Post Lasik, Yo

I have this habit that kicks in any time I'm faced with something traumatic and especially something medical--I tend to the physical first and process the emotional part later.  For example, if you cry in front of me, yes, there will be hugs and reassurances, but I will also be encouraging you to drink water, handing you tissues, checking how you're been sleeping, etc.  Physically hurt?  We're going to be stemming the bleeding or offering a heating pad while discussing the what happened.  Family member in the hospital?  I will ask if I can bring food.  I want to ensure that the physical is attended to particularly when emotions are running high.

I do the same thing to myself.  With my ostomies, it was a series of what does my body need, how do I care for it, what do I need to prepare for, what appointments do I need to schedule, how much grief is insurance going to give me, etc.  Then, I set to work physically tending to myself.  The emotional part all gets processed later.  ...hopefully.

Lasik is following that same pattern for me, where I'm so focused on the care for my eyes, trying to be mindful of when they feel dry and balancing my drop schedule on that rather than the clock, erring on the side of soaking them.  I need to protect them as much as possible in certain situations and be planning for those.  I need to be patient toward how my body is healing and regard it with compassion rather than frustration, but that's as far as I've really delved into the emotional aspect yet.  As a result, I've had a few people ask me how I like it so far, and I don't really have an answer.  It hasn't settled in yet.

But here's what I can tell you--it's definitely better and I'm looking forward to the point when it's totally healed and the blurry/hazy spots are gone.  I'm trying to get used to my face again.

So here's how it went:

Surgery day itself arrived--I went to work for the morning and then Mamma P picked me up.  We went down the Lasik center of Gailey Eye Clinic and waited in the main area.

From there, they wanted to take a couple of additional measurements.  I was fine with them clearing up any error now than after they warmed up the laser, certainly, so we hammered those out quickly.  Then, it was back to the waiting room.  I stood, feeling that I would be more anxious to sit until I was brought into the in-between room.

There is ALWAYS an in-between room on a procedure.  Sometimes there are a couple, but there's always at least one in-between room.  With surgery, you're with your family for the first space, then taken back to the in-between room where they're actually prepping your for surgery or covering some last minute components before taking you to pre-op.  Then, when it's your turn you're in the actual procedure room where whatever it is going to happen.  The waiting room, you can have your family and friends with you; the procedure room, it's go time where you've done everything you needed to, it's time to let it happen, and the staff is focused on accomplishing the goal you've been preparing for.  But the in-between room, that's where the worst of the waiting is, where you're left alone on the edge of whatever is going to happen, staff coming in to discuss things with you but otherwise leaving you to wait alone.  The in-between room at Gailey had some very comfortable chairs, at least.  There was a familiarity of this process that was both comforting and very much not, pulling me back to previous episodes.  This was a medical procedure but definitely out of my wheelhouse.

So when I was asked what my nerves were like, I answered with a "...4?", the question mark much more audible than I would have liked.  5mg of Valium later, and that was certainly a bit calmer.  They walked me through the remaining care instructions, rehashing some that had already been covered before but were incredibly important, such as the eyedrops schedule, wearing the eyeshields and other precautions.  We also reviewed a recommended strategy for putting in these drops that I have gratefully adopted.  I had an antibiotic drop, a steroid drop (to help speed up the healing), and had already bought several boxes of the rewetting drops.  The eyeshields were to tape over my eyes at night for the first week, to prevent any accidental injuries during sleep when everything was particularly delicate.  I was given a pair of sunglasses with instructions to wear them whenever I was outside, particularly the first month.

And then there was another quick in-between room to recheck measurements, add in some numbing drops, and such before heading back to the base in-between room, allowing those drops to take effect.  Then, it was actually go-time.

There was a bed to lie on and machines on the right and left sides of it, by the head.  The bed was brown/grey, but most everything else was white because that's the sterile color that we associate with medical and confidence.  They lined me up where I needed to be on the bed, and, to my delight, handed me a pink stuffed dog, appropriately named "Iris," to hold on to.  The valium was definitely working, but it was still reassuring to have something to hold.

The bed swung over to my left.  I had to hold open my eye while the machine got into place.  My eyelids were held open on my left eye to start, if I recall correctly.  It wasn't painful, and I blinked with my other eye normally.  More than anything I was annoyed that I had to keep looking directly at a light, asked to stay focused on that spot as best I could.  The few parts that I could see in that eye without my glasses were completely blurry as they finished moving the cornea out of the way on that eye, all the while complimenting me (the "you're doing so well!" kinds of statements).  It didn't hurt--again, I was more annoyed that I had to stare at a light and otherwise that I knew I wasn't actually blinking with that eye.  Then, they moved on to the other eye, repeating the same process.  Phase one complete.

Then, the bed was swung over to my right.  Again, we attended one eye and then the other, fitting into the non-blinking apparatus for a single eye.  The cornea was flipped open--this did involve some kind of tool that I thought I saw, but I'm not completely sure, like a tiny Allen wrench.  Still no pain thanks to the numbing drops, just disconnected weirdness of seeing something close but not feeling it.  Then the laser started whirring, again while I had to focus on a light.  This part took, I would guess, about five minutes.  The flap was closed and they moved on to the other eye.

And then we were done.  Maybe about fifteen minutes an eye, total.  Immediately upon sitting up I could see more details without my glasses than I could have in years.  It was like looking through plastic wrap or a lens with Vaseline, but there were defined lines less than a foot from my face--a huge improvement.  I walked back to the in-between room without needing assistance.  One more check in the other room, to ensure that everything seemed to be in order and to help ensure that first few drops went in well as well as some solution painted over the surface of the eye, and that was it.  It was weirdly anticlimactic in some ways.

I walked out in a bit of a daze, processing that that was it and it was done.

Mamma P dropped me off at home and I aimed to take a nap as soon as possible, get a jumpstart on some of that healing.  I had been warned that about two hours after everything was done, things would get rough for a bit, feeling like there was sand or an eyelash in my eyes that I absolutely was not supposed to touch.  They said drops every fifteen minutes when awake--once that hit, they were going in about every six.  I napped for a bit, then woke up and repeated the process.  About four hours after, we were fully over the hump.  Then, it was dealing with constant rewetting drops and photosensitivity.

Flattering, I know.  Those are the eye shields.

As it stands now, getting on two weeks, the radius of clarity is continuing to expand, with some of that sensation of looking through plastic wrap starting further away.  I can, provided my eyes are sufficiently wet, consistently see with great clarity in about a four foot radius before the plastic wrap effect seems to start.  And lights are still a tricky thing, meaning that driving at night is a bit rough, still, with the sudden blast of headlights creating its own halo in my vision--and I've learned that different lights have different "signatures."  Some lights stretch like when you squint but have tears in your eyes; some lights look like they're on the other side of a frosted window, an impossibly smooth haze; some look like the texture of the shower door with the prismatic surface; other lights have sharp edges around like a tight spirograph.  Either way, I'm not driving at night more than I have to right now but am safe to do so.

I don't know how some of these elements will or will not clear up, yet, but the radius continues to expand.  Anyone worried about my driving, yes, I can read the sign over there that says the speed limit--it's just not completely crisp yet.  It can take a few weeks to be healed completely, but I will be putting drops in like a nervous habit for the next while regardless.

I'm excited for the "but what does it mean to me?" part to click in, where I'm able to really enjoy it and experience it rather than focus on the physical care I need.  So far, I've only reached for my glasses to adjust them sixteen times.  I look forward to where I no longer think of it and can buy a number of cute sunglasses.