To learn more
about Lasik Vision, go to www.lasik-vision.com
or call 1-888-673-EYES.
Not long ago, a friend and I sat at a booth at rock dive
EJ's, laughing at '60s yearbook photos plastered on the
tabletop. It seemed as if all the high-school guys in the
pics had merely passed the same pair of thick, black-rimmed
glasses from one to the other as the camera snapped.
Times have certainly changed since the one-size-fits-all
approach to eyewear. Now every chic designer and her brother
has a line of sleek specs, worn by models (who seem to have
the irritating luxury of wearing them for fun and not out
of necessity) staring out from the glossy pages of Vogue
and Wallpaper.
But the age-old stigma that glasses mark dorks, bookworms
and swans-disguised-as-ugly-ducklings remains. The entertainment
industry is rife with examples. Think The Simpsons'
Milhous. Think Urkel. Think Scooby Doo's Velma in
comparison to Veronica. Think Donna Reed's character as
a bespectacled, old maid librarian in one tragic scene of
It's A Wonderful Life. Magically, in Hollywood, when
the glasses come off, a ravishing beauty is revealed (this
applies primarily to the dames, as anyone who has seen Milhous
shed his specs can attest).
Everyone is suddenly shocked at her beauty. Everyone clamors
for her phone number. Everyone wants to get with her.
Those of us who've had to rely on glasses since grade school
have other reasons for wanting to ditch the specs besides
garnering hot dates. Glasses are cumbersome and they slide
down your nose when you're jogging or doing hot yoga and
sweating like a butcher. It's no fun having to rely on your
lenses just to get out of bed without falling down. And
when you misplace them and have to scoot around the floor
searching à la Velma, the handicap is downright
infuriating.
I'd never felt particularly homely in glasses, anyway.
To the contrary, they seemed to provoke confessions of librarian
fantasies by members of the opposite sex, and looking bookish
isn't exactly a hindrance to a fledgling journalist. No,
I wanted to shed my glasses to attain freedom, once and
for all. I decided to undergo laser eye surgery to make
it happen.
I headed to Lasik Vision in Vancouver, B.C., one of a chain
of laser eye-surgery clinics. The procedure was significantly
cheaper in Canada than in the States--only $999 if I crossed
the border vs. about four grand in the US--and the popularity
of the procedure up north over the past 10 years has resulted
in very experienced surgeons and low error rates. A friend
who achieved 20/20 vision after laser surgery at this very
clinic a few months prior had convinced me to do it.
A pre-op exam the the day before my surgery determined
that I was, after all, a good candidate for the procedure.
Even so, I was terrified the day of the surgery. Before
I knew it, I was signing away my life on a form acknowledging
that 1) Yes, I understand there's a slim chance that I could
go blind, and 2) Yes, I understand that something could
go horribly wrong with the laser equipment, and 3) Yes,
a hundred other things that I've had nightmares about might
actually happen and I can't hold you people accountable.
I hoped the two Ativan dissolving under my tongue would
help ease the anxiety.
I lay on my back while the doctor started the surgery,
one eye at a time. A speculum held my eye open, and I stared
at a red light above as instructed while numbing eye drops
took effect. The surgeon created a flap of corneal tissue
with an instrument called a microkeratome, using suction
to lift the flap. It felt like having a fist shoved in my
eye, and when the pressure subsided, everything went black.
(Luckily, I was forewarned.) The red light reappeared and
the laser fired away for forty-some seconds, reshaping my
cornea and causing a nauseating burnt eye-tissue odor, but
never hurting. After replacing the flap and rinsing the
debris from my eye, it was on to the left one. After only
15 minutes in the OR and 20 minutes in the recovery room,
my parents led me groggily back to the hotel. My eyes felt
irritated and strained, so I went to bed as instructed.
When I awoke the next morning, I could see details of everything
in the room: the alarm clock digits, a vase of gorgeous
flowers, my own face in a mirror over the desk. I had already
achieved 20/25 vision, with more improvement likely over
time.
A week later, the strain and irritation are nearly gone.
Friends eye me strangely, trying to reconcile the two Liz
Browns. I, personally, prefer the one who doesn't have clumsy
frames as a barrier between her and everyone--and everything--around
her. And what about those positive reactions the bespectacled
version of me used to enjoy? Well, not all librarians wear
glasses.
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