Eye Care

I was going to parcel this out over the next week, but it seared such an impression on my mind, 1. I couldn't shut up about it, and 2. I figured I might as well just get it all down. This is all I'm posting for this week, as a result. We'll go back to the (now regular) 5x a week posting next week, unless something changes. Which it always could; I hereby reserve that right.

Also, I don't know if the effect I was going for when I described the actual PRK came through, but I think it's one of the better things I've written recently. Trying to alternate between beauty and disgust to show just how wonderful/wretched the entire thing was, but at the time, I was too focused on the wretched nature of the procedure. Only in hindsight have I been able to (sort of) appreciate the handiwork.

**

One of the questions I have most come to fear, the dreaded “What are you doing on (this day)?” It’s not that I mind helping people, it’s just that I’m never quite prepared for the magnitude of the task. “Can you come with me to court?” “Can you proofread my paper?” “Can you help me move?” “Can you take me to the airport?” “Can you be the father to my child?” “Can you pray with me?” “Can you believe in me?” “Can you take me to surgery?”

Z.M. decided fairly quickly to undergo the popular eye-reshaping procedure. She had plenty of people volunteer to take her (that’s what happens when you’re “good people.”), but all would have been inconvenienced beyond the normal trip. Enter K.T.

In a way, it doesn’t matter what the task is. The issue is that tone, that halting, cautious, feel-you-out tone. The verbal sparring, throwing a jab out, a few words to see if I flinch. As soon as I hear the tone and the day, I scrap whatever was going to happen at that time, unless it absolutely can’t wait. (Screw you all, no one can make me give up the bathroom. Not a one of you trumps Mr. Bladder.) If you have to ease into the conversation, I know that it’s important to you. And if it’s important to you, then it’s important to me. It’s no longer a question, but a directive. Laundry can wait.

Flash forward to Saturday morning. I slept in until 0700, and still felt tired. (Yes, 0700 is really late for me.) Print up the directions to Z.M.’s place and the Laser Tag arena, and head to Giant for some supplies. Vicks VapoRub for babies, to banish the possibly sweet smell of seared cornea, and an onion. Z.M. was warned the effect would be that of a perpetual onion-dicing contest. Her response when I handed it to her? “Oh, you bastard.”

Between the consult and the surgery, the doctor recommended (and Z.M. opted for) P.R.K., a safer procedure with a longer healing period. This mucked up plans for the V.W. crew to all hang out, but when you’re risking possible blindness, you better do what the doctor says.

I’d arrived at Z.M.’s around 0945, fifteen minutes early. (For those unaware, I loathe being late for appointments [and if you’re on time, you’re late], and have a special propensity towards getting lost if given directions. Ask anyone, if dropped in the woods with a map and compass, the search parties would find me four days later with a scrap of Tucson, Arizona hanging from my mouth. I also adhere to the speed limit plus ten miles and drive like an old lady. This all comes into play, I swear.)

When I called Z.M. to confirm the directions, the connection somehow refracted my audio signal in on itself, producing a two second delay on my voice. My only thought: Do I really sound like that?

She’d expected me at 1000, so spent the next fifteen minutes preparing, and somehow biting her thumb or slamming it into the door while brushing her teeth. I’m stuck wondering if she understands how to operate the brushtooth device. Meanwhile, Z.M. tells me to read Ms. Magazine, as I might learn something. I did; women are not to be treated as inferior beings.

We take off in the Lady Surfer at 1000, after she does a smell test to ensure the mildew won’t overpower her senses (because of the rain, I must wait a while for the drying to commence. Though it’s a great song, I do not anymore share the Temptations’ sentiment, “I Wish It Would Rain.”) The Mapquest directions take us into the District of Columbia, to a most abhorrent experience.

I have never driven in our nation’s capital. I have never vomited in our nation’s capital. I have cursed in our nation’s capital, as I did when trying to find the George Washington Parkway. For the stretch we drove on it, there were a grand total of zero signs labeling its existence. Reminded me of the Pentagon, a.k.a. the Building Constructed in the Deepest Depths of Hell by Mildly to Moderately Incompetent Contractors (BCDDHMMIC).

This led to a cavalcade of wrong turns, blocking off tour buses, and at one point, Z.M. yelling “Take this turn,” and me whipping the Lady Surfer 90 degrees, just as we were about to pass the G.W. Parkway. Again.

Here, we realize that the directions only require is to hit 495 North. Had we known this, we could have saved 25 minutes. I vow to “liberally interpret” the speed limit, which Z.M. hears as “literally interpret.” True to my word (for once), we hit 495, and we go screaming down the widened causeway. To and fro, the sweeping curves force excessive drivers to slow down if they hope to stay within their artificially delineated lanes, and I curse the developers.

Throughout, I try to crack wise to put the two of us at east, with varying levels of success. Z.M.’s dealing with it fairly well, a little nervous. She is right now more concerned with having to wear the unfashionable sunglasses, rather than her own stylish pair. I am actually more nervous at this point, because I believe in tightly-controlled lies, i.e. statistics. It is only a matter of time before someone on my watch becomes statistically significant for all the wrong reasons, and I hope today isn’t the day. Of course, I tell Z.M. the stats favor her being fine. Yet another functional lie.

