It is the morning of my “treatment”, as they call it. It has still not sunk in that, in a few days, I will be able to dispose permanently of my glasses and contact lenses, which I have needed in increasing strength for nearly 30 years.
How did it come to this? Well, for a long time distant objects have been just shape and colour, but no detail. My optician told me that my prescription — moderately short-sighted with mild astigmatism (a distortion of vision) in one eye — was ideal for laser treatment. So I have considered laser eye surgery several times, but have always been inhibited by two things: fear and cost. Over the past year, however, I’ve seen many people on TV makeovers do it and it looks so easy that my fear has diminished to back-of-the-mind proportions. Interest-free credit has done the rest (£2,500 payable in instalments on a credit agreement).
I go to one of the longest-established laser eye surgery companies. In the clinic, in Bristol, I chat to a young nurse while they prepare the operating room. I ask her if anyone has ever freaked out on the operating table at the crucial moment. She says that there was one woman who had to be coaxed into having the second eye done. I wonder why, assuming (unfairly, as it turns out) that she must have been a wuss of the first order.
In the darkened operating room, three people — the surgeon, a young man operating the laser and a nurse — masked and gowned, sit at the head of the treatment couch. The surgeon squirts local anaesthetic into my right eye and inserts a clawed device to hold my eyelids back. When he attaches the apparatus used to create a flap in my cornea, the transparent layer over the front of the eye, the pressure builds on the bones of my socket until it feels as if my eye is being levered out of my head. The pressure increases still further, metal edges digging into my eye socket.
Someone in the room is howling like a wounded wildebeest . . . oh, it’s me. More pressure on my eye, then all goes black. I’m in a world of pure pain. I start to feel sick, when suddenly the pressure eases, and the surgeon tells me to watch the laser. It is pretty, a scarlet starburst. Something cold sloshes over my eye. I see a piece of clear film waving back and forth. That, I realise, is the flap of my cornea being laid down.
I sit shaking in a chair while they recalibrate the laser. Apparently, because my eyes are deep-set, there is not enough room for their instruments to fit easily into the socket. They will make some adjustments before doing my left eye to reduce the discomfort. I love that word: “discomfort” is a stone in your shoe; this was more like something out of a horror film by the director David Cronenberg.
When they attach the corneal cutter again, the pain is worse than before, and I now sound like a wildebeest in labour. I am mortified; after all, I’ve read dozens of testimonials from happy clients, none of whom mentioned having their faces ripped apart. I hear muttered voices in discussion behind my head. The surgeon declares that he cannot continue under such circumstances and releases the pressure. As soon as the pain ends, my tears start.
In the recovery room, I take a tranquilliser and struggle to compose myself. The technician offers words of comfort, but I am unable to stop heaving great, childish sobs. My left eye socket feels bruised all around. I can see little with my right eye. The whole situation feels unreal, out of control. Clearly distressed by my theatrics, he says that he also found the procedure painful because his eyes are deep-set, too.
Why then, I wonder, isn’t there some provision for people like us? After all, you wouldn’t bring home a sofa without first making sure that it will fit through the door, would you? Back in the treatment room, and I am determined to get this done. Although it still hurts, this time it is just the right side of bearable. After more starbursts, it’s over.
On arriving home in Marlborough, Wiltshire, the aftercare begins. Antibiotic drops every two hours, anti-inflammatory drops every four hours, and artificial tears — lubricating eye drops — as needed. After the first round of drops, although it is only early evening, I drift off to sleep; the tranquilliser is having a belated effect. My partner wakes me moments later, anxious to affix my plastic night goggles which are designed to prevent me from rubbing my eyes in my sleep. Very stylish.
I wake at 5am, too excited to sleep any longer. I rip off the goggles. The morning sunshine is too bright. My vision is hazy, like someone has smeared Vaseline on the world. As I sit at my desk in my sunglasses, however, I do notice something astonishing: across the Kennett valley, maybe a quarter of a mile away, a man is walking his dog. The dog’s fur is a patchwork of black and white. The dog’s collar says “ Buster” (OK, I may be exaggerating the last part). But it is a miracle, albeit a hazy one.
Looking back on the experience, I wish that I had asked more questions, such as “Tell me how much it hurts on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being a paper cut and 10 being childbirth?” and “Can I have a pre-med (mild sedative)?” But there was nothing to alert me to the possibility that it could be so painful. Clearly I must be part of a very unfortunate minority.
A month on, and my vision is vastly improved, although I still need to use the artificial tears several times a day, and I still see halos around lights at night. Now that I have some perspective on the surgery, and the memory of the pain has almost gone, I can say categorically that it was worth it. However, I would urge anyone considering laser eye surgery to engage with the facts of the procedure: what happens exactly and how it feels, in all the sphincter-tightening detail. If you do so, you will be better prepared than I was.
A CLOSER LOOK
What is laser eye surgery? It reshapes the cornea — the clear surface of the eye that focuses light on to the lens inside the eye — so that focus improves. The most common type, Lasik (laser in situ keratomileusis), involves slicing away a tiny hinged flap of the cornea, burning away the corneal tissue below with a laser, and replacing the flap.
How painful is it? The eye is anaesthetised with drops. According to Ultralase, the chain of eye clinics that Whitting used, a “very low” number of patients experience pain — usually those who, like Whitting, have deep-set eyes.
Why are deep-set eyes a problem? The eye sits in a socket of bone — the orbit. Deep-set eyes sit farther back than normal. According to Mark Korolkiewicz, Ultralase’s clinical services manager, this constricts the working room available: “Use of anaesthetic eye drops, surgical skill and advances in the instrument technology make pain the exception and not the rule. Patients with deep-set eyes who experience discomfort are likely to do so because their eyelids press against the instruments.” Before having laser surgery, ask whether the set of your eyes may make it more painful.
Possible complications The majority of Lasik patients have some problems with dry eyes in the months after surgery. Apart from that, complications occur in less than 5 per cent of cases, according to the Royal College of Ophthalmologists.
