Eyeborg
On an Unfortunate and Ongoing Fascination With One's Left Eye
I’ve had trouble with my left eye for a while. I'd see fireworks every time I’d yawn or cough or sneeze. In a way it was cool, especially on the Fourth of July, because I didn’t have to go anywhere. Although eventually I thought, I should find out why fireworks are exploding in my eyes. I went to the eye doctor’s office, where I encountered a bunch of elderly people who probably had different taste in music than me. (None of them looked like Shania Twain fans).
When the eye doctor examined me she reported, “The fireworks effect in your eyes is the result of the vitreous detaching itself from the schlemiel schlimazel hasenpfeffer incorporated and other medical terms you’re not familiar with. It isn’t serious and it will stop in time.” I understood the last part. It sounded good. To my surprise, we weren’t finished. “Eventually, we’ll have to do something about that cataract in your left eye.”
I laughed and responded, “I know. Tell me about it.” In truth, it was the first I’d heard any mention of a cataract. I knew what cataracts were. They were cloudy things old people and poodles got. Not me. I was an old soul, but I wasn’t old. What the hell, left eye? Get with the program. Unfortunately, my left eye had its own agenda. As a result, I had to visit the eye doctor every year and look at the chart with letters. Each year, the cataract got bigger and began to block my center field of vision. Each year, the doctor would ask if I was ready to have the cataract removed. I would politely answer, “No thank you.” The cataract was fine. I just looked around it. No big deal. Besides, my right eye was good. If I was a Cyclops, it would be a problem. But I wasn’t a Cyclops, thank goodness. I’d feel really self-conscious pushing my cart around the grocery store if I was.
The letters on the chart became increasingly difficult to identify. Recently, when they told me to read the letters on the chart with my left eye, I asked, “Where’s the chart? Put the chart up.” The chart was there so that wasn’t good. I asked the eye doctor to remind me what having a cataract removed entailed. She matter-of-factly stated I would be placed on an operating table where my left eye would be slit open, my natural lens would be disintegrated and removed, a new synthetic lens would be put in its place and my eye would then be sewn up. I’d have to be kept awake during the procedure. None of that appealed to me. I’m not no Navy SEAL.
The closest I’d come to surgery before this was getting my hair cut. That was really my limit. On the other hand, it was probably better to be able to see with my left eye. Stupid left eye. I reluctantly agreed to go under the knife, asking a number of questions. For one thing, how were they going to keep me still? I nervously uttered, “I hope I’m not the first patient who moves during surgery.”
The eye doctor concurred, saying, “I hope you don’t move too.” She told me I’d be given a sedative to help me relax. The sedative was most likely going to be something called propofol. What?! I’d heard bad things about propofol. It robbed the world of musical geniuses. This was scary stuff. At least I’d be given an eye patch when it was over. An eye patch would make me look muy macho. Always a silver lining. I signed a paper agreeing that it was okay if I died during the operation and left the doctor’s office in a daze.
About two weeks later, I showed up for surgery. I wasn’t happy about it, but there I was. I was quickly escorted to a bed where a bunch of nurses started poking me with needles and repeatedly asked, “What’s your name? Which eye are we doing?” At one point, they took a marker and drew an X above my left eye. For some reason, all the old people were gone. It was a bunch of little kids in the other beds. All of them were screaming and crying in terror, as they should have been. It was a pre-school from Hell. The screaming children didn’t help calm me down. If you’re reading this and happen to run an eye clinic – instead of bawling children, I recommend scented candles and a cd of Enya or singing whales. Probably singing whales are better.
I was the third patient wheeled into the operating room. Or should I say they wheeled me into a beautiful, serene tropical beach paradise? They had given me the propofol earlier and it was kicking in. I never felt more relaxed, safe, secure, soothed, comforted, and at ease as when the doctor was cutting my eye open. I heard her say, “We’re going to make the incision now,” and I might have told her to do whatever she wanted. I didn’t care what was happening. All I know is I was having a great time. The best time. I never wanted it to end and I can’t recommend eye surgery enough. It’s pure bliss. If only I had eight eyes she could operate on, like a spider. Spiders are so lucky. I loved every second of the experience. If I knew it was going to be like that, I would have volunteered for it before the doctor spotted my cataract way back when. To be clear: I am not advocating the use of propofol or any other kind of drugs. All I’m saying is that it was awesome.
Not awesome was the eye patch they gave me afterward. They placed some sort of spongy mini-hockey mask over my eye and applied tape on half of my face to keep it there. I didn’t look macho at all. I couldn't believe they expected me to wear their so-called eye patch for the next several days. It was disappointing. At least I made it through. My eyesight has only improved slightly. I’m told it will get better every day. Even if it doesn’t, it was worth it. Part of me secretly hopes I start to develop a cataract in my right eye. Another part of me does miss my natural lens. I’m not entirely human anymore. I’m a cyborg. It’s happening. The robots are taking over. Since the only synthetic part of me is my lens, I guess technically that makes me an eyeborg.
A macho eyeborg – now that I’ve purchased a real eye patch.