Don't Have to be No Strong Hand
Lorraine is gone.
I can see. For the first time since high school I am glasses-free. It's a bit odd. Things are still a bit murky and my up-close vision hasn't healed completely yet, but it hasn't even been 24 hours yet and it's already a Whole New World (don't you dare close your eyes). Went in for the procedure yesterday after work, then came home and slept for twelve hours (two Valiums and a beer will do that). Then back today for my follow-up exam, which only took about half an hour.
Everyone at Lasik Plus was wonderful, especially my friend Amanda, who may have had the most important job of all. The actual surgery itself was probably the most traumatic experience of my life. I'm what they call a "squeezer," meaning that I'm so squirrelly about my eyes that I've always struggled to put drops in my own eyes. It's involuntary, but my eyes just freak out. (This is why I've never been able to wear contact lenses.) Well LASIK involves way more than just someone else putting drops in your eyes. There's the gadgets they put up under your eyelids--under your freaking eyelids--to keep you from blinking (insert the Clockwork Orange comment of your choice) and the cutting of the flap in the cornea, then the LASER burns away part of your eye (yes, you can smell the burning flesh) all the while you can't see so good and they're telling you not to move and to focus on the little red spot which at this point is actually a big red tomato stain of a splotch. Then they repeat the whole process on your other eye and if you survive that (they tell me they've never lost anyone on the table) they remove the eye-holder-openers and you're done. Takes ten minutes. Felt like an hour.
From what I could tell, in this sterile, frightening room full of people, there's the doctor, a lady to help him with the equipment, another lady who monitors the laser machine and who counts off the treatment time for each eye, as determined my your prescription ("Ten seconds...twenty seconds...twenty-five seconds...you're done) and, if you're lucky, someone like Amanda, who was there to hold my hand. Literally. It's nice knowing people. Obviously they couldn't let Ruthie into the operating room without compromising sterility and, no doubt, several official policies, so Amanda asked if I'd like her to go in with me and hold my hand while I squirmed and worried and breathed deeply and concentrated on holding my eyes still and tried not to crush her hand and wished it was over. Which was funny since Ruthie and I had discussed just that in the car on the way there. I said, "It probably wouldn't be appropriate for me to ask one of them to hold my hand, would it?" And Ruthie said, "Just play it by ear," and smiled at me.
For all the trauma, I can't imagine how bad it might have been without a hand to hold. I realize how unmanly this could sound to some people and I don't give a rat's ass. I was scared. And maybe life's like that. While I was on the table nothing could distract me from what was going on, but when it was over I immediately began to realize what I'd just had illustrated for me. I think that there's nothing I couldn't handle--and by "handle" I mean "survive" and nothing more--as long as I wasn't alone. For all the anesthesia and valium (for which I was grateful) it was the constant reminder that there was someone in the room who cared about me--cared enough to hold the hand of a shaking, 220 lb. six-footer--that made the difference, that kept me from going absolutely apoplectic.
This is my life. For all the occupational turmoil, for all the ideological angst, for all of my issues, (and they are legion,) I'm not alone. Ruthie loves me differently than the rest of you do, and she's incomparable, but the rest of you are lifelines for me as well--the internet make this possible even for people I don't actually see as much as I'd like to--and I'm grateful. I honestly don't know what I'd do without all of you. Thanks.
Lots more back-blogging to do. I'll get to it as soon as I can.
I can see. For the first time since high school I am glasses-free. It's a bit odd. Things are still a bit murky and my up-close vision hasn't healed completely yet, but it hasn't even been 24 hours yet and it's already a Whole New World (don't you dare close your eyes). Went in for the procedure yesterday after work, then came home and slept for twelve hours (two Valiums and a beer will do that). Then back today for my follow-up exam, which only took about half an hour.
Everyone at Lasik Plus was wonderful, especially my friend Amanda, who may have had the most important job of all. The actual surgery itself was probably the most traumatic experience of my life. I'm what they call a "squeezer," meaning that I'm so squirrelly about my eyes that I've always struggled to put drops in my own eyes. It's involuntary, but my eyes just freak out. (This is why I've never been able to wear contact lenses.) Well LASIK involves way more than just someone else putting drops in your eyes. There's the gadgets they put up under your eyelids--under your freaking eyelids--to keep you from blinking (insert the Clockwork Orange comment of your choice) and the cutting of the flap in the cornea, then the LASER burns away part of your eye (yes, you can smell the burning flesh) all the while you can't see so good and they're telling you not to move and to focus on the little red spot which at this point is actually a big red tomato stain of a splotch. Then they repeat the whole process on your other eye and if you survive that (they tell me they've never lost anyone on the table) they remove the eye-holder-openers and you're done. Takes ten minutes. Felt like an hour.
From what I could tell, in this sterile, frightening room full of people, there's the doctor, a lady to help him with the equipment, another lady who monitors the laser machine and who counts off the treatment time for each eye, as determined my your prescription ("Ten seconds...twenty seconds...twenty-five seconds...you're done) and, if you're lucky, someone like Amanda, who was there to hold my hand. Literally. It's nice knowing people. Obviously they couldn't let Ruthie into the operating room without compromising sterility and, no doubt, several official policies, so Amanda asked if I'd like her to go in with me and hold my hand while I squirmed and worried and breathed deeply and concentrated on holding my eyes still and tried not to crush her hand and wished it was over. Which was funny since Ruthie and I had discussed just that in the car on the way there. I said, "It probably wouldn't be appropriate for me to ask one of them to hold my hand, would it?" And Ruthie said, "Just play it by ear," and smiled at me.
For all the trauma, I can't imagine how bad it might have been without a hand to hold. I realize how unmanly this could sound to some people and I don't give a rat's ass. I was scared. And maybe life's like that. While I was on the table nothing could distract me from what was going on, but when it was over I immediately began to realize what I'd just had illustrated for me. I think that there's nothing I couldn't handle--and by "handle" I mean "survive" and nothing more--as long as I wasn't alone. For all the anesthesia and valium (for which I was grateful) it was the constant reminder that there was someone in the room who cared about me--cared enough to hold the hand of a shaking, 220 lb. six-footer--that made the difference, that kept me from going absolutely apoplectic.
This is my life. For all the occupational turmoil, for all the ideological angst, for all of my issues, (and they are legion,) I'm not alone. Ruthie loves me differently than the rest of you do, and she's incomparable, but the rest of you are lifelines for me as well--the internet make this possible even for people I don't actually see as much as I'd like to--and I'm grateful. I honestly don't know what I'd do without all of you. Thanks.
Lots more back-blogging to do. I'll get to it as soon as I can.
1 Comments:
my eyes watered just reading your post. eek.
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