would automatically shut off.
Even straight after the surgery, my eyes didn't look particularly red - no worse than after a long stint wearing contacts. They stopped feeling uncomfortable (scratchy/itchy/burny) after four or five days. I described the initial feeling as "extreme discomfort" to my mum (a doctor) and she pointed out that might actually be pain. Perhaps I should have taken those left-over painkillers after all.
By day five my eyes felt pretty good but my vision was worse than straight after surgery. I knew this was normal but it was still a bit nerve-racking. I couldn't read a text message or tell the difference between egg whites and feta at dinner time - oh the horror!
In the first few days I had to put four kinds of eye drops in my eyes up to 20 times a day (note for the poor sighted: don't have eye surgery if you hate putting in eye drops). When I was trying not to leave the house I rode our exercise bike for about 20kms instead - with closed eyes - just to move and tire a body that felt fine apart from those two pesky little balls of eye (it may sound insane but it actually helped to keep me sane).
On about day four I used our pram as a zimmer frame to walk down the street in blinding sunlight (apologies to my two-year-old passenger), and the following day I risked losing both kids in public by taking them to a busy park when I could only make out blurry blobs of colour. It seems I am not good at staying home, or staying still.
On about day four I used our pram as a zimmer frame to walk down the street in blinding sunlight (apologies to my two-year-old passenger), and the following day I risked losing both kids in public by taking them to a busy park when I could only make out blurry blobs of colour. It seems I am not good at staying home, or staying still.
But it hasn't been all bad. I slept in more times in a week than I have since having kids. I listened to random episodes of Stuff you should know ("Mum, why do they keep saying 'um'?"), This American Life (feature story journalism at its best), and Conversations with Richard Fidler (I love that he keeps the interview about his subject, unlike another ABC personality who hosts a "wireless" show).
I listened to Stephen Fry read Where Angels Fear to Tread, to Tim Keller explain why Christianity is completely unlike any other religion, and to Ken Kesey read One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest and discuss his experience of taking LSD.
I now know that we grow a heap of our bones after birth, and that some fuse together as we age, and that our expectations of pain can have a very real impact on our experience of it. I've learnt that LSD makes cats fear mice, and that no one makes it like the US government. Also, it doesn't take much for a two-year-old's preferred parent to change.
I've discovered that while it's nice to delegate daily duties, it's hard to feel weak and useless, and that my husband is a powerful ninja (I already suspected as much).
On about day eight I started experiencing moments of sudden visual clarity, and by the end of week two, good old seeing was the norm. I'm still supposed to put in "bion tears" each day, but I don't feel like I need them. I'm still more sensitive to the sun than I was, and sometimes at the end of the day my eyes feel really heavy, but I feel no discomfort and my eyes look normal.
Now I can lie down at night and watch TV with my head smushed into a pillow, or my husband, (not possible with glasses) open my eyes underwater (not a good idea with contacts), and pack one less thing when I go on holidays. I feel like a cheat to suddenly be one of THOSE incredibly lucky people who only have to open their eyes to see. Thank God for the marvels of modern medicine. And that I'm already forgetting that burning smell....
I still find it hard to explain why I went through such a scary and expensive process. It started with my optometrist asking me, on multiple occasions, why I hadn't just had my vision "fixed", followed by an appointment just to see if it was an option (I think I assumed it wouldn't be). Then suddenly it was, physically and financially, and I was receiving encouragement from pretty much everyone I talked to about it - especially those who'd had it done themselves.
It helped that everyone I dealt with at the clinic was friendly, caring, competent and straight with me (Anne-Maree was outstanding). Any hint of anything else and I'd have bolted. After the initial assessment, it started to seem weird - almost irrational - to be living with vision that could indeed be "fixed", and I started noticing every inconvenience and discomfort and cost associated with glasses and contacts. The risk of blindness (below one per cent) was lower than the risks associated with driving, catching a plane or riding a bike (or so I told myself, I never actually checked the stats), which I wouldn't think twice about. And after surgery, if I was ever in a plane crash that left me stranded on a desert island without visual aids, my chances of survival would be far greater.
As for why I would bother to write about it on a long-dead blog, there was that podcast I listened to on how significant expectations are in dictating experience, and the fact that I found the one blog I read beforehand very helpful in setting realistic expectations for my own recovery. I would have been a lot more alarmed by the whole thing if I hadn't read a day-by-day account of someone who went through a similar experience. So now, for better or worse, the account of a 33-year-old Tasmanian wife and mother has been added to the mix.
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