At 1055, I start to get nervous. I want, no, I need to get her there on time, just so she can be on time. I glance at the dash every few seconds, curse every red traffic light, taunting me with the hundreds of LEDs, a passive taunt. Late, late, late. GFY, you horrid lights. (Side note: When I ask something or someone to GFY, I am asking them to go forth and procreate with themselves, in not-so-kind terms.).

At 1059, on the homestretch, Z.M. pulls out her cell and says T-Mobile synchronized the time with satellites. Her cell says 1058. I tell T-Mobile, wherever it is, that if it was a person, I’d kiss them, but they’re a corporation, so I must hate them.

We pull up with seconds to spare. The original plan of Z.M. doing a dive, tuck and roll while I drive by the entrance is shelved for now.

What I didn’t anticipate about the Lasik facility, which makes perfect sense in retrospect, is the subdued lighting. Harsh filaments eschewed in favor of soft fluorescence, but not the cheap style that bathes all in an aged yellow glow, like a fresh daguerreotype from the 18^th century. No, they pained themselves to create a warm atmosphere. Very neutral greys, very neutral woods. The only bold touches were the paintings, flowers bright and inspiring, all slightly abstract and indistinct. A subtle hint that if you undergo the treatment, your world will come into sharp focus?

Z.M. presented herself at the front desk. The receptionist looked at the files and proceeded to mispronounce her first name, the eyebrows arched in that “Is this how it really is?” manner. She presented Z.M. with a sticky name tag, with the procedure preinted thereon, as if patients would attempt to steal others’ surgery. Then again, this is America, land of opportunity, yours and mine.

We seated ourselves in plush dark green sofa seats and waited. Thus the great game did begin.

Another receptionist called Z.M. to finalize the paperwork and collect payment. She noticed that some wag had darkened the letters on Saturday. I don’t know what was worse, that someone had done it, that I laughed, or that I had never thought of that before. Z.M. inquired about valium, but the woman hemmed and hawed, reticent to fill the scrip. They did have travel-size packets of Tylenol PM, a far cry from the blessed-out valiume-world. I do not know why they were so afraid of giving it. Two pulls from the powder pony does not an addict make.

A little later, seated in the chairs, D. came over with a surgical-scrub blue hairnet, and a dark black handbag with the doctor’s name, the facility’s title, and a clear card holder on the back. The receptionist pegged D. as the one that blackened the crucial letters on the weekend, leaving us with crap. He is a big man, 6’6”, excess of 300 pounds. When he first sat down, I smelled ammonia, as if he’d wet himself, washing in the bathroom sink, and tried to play it off. In contrast with his trickster personality, D. was all frowns while describing the medicinal regimen Z.M. would have to submit to over the coming weeks. As is my wont, my eyes and mind wandered and wondered. I looked down at D’s left hand, and his middle finger ended in a stump, aligned perfect with his index finger, tip pinker than the rest of his browned hand.

I stared at that until he walked away.

They’d pronounced Z.M.’s first name incorrectly again and again, so I looked at her name tag. Lo and behold, a rogue “a” infiltrated her name, sabotaging all stranger attempts to call her. Of course, by now, they all started calling her Ms. M.

While she went to the back to get her eyes examined, I went to the bathroom. A man seated in a stall had occupied the bathroom. Several beeping sounds were emanating from his phone. I do not want to hazard any guesses as to what he was doing. With his cell phone. I know, and you should, what else was going on. (What, everybody doesn’t poop?).

More DMV-esque waiting. By now, Z.M. popped a Tylenol P.M., with no effect. I went to the coffee machine and brewed up a cup of Milky Way drink. It tasted like well water, brackish and barely fit for human consumption. Much later, I would discover the chocolate and sugar crystals coating the bottom of the cup. Scooped some out and ate it. Boy howdy, was that good.

More waiting. I cannot emphasize the wait. Z.M. goes in to talk to the good doctor, Doctor Who. I dub him so because he bore more than a passing resemblance to Tom Baker’s rendition of Doctor Who, perhaps the most famous. Some scraggly dark hair, same slightly perpetually befuddled look. Z.M. says one of his ears is bigger than the other. I have no reason to doubt her assessment.

Around this time, I am charged with possession of Z.M.’s purse. Now, hold your horses. I only signed on as chauffeur, not purse-holder. There are at least seventeen different ways for a man to hold a bag. It is impossible to keep your dignity with sixteen of those methods. Number seventeen involves matches, and I had none. Still, to paraphrase the old saying, a pound of pennies gets you into the bank.

I ask Z.M. how long this should take, after she mentions I have nothing to read.

K.T.: I thought this would take twenty minutes.
Z.M.: Oh, no, they said it could take around two hours.
K.T.: You didn’t tell me that.
Z.M.: I did, in the e-mail.
K.T.: No, you didn’t.
Z.M.: Oh. Well, it could take up to two hours.

Communication isn’t dead, just in a perpetual coma.

