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And now: my experience with PRK laser vision correction. Lest anyone feel the need to yell at me for writing such a long update when my eyes are still blurry, let me assure you that no eye strain was involved in the writing of this post. I’ve been working on it over the period of a couple of days.

If you haven’t taken the time to read K.T.’s version of the event, I do recommend it. I was literally laughing out loud. I don’t think I’ll be able to match the same level of hilarity, but I’m going to pick and choose some parts from his post and let you know whether I agree with him or not. Or what my version of the same situation was. (All of the following block-quotes are taken from K.T.’s post.)

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.”)…

I don’t disagree with this. I put it in solely to boost my ego. (”People like me! They really like me!” **sobs**)

[The morning of the surgery] I’d arrived at Z.M.’s around 0945, fifteen minutes early.

Saturday morning, I heard a knock at my door. When I pulled it open, I saw K.T. His eyes widened and he took a step back.

K.T.: Sorry, ma’am. I must have the wrong apartment.

Zan: You jackass. It’s me. I’m not wearing any makeup.

[A pre-surgery gift for Zan] Vicks VapoRub for babies, to banish the possibly sweet smell of seared cornea, and an onion. Z.M. [had previously been warned the effect of the surgery] would be that of a perpetual onion-dicing contest. Her response when I handed it to her? “Oh, you bastard.”

True, I called him a bastard. But I was laughing when I said it. And I don’t think he was offended, because I’m pretty sure I called him worse things during the time we worked together.

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.

True. If K.T. had arrived exactly at 10, I would have been completely ready to go. As it happened, I reached into the bathroom cabinet for hairspray while I was brushing my teeth, and was rewarded with the door snapping shut on my thumb.

Z.M. tells me to read Ms. Magazine, as I might learn something. I did; women are not to be treated as inferior beings.

You’re learning, K.T., slowly but surely. We’ll make a real man out of you yet.

[En route…aka a route that neither one of us had taken before] 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).

K.T. is becoming entirely too proficient, too quickly, in his adoption of acronyms. But his description of trying to locate the GW Parkway is correct. I pride myself on being able to follow directions, if the directions are…well, more obvious than these. We had two sets of (at this point, non-blurry) eyes, and neither one of us could find the correct exit.

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 [my car] 90 degrees, just as we were about to pass the G.W. Parkway. Again.

True, there was some last minute yelling involved. But what choice did I have when K.T. was about to miss our turn? We never did find the GW Parkway. We emptied out onto 50-W (Arlington Blvd), which is the road I used to take to work. I knew that it would eventually meet up with 495-N (about nine miles later, through a long stretch of traffic lights), so we went that way.

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.

K.T. did a wonderful job of keeping me entertained. I was laughing during most of the drive (except that time he drove into a Tour-Bus Only area in D.C. and all the mean bus drivers were staring us down).

She is right now more concerned with having to wear the unfashionable sunglasses, rather than her own stylish pair.

True. I was debating the merits of the doctor-issued dark sunglasses, or my own Ray Bans. (Hey, the Ray Bans are BIG. They offer plenty of protection!) Since then, I’ve found a way to compromise. I wore the doctor-issued sunglasses inside when my eyes were sensitive to the light, and to bed so that I wouldn’t roll around on my eyes. Outside, I wear the fashionable sunglasses.

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…

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.

K.T. was very concerned with making sure I arrived on time. I wasn’t so excited about the possibility of the dive, tuck, and roll, but I was willing to humor him. Luckily we arrived just in time and I was able to walk in.

I must say, the people inside weren’t quite so concerned with punctuality.

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 printed thereon, as if patients would attempt to steal others’ surgery. Then again, this is America, land of opportunity, yours and mine.

I’m used to people mispronouncing both my first and last name, so I didn’t think anything of it. I did correct her later, which is when she switched to calling me Ms. M__.

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 valium-world. I do not know why they were so afraid of giving it. Two pulls from the powder pony does not an addict make.

