Putting an Eye Under the Knife (Part 2)

[Image (from Las Vegas Review-Journal, 2008-05-14): kinda self-explanatory, no? Nevada, it seems, is the US’s third most seismically active area, after Alaska and California. Also probably self-explanatory: why I’d have been researching earthquake data for the Las Vegas area. My cataract will be removed right about where the Valley View Fault crosses West Charleston Boulevard.]

Yesterday I gave you a more or less (for me) straightforward account of some facts about tomorrow’s cataract-removal surgery — facts about the procedure itself and about the related prescriptions (drugs and eyeglasses), facts which have been instrumental in disturbing my OCD sleep in recent nights. Today’s post veers off the path of objectivity — arguably into surrealism.

The personal issues

I have had my body slit open — intentionally — on only one prior occasion: the simple removal of a cyst, a couple years ago. In the present instance, though, I’m opting to functionally alter myself. It’s not a just matter of excising a flaw (although it is, in part, exactly that). It’s an alteration of something central to my self: my eyesight.

Naturally, the jokes about bionic eyes and such have occurred to me. And I wonder: when someone shines a flashlight into my right eye at night, will the eye still glow, and if so, in what color? When I visit my optometrist in April, will she still be able to use the various instruments which photograph the back of my eyeball to check for retinal issues of one kind or another? Will simply blinking feel different between the two eyes?

A lot of these kinds of questions are triggered by dwelling on the disclaimer and consent forms I had to sign, which list numerous possibilities for What Can Go Wrong both during and after the surgery. And then when I dwelt on the nature of the laser-assisted surgery as described yesterday, I also started to think about those fleeting moments when the thing is zizzing and swishing across my eye: a technician jostling the instrument’s housing, a sudden sneeze or cough…

Finally, yes, I wondered even about earth tremors — heck, about the passing of a heavy truck on a nearby pavement. If this computer-guided laser is so finely tuned that its incisions are measured in quadrillionths of anything, won’t a simple incorrect quadrillionth of the same anything be enough to throw off everything that follows?

I’m kidding, kinda, about all the above. (Not to say that I didn’t think and re-think about it all long enough to lose sleep.) But one thing still not quite alarms me, but has almost made me want to just drop the whole idea and go forth into semi-blindness…

I’ve never made a secret of my hearing issues, or of the fact that I wear two hearing aids just to get along in a society — a world — where sound is important. Here at RAMH, when I first fired up the blog about 19 years ago, I even set up a whole “Hearing” category because I was so sure I’d be blabbing about it regularly. But it hasn’t worked out that way, for whatever reason.

In short, my hearing (including the parts of my consciousness devoted to understanding speech) has continued to decline with time. I pretty much can no longer carry on “normal” conversations with people unless I can see their faces, in particular their mouths, to boost their intelligibility to me.

And, as you can maybe imagine, the pandemic’s mask practices have played absolute hell with my comfort level whenever conversation is required.

Aside: I am by no means the only person this applies to; you can find lots of references in news and feature reports about the pandemic’s unexpected social consequences for the hearing-impaired. In what follows, I’ll try to keep the focus on how it applies specifically to me, this week.

So here’s the scenario I have imagined:

I’m lying on my back on a table at the time of the procedure. My head is secured in place with a strap or similar means. My right eyelid has been anesthetized, and is being held open by one of those eyelid-clamp things. The doctor, nurse, or other attending professional says something — I can hear the sounds, but cannot make out the word(s)… because, of course, I probably cannot see the words being said — and even if I could look in their direction, they’re probably masked. What did they just say? Was it in fact something addressed to me? Or are they talking among themselves? Which one of them said it? Was it an instruction of some kind, requiring me to respond somehow? Am I supposed to focus on… something? Move my eyes… somehow? Or keep them absolutely still? Is it okay for my left eye to blink right now?

And so on.

Now, the seeing-their-mouths thing I’ve already tried to be proactive about. They know (although they still need reminding) that I have to see their lower faces. I actually emailed the head of the clinic to describe the problem; in response, she purchased several clear plastic face shields which they have (mostly) remembered to have handy when I’m scheduled to meet with them. (When they’ve forgotten, at my insistence they and I have been okay with tugging their masks away from their mouths.)

I’ve also picked up, on my own, a case of a product called ClearMask (shown in photo at the left); it’s been FDA-approved for use as a surgical mask. Primarily, I did this to reduce The Missus’s and my own frustration when the two of us are out and about somewhere and need to talk, but I’ll also take along a couple of them with me tomorrow, and maybe they’ll at least serve to “spread the word” a little. (It’s also insurance for me: the surgical procedure is taking place at a completely different building than the one I go to for exams and so on, so they may not have their face shields handy.)

Finally, I figure I’ll just lay it out as plainly as I can before I even lie down, something like this:

I’m going to turn off my hearing aids now. Please understand: I won’t be able to hear you at all once I’ve done that. If I need to do something other than just lie here during the surgery, you need to come up with some way to communicate that to me, NOW, while I’m listening to you. Maybe you can touch my left arm if you need me to look to the left, say, or tap my forehead if you need me to look straight ahead. But for all intents and purposes, during the procedure, please consider me stone-deaf.

It’ll be interesting to see what they come up with. (For all I know, maybe they’ve already been discussing this, and they can just stop me before I get started.)

I expect not to update you here on how it went for a few days after tomorrow — maybe next weekend. Mostly, though, I’m just looking forward to not having to obsessively anticipate anything for a while!