The Rain is Gone

Saturday morning. Last night, I lost the archetypal struggle between "man and bed" as follows:

Bed: "Come here."
Me: "Yes, but first..."
Bed: "Come now, or I'm going to start tossing your pillows out the window."
Me: "Good try, but I know better: a bed can't toss a pillow. No hands."
Bed: "Try me."
Me: "Umm..."
Pillow: "Help!"
*distant plopping sound*
Bed: "One down. Two to go."
Me: "Aaah! Okay, I'm coming. Please, anything, but not the pillows..."

Thank Apu Pinchau (Incan creator-god of the alpaca) I was able to escape the clutches of "bed" around 7:30.

* * *

I'm sipping Earl Gray tea made with an infuser. Thank you, Sun and Julia, for reminding me of Captain Picard's favorite brew. I picked it up at Whole Foods yesterday in a massive tea-acquisition expedition, from which I also came home with white, green and decaf vanilla maple.

* * *

So, I've promised a post about what the LASIK procedure was like, and it's time to deliver.

Before the procedure began, my mother and I waited in the "Freedomvision" lounge watching the TV talking heads debate the new pope's "hard-line" views. After a while, I lost interest and instead admired the letter "v" in the Freedomvision logo. It looked like a bird. Not all birds have good vision, but eagles do, so I was reassured.

Eventually my doctor's younger colleague, Dr. Shaw, came down to greet me. He is an energetic man of Indian descent, and looks about 25. "I'm here to give you your Valium," he said.

I thought the Valium was optional, I said.

"It is," he explained, "But you really should take it."

He then lectured me on the benefits of being sedated. When he was done, he smiled like a defense attorney who had made a very good case, or Garfield after eating lasagna.

"Thanks," I said. "But I think I'll opt out."

He walked off, disgruntled. A few minutes later he returned with Dr. Gordon. "So. you taken your happy pill yet?" asked the older optometrist, fixing his eyes on me, one bright, one dull (from two different procedures.)

"Two weeks ago, you said it was optional," I reminded him.

"Yes," he admitted. "But you really should..."

"I've spent the last two weeks preparing to come in today in a state of--" I gestured up then down with my hands, thinking of Weber, Cathers and the team from Granada Hills--"High energy and low anxiety. I don't need it."

Or at least I didn't till you all started pressuring me to take the darn thing, I thought.

The standoff continued for a little while. I asked if the Valium would improve the chances of the procedure working out. No, he said, it's really for afterward, so you just go home and sleep.

"I'm sleep-deprived enough that won't be a problem," I said. (I didn't tell him my plan was actually to go home and blog.)

At last they relented, and it was time for the actual procedure.

It began with Dr. Gordon putting little marks in my eyes. "I can write any initials you like," he offered. "They'll be very small but last a few years."

I thought about it for a while. "D and D," I said. For DemiDec.

"Okay," he smiled.

There were, of course, no initials. He just put dots in m eyes. But I give him credit for fooling me with the straightest face you can imagine.

Then I walked into a larger room full of equipment, the lead surgeon (Dr. Elkins), a nurse (Laura), and a teddy bear (whom I named "alpaca.")

"Is the bear here to squeeze or something?" I said, amused.

"Exactly," said the nurse, and handed it to me.

At first I was skeptical, but it turned out that squeezing a bear when someone is slicing a flap in your eye is a really really good idea.

The slicing itself was the most painful part--or, rather, the setup involved. Dr. Elkins placed a suction cup in my eye, and then a circle of bright white lights began to whir. The cup was so highly-pressurized that I went blind right after it came on. The whole world shrank away into darkness faster than I could blink (not that I could have blinked if I'd wanted to--they'd pinned up my eyelids.)

Each eye then took 40 very long seconds to perforate; fortunately, the second one went faster when I began (very quietly) reciting poetry.

The weirdest part (for lack of a better description) was when the surgeon pulled back the flap with a tiny edged instrument. I could see my whole field of vision slowly floating away and to the right. Then when it had been totally removed, I could see straight ahead again, but only very blurrily. "Air bubbles," explained Dr. Gordon.

The actual LASIK part was easier (as opposed to what they call "Intralase"--the removal of the flap.) I had to stare up at (in their words, "fixate" on) a bright red light which flickered for about 20 seconds. The hardest part was seeing it with my right eye--everything was just a pale smear. With my left, the light was a beautiful, fixed point, like a red giant from this year's Super Quiz curriculum but without any contradictions.

I smelled something burning; I decided not to ask what.

Between eyes Dr. Gordon said, "You're doing well, Daniel."

"Thank you, Dr. Gordon," I said, politely.

The nurse then said, "You're doing well, Daniel."

"Thank you..." I began, and realized I had lost her name.

"Laura," said Dr. Gordon.

"Thank you, Dr. Laura," I said. Then my second eye caught fire and I went back to squeezing the teddy bear.

When the procedure ended, I stood up slowly. The world was bathed in milk--but painlessly so. Within an hour it felt as if I had a giant eyelash trapped beneath my right eyelid. I took a quick nap, watched The Hostage, and then pondered how to sleep with goggles on. (Still haven't figured that out, and three nights to go.)

By the next day, I could see 20-20 out of my left eye. My right one is still catching up, but already the world is an amazingly clear place--reading license plates is particularly fun--and to celebrate I've been drinking lots of tea (though not eating any meatballs.)

* * *

Just scheduled an appointment at the DMV for this Thursday. I need a new license that doesn't require me to have corrective lenses. It might be the first time in my life I'm happy to visit the DMV.