Frickin' lasers
Aug. 24th, 2006 12:56 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
e_clareThis afternoon I had a laser beam fired into my right eye. How was your day?
If you've ever seen my glasses, you have some idea of how bad my vision is. If you've ever tried them on -- they probably made your eyes water -- then you really know. I'm extremely nearsighted, so wearing my glasses when your vision is mostly normal is kind of like being extremely drunk: everything gets real blurry, real fast, and then your head hurts and your eyes water and you say "Dude, you can have these back."
With this nearsightedness comes an increased risk for thin spots in the retina, which can develop into small holes, leading eventually to retinal detachment (a.k.a. blindness). The miracle of modern medicine allows us to re-attach retinas, but that requires major surgery, long recovery time and obviously carries a bit of risk in itself for infections, etc. This happened to my grandfather a few years before I was born, and to my dad a few years after; there's a very, very good chance that it could happen to me. Naturally, my eye doctors have always been hypervigilant about monitoring my retinas for significant changes.
Pursuant to that, I see an opthamologist pretty much every time I come home. Lately, this means that every time I come home, I get a laser in the eye. Sometimes in both eyes -- that was a really great visit. I hadn't planned on that happening today, but several factors converged and I found myself back in the doctor's office at 1:30, having my eyes dilated for the second time in four hours.
The laser is green. They use a big lens to focus the beam; it's like wearing a monocle, only more painful since it's actually propping open your eye. You stare straight into a bright white light -- not too difficult, aside from the discomfort of the lens, since that's what you do every time at the eye doctor. The green light isn't a continuous beam like the white light. The laser pulses and makes a mechanical click with each pulse, like a camera flash. You're supposed to keep both eyes open, to help prevent the target area from moving around out of the beam. Easier said than done: the very bright light isn't just a light after a while. It hurts. Imagine the worst eyestrain and fatigue you've ever felt, times two -- it's like after pulling an all-nighter, only more concentrated. The left eye wants to close out of sympathy for the right (and maybe also the fear that it'll be next). Then the helpful nurse holds your left eye open, and rests a hand on the back of your neck to keep your head still. It's just as Clockwork Orange as it sounds.
I got through at Christmas by reciting the short speech we learned for Suzuki class. It worked surprisingly well: I was able to use it like a meditation chant, and control my breathing and everything. No "help" from the nurse necessary. This time, I tried to recall the speech while they were muscling the giant lens into my eye, but the nurse stepped in to assist almost from the start and I couldn't concentrate. Two people chastising me together to drop my shoulders, breathe slower, and stare straight into the light (both eyes open!) don't help any of those things actually happen.
The laser, I decided at Christmas after re-reading Harry Potter, is the closest thing to an Avada kedavra curse: blinding flash of green light, wanting to die, scarring...it's all there. After a few flashes in a row, you see an afterimage of your own retina. (I guess it's reflected on the lens, but I think it might be visible without the reflection, too.) Even being in pain, I recognize that part is kind of cool -- how often do you get to see the inside of your own eye?
My eyeball is sore. It feels kind of dry, like after a lot of crying, and also a little tender; wearing contacts would be a bad idea. Even my eyelids are sensitive. Over eight hours later, my right pupil is still noticeably more dilated than my left. Right-eye vision is still slightly fuzzier than the left, too. This should all fix itself after a good night's sleep, but man. Knowing that I'll probably need to repeat it in the near future, plus being slightly terrified that I'll wake up tomorrow to see flashing lights or a cascade of little floaters -- symptoms of impending detachment -- makes the day suck even more.
Again, I'll end with good news: I got to stop by the middle school at the end of the day, and briefly saw my beloved seventh-grade english teacher Mrs. P. That was worth the trip to Columbus. Also, Mom took me out for pity ice cream afterwards and, like any five-year-old, I felt a little better.
If you've ever seen my glasses, you have some idea of how bad my vision is. If you've ever tried them on -- they probably made your eyes water -- then you really know. I'm extremely nearsighted, so wearing my glasses when your vision is mostly normal is kind of like being extremely drunk: everything gets real blurry, real fast, and then your head hurts and your eyes water and you say "Dude, you can have these back."
With this nearsightedness comes an increased risk for thin spots in the retina, which can develop into small holes, leading eventually to retinal detachment (a.k.a. blindness). The miracle of modern medicine allows us to re-attach retinas, but that requires major surgery, long recovery time and obviously carries a bit of risk in itself for infections, etc. This happened to my grandfather a few years before I was born, and to my dad a few years after; there's a very, very good chance that it could happen to me. Naturally, my eye doctors have always been hypervigilant about monitoring my retinas for significant changes.
Pursuant to that, I see an opthamologist pretty much every time I come home. Lately, this means that every time I come home, I get a laser in the eye. Sometimes in both eyes -- that was a really great visit. I hadn't planned on that happening today, but several factors converged and I found myself back in the doctor's office at 1:30, having my eyes dilated for the second time in four hours.
The laser is green. They use a big lens to focus the beam; it's like wearing a monocle, only more painful since it's actually propping open your eye. You stare straight into a bright white light -- not too difficult, aside from the discomfort of the lens, since that's what you do every time at the eye doctor. The green light isn't a continuous beam like the white light. The laser pulses and makes a mechanical click with each pulse, like a camera flash. You're supposed to keep both eyes open, to help prevent the target area from moving around out of the beam. Easier said than done: the very bright light isn't just a light after a while. It hurts. Imagine the worst eyestrain and fatigue you've ever felt, times two -- it's like after pulling an all-nighter, only more concentrated. The left eye wants to close out of sympathy for the right (and maybe also the fear that it'll be next). Then the helpful nurse holds your left eye open, and rests a hand on the back of your neck to keep your head still. It's just as Clockwork Orange as it sounds.
I got through at Christmas by reciting the short speech we learned for Suzuki class. It worked surprisingly well: I was able to use it like a meditation chant, and control my breathing and everything. No "help" from the nurse necessary. This time, I tried to recall the speech while they were muscling the giant lens into my eye, but the nurse stepped in to assist almost from the start and I couldn't concentrate. Two people chastising me together to drop my shoulders, breathe slower, and stare straight into the light (both eyes open!) don't help any of those things actually happen.
The laser, I decided at Christmas after re-reading Harry Potter, is the closest thing to an Avada kedavra curse: blinding flash of green light, wanting to die, scarring...it's all there. After a few flashes in a row, you see an afterimage of your own retina. (I guess it's reflected on the lens, but I think it might be visible without the reflection, too.) Even being in pain, I recognize that part is kind of cool -- how often do you get to see the inside of your own eye?
My eyeball is sore. It feels kind of dry, like after a lot of crying, and also a little tender; wearing contacts would be a bad idea. Even my eyelids are sensitive. Over eight hours later, my right pupil is still noticeably more dilated than my left. Right-eye vision is still slightly fuzzier than the left, too. This should all fix itself after a good night's sleep, but man. Knowing that I'll probably need to repeat it in the near future, plus being slightly terrified that I'll wake up tomorrow to see flashing lights or a cascade of little floaters -- symptoms of impending detachment -- makes the day suck even more.
Again, I'll end with good news: I got to stop by the middle school at the end of the day, and briefly saw my beloved seventh-grade english teacher Mrs. P. That was worth the trip to Columbus. Also, Mom took me out for pity ice cream afterwards and, like any five-year-old, I felt a little better.