At least, we arrive at the raison d’etre. It’s Go Time. Z.M. dons her cap (which matched her clothing), and goes into the operating room. I sit outside the 9 foot glass panes and watch, sipping my well water. At this point, I feel creepy, like a dirty old man getting voyeuristic pleasure from watching this happen. I think it’s that none of them acknowledges my presence, and go about their business as per normal.

What I saw will haunt me forever. We live our lives accustomed to certain principles. On of those is that we perceive certain objects on a certain scale. Zoom in, throw away the reference frame, and it becomes alien. Z.M.’s eye was displayed from a monitor for the world just beyond those glass panes to see, and I am now xenophobic.

Allow me to describe it without the monitor feed. Z.M. went in, and the door closed. “Warning-Laser Room” marked the door. She lay down on the padded bench, wedge propping her knees. They gave her ocean blue stress balls to squeeze in each hand. She crossed her wrists at the waist, as if girding herself for battle. A large blue swatch covered her left eye. Doctor Who, lab coat and all, entered after the prep. He sat at the machine, eyes focused in on the eye pieces. The nurses prepped her eyes and dropped in various eye drops. Then, a strange clack-hum for five second intervals. Repeated over and over. Then, more eye wash and what not. Repeat for second eye. Simple, clean, sterile safe.

Until you take a closer look.

As I write this, I am but a few hours removed from witnessing that experience. After some thinking, I have come to the conclusion that it was either the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, or the worst abomination known to man upon this earth.

Doctor Who sat down at the eyepieces and focused in on Z.M.’s right eye. As he sat at her head, the inverted eye kept blinking, almost mouthing a prayer. Then, they taped back both eyelids, the giant stalk-like eyelashes caught in eternal surprise. A nurse inserted the reverse-clamp, one beneath each eyelid (Think “A Clockwork Orange.”). Soon, the blood vessels engorged, all point towards the iris, sending sympathetic signals to the lids. “Close, damn you, close.” To no avail. Such is our lot. We suffer to revel, ache to love, hurt to help.

I took a sip of well water.

Doctor Who gently spread a clear gel atop Z.M.’s eye. With a delicate precision, he wielded his scalpelette, the honed edge gleaming, almost bright enough to sing. With a mother’s care, he eased away the gel covering her pupil and iris. The pupil flared and dimmed in response, as that fine edge cleared away the superficial, leaving the relevant cornea, glistening and pure and (soon-to-be) perfect.

I breathed the air, cool and promising.

With each passing moment, tens of crimson laser points bespeckled Z.M.’s eye in a seemingly random pattern. Sometimes, the laser points spiraled out, faded to neon blue, expired upon her still-gelled sclera. Soon, the corneal surface adopted a matte finish, and the underlying eye grew indistinct, as if I were undergoing said surgery myself.

I watched others watch her watch the laser which could not itself see.

After nine or ten series, Doctor Who covered the iris with a sparkly, silvered disc. It sat for a few seconds, perhaps an open defiance to germs. “This is my charge, and you will not bring infection while I stand guard.” Alas, its time was limited; its bravery, timeless. Then, a flood of clarity, materialized in sterile liquid form, cleansing, relieving.

I looked in my cup and fished out a lump of chocolate and sugar.

A few, stingy drops of a separate clear liquid. Surely they could have spared more for my ailing friend? Then, a milky liquid. Could its palliative effect outweigh the questionable appearance? Mixing in the pool of her abused eye, which was still staring up, unblinking, unfeeling.

I stared at my ghostly reflection in the glass, realized I was superimposing my own brown eye on that monitor.

A thick contact atop the liquid mélange, and the removal of the tape and clamps. The eye blinked, then shut closed, as if it did not want the world to look at it.

Repeat for eye the second.

Z.M. left the room crying, the only reason being that a laser had just reshaped her eye, and the tear ducts deal with it by leaking. I described what I saw, then realized she’d forgotten to smear the VapoRub beneath her nose. She described a slight burning smell, but nothing major.

Doctor Who gave her a final once over, then sent her on her merry way. Z.M. donned the facility-standard sunglasses, rather than her own. We stepped into early afternoon sun. I relished the heat, and vowed to run later. She flinched a bit upon first light.

On the drive back, the Tylenol P.M. finally started to kick in. We talked, but it seemed neither of our minds were entirely there. Her mind was slow-fading into a dream state. I was just filling the void, still block-stunned at the spectacle. (Side note: Block-stun is a concept in fighting games, wherein you cannot input any action for a certain amount of time after a successful block of an opponent’s attack. Whenever I’ve been so stunned by something I don’t know how to react, then I refer to myself as block-stunned.)

At the beginning, I wrote that I don’t mind when people ask me to do things. I actually do to a certain extent, because then I feel responsible. Oft times, they ask for help with important events, but in the end, it is all on them. Besides driving Z.M. to and from the facility, I did, I can do, nothing. Right now, it is all reliant upon Doctor Who’s skill, and Z.M.’s recovery.

It’s not that I mind helping, it’s that I mind all of you making me give a damn about something other than myself.

Heal quickly, Z.M.