It was a lovely day for eyeball surgery. The sky was overcast. Very little sunlight penetrated through the wet air to make a glare or make my pupils contract involuntarily. My husband, Mike, drove me to the surgery center and, I admit, I was really looking forward to the opportunity to lie still with an IV drip of tranquilizers.
The first worrisome question of the day was what to wear. Since I was going to a surgical center and not a hospital, I didn't now if I'd be required to wear a fashionable backless hospital gown or just allowed to wear what I wore in. So should I dress like I have a full time job and some sense of pride, or do I just say to heck with it and wear the yoga pants and a t-shirt. The yoga pants won. Yum. Snuggly.
After signing a whole bunch of paperwork promising not to sue anyone if my eyeball accidentally popped out and rolled down the hallway, I was placed on a hospital type bed and covered with a warm blanket. A kind nurse asked me which eye we were operating on, and I pointed to my left eye, and, where I pointed, she initialed my forehead with a purple Sharpie so that there would be No Mistakes. The eye doctor and the anasthesiologist both did the same, and as I write this, four days later, it still looks like I have a prison tattoo of scribbles on my head.
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Then came the IV drip. The lovely, lovely IV drip. An oxygen tube was placed in my nose, which I thought was overkill until I realized there was a very real possibility that with these powerful tranquilizers, breathing might just be too much effort to bother with. So, on pure oxygen and powerful drugs, and under a warmed blanket, the nurse asked me what might be the stupidest in the history of stupid questions: "are you comfortable?"
It is weird being awake for surgery, and hearing the doctor talking to the nurses. I don't remember everything because, frankly, the day dreams in lalaland were much more interesting than the names of the different scalpels and tweezers. I do remember that my previously implanted phakic lens was difficult to get out and so a different kind of tweezers needed to be used and the incision had to be enlarged. This resulted in 'leakage', which in my loopy state I pictured as a gelatinous goo resembling partially cooked egg whites spilling out of my eyeball, and so some stitches had to be put in. Yeah. Eyeball stitches. I've got 'em.
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At some point it all ended, and the IV was disconnected (sad face) and I went home and slept for the rest of the day and following night while dressed like a pirate. (No, the eyepatch did not come with a parrot.) I woke up the next morning sick to my stomach, my usual feeling the day after anasthesia, but managed to hold it all together until most of the way to my followup appointment when I found it necessary to make my loyal driver pull over on the side of the road so I could lose what little breakfast I ate. Which leads to an etiquitte question. What exactly is the protocol when making an emergency stop to vomit in someone's yard? Does one send flowers? Leave a note? See if there is an outdoor hose for surreptitious use? We chose the 'cut and run' option. Sorry, random folks. I hope the grass grows greener in a patch of your yard.
The surgery was a success, and every day I can see better. I only had to rock the indoor shades for two days, and now my eye merely looks like I had a rough night. The tape holding the patch on, however, is some kind of industrial magic tape which should be used to replace duck tape for all your fixin' needs, as no matter what I do I can't get all the glue off my head. I blew dry my hair yesterday morning and the hair stuck to my forehead in a permanent windswept pattern.
Oh well. At least it covers up my prison tattoo.