Your blindness is temporary; do not be alarmed



Of the many disorienting, gratifying and horrifying things people have said to me first thing on a Friday morning, one is likely to remain near the front of my memory: "You are about to experience eight to 10 seconds of blindness. Stay calm."

Several masked, gloved and capped Lasik doctors leaned over me, seemingly fascinated by my impending sightlessness. Over 28 years' worth of hospital visits, I've noticed that the more concerned you are about a procedure or exam, the larger the crowd of people surrounding the patient seems to become. Right now, I was seeing a damned battalion of laser jockeys and a sizable detachment of corneal infantrymen, fixing bayonets as they marched inexorably toward my face. In reality, there were probably about two of them.

Until a month ago, I'd worn contact lenses for years. Early this year, my left eye decided this arrangement was no longer acceptable and started turning red and swelling whenever I so much as thought about putting a lens in it. In addition to granting me a striking resemblance to Bill the Cat from the old comic strip Bloom County, it itched like hell, which made me constantly irritable and distracted. Not that that distinguished me from most other reporters these days, but I was still eager to correct things.

My optometrist knew immediately what was wrong but had no advice other than to stop wearing the contacts and see what developed. What developed was a raw spot on the bridge of my nose that hadn't been there since junior high — the last time I'd worn glasses for weeks on end — and an aura that reportedly made me "just adorable like Harry Potter" (and, for a trying several months, just as dateable). After my eye showed little improvement, I puffed up my chest and called a Reno Lasik doctor who does business with my dad.

Which was how I found myself prostrate under what looked like the bombing sight from a B-52 with a microkeratone (pronounced: a freaking eye blade) poised a millimeter from my pupil and a purple stuffed snake clutched in my hands. I gallantly refused the snake at first, but the nurse told me he was part of the procedure. Patients holding the snake were less likely to fidget or throw up their hands at unfortunate times, such as when the computer was making microscopic adjustments, she said. After brief consideration, I shelved my masculinity in favor of not vaporizing parts of my anatomy that I might need later. She smiled at me like I was just adorable and passed me Snakey without further comment.

Thanks to the world's most expensive eyedrops, I couldn't feel the blade when the doctor sliced a tiny trap door in the first eye, but I could sure tell when he went to work. Surgeons use a pressurized ring to hold your eye still while they're cutting, and if the sensation of having your whole head manipulated by the eyeball isn't precisely painful, it's far from pleasant. As he opened the filmy door, I watched one of evolution's proudest achievements progressively break down until eventually I couldn't see at all.

Of course they had prepared me for this. In fact, the blindness only lasted about six seconds followed by a minute or so of extreme blurriness. But it is an odd experience to feel your eyelid wide open and know that your eye is pointed at a face two feet away and see only darkness. At that moment in the procedure, I bet every patient has essentially the same thought: "Well. I certainly hope THAT comes back."

Thankfully, it did. After a few moments of positioning, I was directed to look through the haze at a starburst of yellow light. The actual laser is invisible, but staring at a fixed point helps the computer focus. I'd also bet that giving patients a simple task to consider helps divert them from the James Bondian event that is about to transpire.

I'll try to relate the dreaded laser phase of the procedure for those of you who have never had the privilege of having your eyes cooked in your head. Imagine staring through an incredibly dirty windshield into a powerful flashlight while the passenger burns a handful of dog hair.

About the time the smell hit me, some primitive part of my brain screamed, "This is ridiculous. THEY ARE SHINING A LASER DIRECTLY INTO YOUR EYE. We've screwed up before, but wow..." My knuckles went white around Snakey's ribs, but I held still.

All told, it took about three hours to make my vision passable and now, a month later, it's well within the range of the average person who doesn't need glasses. Within three months, I should be as close to 20/20 as heredity will allow.

Lasik is far from a miracle: I was essentially bed-ridden for several days, one eye remains noticeably weaker than the other and my night vision is still touchy. But the procedure's ability to change a basic fact of my life — that I cannot safely travel farther than the kitchen without some type of optical technology on my head — has been stunning. I recommend it to anyone who's simply tired of worrying about their eyes, or just curious about how they might smell in the microwave.