These people did not want to give me drugs! I was about to have my eyes lasered! I was nervous! I wanted to feel relaxed, and all they had to offer me was Tylenol P.M. When I realized this was all I would be getting (unless I wanted to wait for them to write me a prescription, and take it to the nearby CVS to have it filled), I grudgingly accepted the mediocre substitute.

However, when I asked the surgeon later about painkillers, he wrote out a prescription for twenty Perococet (way more than I ended up needing) without blinking an eye. This seems just a little bit backwards, if you ask me.

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.

Yeah, sure. He just so happened to take a close look at my name tag. The one that was affixed to my close-fitting t-shirt.

It turns out my name tag read “Zandaria.”

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.

K.T. neglected to mention that upon my return, he asked me what had happened behind the closed door. I told him the good doctor just wanted a few minutes alone with me; he wanted to put his hand on my arm and assure me that everything was going to be okay (I mean, K.T. called it himself, right?).

K.T., eyes open wide: Really?
Me: No, not really.

And then K.T. started complaining about how long he had to wait:

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.

I still assert that I told K.T. about the time frame in advance. He admitted that he sometimes doesn’t listen very closely (too busy recording the details of a situation in his mind to write about them later, I imagine).

I passed the time by relaxing in a chair in the waiting room; head all the way back, legs sprawled out in front of me. At one point I grabbed an old copy of People magazine and entertained K.T. with my (only slight) celebrity knowledge.

Me: Look, this is Gwyneth Paltrow holding her daughter, Apple. Apple’s father is Chris Martin from Coldplay. Look at this kid’s eyes. Don’t they look just like her father’s? [A note to everyone who doesn't already know: I am a sucker for pretty eyes.]

K.T.: I have no idea what Chris Martin looks like.

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 [aka a hot Milky Way drink—read his entire post for details]. At this point, I feel creepy, like a dirty old man getting voyeuristic pleasure from watching this happen.

My blue t-shirt matched the blue hairnet. Snazzy!

The operating room has floor-to-ceiling glass panes, so you are on display to the entire waiting room. You can watch the wide view (the patient, laid out on the table), or the close-up view (the TV screen on the wall that shows the procedure in all it’s minute detail). Or you can alternate between the two, if you choose.

Here is K.T.’s version of the wide view, without the TV 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.

My view: they put eye drops in each eye to numb them, so I didn’t need any other type of anesthetic. They taped my eyelashes down and then inserted a metal clamp to keep the first eye open (the second eye was covered with a patch so I couldn’t see what was going on).

When the doctor started scraping the cells off my first eye, I said, “Ow.” He quickly reached for the bottle of Numb-Her-Eyes and added a few more drops. The pain was better after that, but I do recall that the second eye was a lot less bothersome. I’m not sure why I was so much more aware of the first eye being worked on than the second.

I could see the scalpel-thingy moving back and forth in front of my vision while the doctor was doing the scraping, which was a strange experience. It’s like my brain was telling me he couldn’t actually be touching my eye if I could see what was going on.

When he was done with the scraping, it was time for the laser. I was told to look at a blinking red light above my head. I focused on that, and the light got bigger and bigger until it filled my entire frame of vision. That lasted for several minutes. I could smell a burning smell, which I had been warned about (K.T. had bought VapoRub for me to rub under my nose, but I’d forgotten about it in all the last-minute excitement). The doctor said several soothing things during this time, like “You’re doing fine,” and “Just a few more minutes.” I had to resist the urge to nod my head in response. Since there was a laser pointed at my face, I didn’t think he would be offended if I didn’t acknowledge him.

After they helped me up from the table, I sat down in a chair in the waiting room for several minutes with my eyes closed. Then I went back into the doctor’s office so he could place his hand on my leg and ask how I was doing—excuse me, I mean so that he could look at my eyes and make sure everything was okay. Then I shook his hand and they sent me on my way.

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 just wanted to be home, snug in my bed. I think it took us about 45 minutes to get back through early Saturday afternoon interstate traffic—not counting the hour-long drive there that morning (half of which was due to not knowing where we were going), and a little over two hours in the LasikPlus office.

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.

He’s too modest. I must make it up to him somehow.

I wonder if he’d accept 15 extra Percocet as compensation?