About three weeks ago, I decided to go ahead and get my eyes checked to see if I was a candidate for LASIK eye surgery.

It was a rather interesting eye exam. There were three machines I had to look though. One shined a series of concentric rings on my eye. The reflections from these rings provided a surface map of my cornea the doctor could work from. The next machine was the coolest ever. I stared into it and it automatically refocused an image inside the machine. A quick read of some letters to verify that the machine was correctly set for my eyes and it printed my actual prescription. That test took less than one minute for both eyes. The third machine was a glaucoma test. The last time I went to an optometrist, the glaucoma test involved a puff of air against the eye. This one just required me to focus on a light.

Going from machine to machine took more time than the actual tests.

Then the traditional Bozo Glasses were used to confirm the machine's results. My eyes were -2.25 in the right eye, -2.00 in the left. (Or -2.50 in the right, -2.25 in the left. I can't remember.) My pupils were relatively small in dark, something like 4.8 in one eye, 5.2 in the other, which didn't tell me anything. However, the doctor called me "Golden Boy", so I guess those were good numbers.

SUDDENLY I had an appointment to get my eyes dilated and surgery scheduled for about a week after that. Things were moving faster than I thought they would.

My eyes were dilated and it was very weird. On the ride home, everything was blue-shifting. Looking forward, I could see the chain link fence on the overpass bridge. Through my peripheral vision, the blue sky behind the fence looked purple. There was an odd purple ghosting effect to everything we passed by. The starbursts around lights were more pronounced. White headlights appeared yellowish, with blue and green streaks above and below the light source.

I don't understand people who use illegal drugs. Getting your eyes dilated just before sunset was way cool. Your perceptions are altered, but it neither screws up your brain nor can you overdose on it.

The day of the surgery, I wasn't nervous at all until about an hour before the appointment, but that passed. There was a blitz of anxiety right before each eye, but that passed quickly.

This is how the operation went.

After yet another eye exam and some paperwork, the doctor takes the numbers from all of the eye tests taken so far (four) and enters them into the operating laser. He checks the numbers with his assistant. He returns and explains what's going to happen, step by step. He explains the risks involved. I put on a cheesecloth hairnet and shoe coverings and we enter the operating room.

I sit in the chair. On the laser is one of those CinemaScope monitors for the Macintosh. My wife sits outside the room, looking through a window so she can watch the monitor. This monitor will have a close up of my eye during the surgery. She's Science Woman and finds this type of thing interesting.

The chair folds back and turns into a table, which can swing around, under the emitter. There is a white circular light and a blinking red light. They say they're going to let me hear the sounds of the machines so I'm not startled during the surgery. "This is the sound of the machine that will cut the slit in your cornea." bzzzzzzzzrp. "This is the sound of the laser." ZAP ZAP ZAP.

Numbing eyedrops are put into my right eye; my left eye is covered. After they take effect, the doctor touches my eyeball with something. I feel a bit of pressure, which is good. He puts in some sort of device that is supposed to hold my eyelids open during the surgery. With numb eyes, I will not blink. I may want to blink, but that is only psychological. As a matter of fact, I should not blink at all because I could sprain my upper eyelid and need eyelid surgery.

More eyedrops.

A suction pump is placed on my eye. It increases the pressure in my eye so they can cut the flap. As it goes on, lights in the room start to fade. The red light starts to smear and it moves up to the left, now up and to the right. I start to panic because I must keep looking directly at the light and it's moving which means that I'm not looking directly at the light and things can go wrong, but it's just the pressure and now everything is black and bzzzzzzzzrp and now the light comes back. flash flash flash. Something shaped like a chevron is placed on the right side of my pupil and the doctor lifts the flap. As it is lifted and folded back and put into place, there appears to be multiple red lights, all in a horizontal line. Once the flap is out of the way, there is just the flashing red light. flash flash flash.

"Just keep looking at the red light," they say again. My eyeball is cut open and things from it are held into place by who knows what. No way am I going to stop looking at the red light. flash flash flash.

For my right eye, I have about thirty seconds of laser time. They call out the time to me so I know how much longer it is going to be. I'd rather they just say "Almost there" and "Just about done" instead. ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP ZAP.

As the laser works, the red light goes from a somewhat sharp blur to a sharp red round light with a small red ghost around it.

As the laser works, it burns away at the tissue in the back of my eye. The smell is not unlike burning hair. Halfway through I realize that this smell is coming from inside my eyeball. The laser stops before I can get disgusted.

The laser is done and the doctor replaces the flap. Once again, there appear to be several red lights until the flap is replaced. The chevron flap-holder is removed. The suction ring is removed. More eyedrops. Everything is milky white. More eyedrops. Everything is clear again. More eyedrops. The doctor takes a pointy thing and dabs around my eye to make sure the flap is back in place. Only later do I realize that he was actually touching my eye, which was so cool. More eyedrops.

Now we wait for three minutes.

We're still waiting.

And we're still waiting.

A minute and a half left.

Finally the three minutes is over.

More eyedrops.

The doctor removes the Clockwork Orange device from my eye. I have to keep it open. "Okay, blink your eyes, but do not squeeze your eyes." It feels very rough.

Then we do the left eye.

The entire operation, both eyes, takes about eight minutes. Six minutes of that is just waiting post-operation to remove the eyelid holder.

Post-operation instructions consist of go home and sleep for five hours. Put drops in. Go to bed for the night. For the next four nights, wear these clear plastic shields when you sleep. Use paper tape to secure them to your face. For the next week, wear these thick sunglasses whenever you go outside.

The next day -- not even 24 hours after the operation, I go in for a follow-up visit. Go through the machines. Look at the eye charts. The machine says my right eye is at -0.12, my left eye is at -0.25. With my right eye, I can see 20/15. With my left, I can see 20/20, with some blurring around light sources and bright surfaces. Today, that blurring has diminished. Tomorrow, I go back for another eye examination. My eyesight could only improve during this last week -- they should stabilize by midweek this week.

And there we go. I can see again.

-FP