Reflecting on my laser eye surgery anniversary
One of the best (albeit also scariest) things I’ve done. Thoughts on optimization, happiness/guilt, and remembering there's still more to life than vision, anyway.
Last year a friend of a friend suggested laser vision surgery was a “last resort” only if glasses or contacts didn’t work for you. I told him I liked my glasses just fine and successfully wore contacts for more than a decade—and still considered lasik one of the best (albeit also scariest) things I’ve done.
I first got a vision prescription in the second grade. My story was cliche: I couldn’t read the whiteboard in class. Every year my eyes got worse until I struggled to see more than a few inches in front of my face without corrective help. (Lying on my side to watch a movie in bed, even if the laptop was less than a foot away, was impossible sans contacts.) My near sightedness might have even contributed to upper cross syndrome, a posture issue that caused back pain—and sent me to physical therapy at age 26—last year.
Don’t get me wrong: Life wasn’t miserable pre-surgery. I was fortunate to have access to regular eye exams, cute glasses frames, and quick contact delivery. I grew accustomed to my morning and evening routine. I traveled with an extra pair of lenses at all times. It was fine. But I daydreamed—excessively—about not dealing with sweaty glasses on sunrise runs, not needing to set aside storage space in our tiny van home for cases and cleaning solution, not having to fork over cash for all the accoutrements required for my subpar eyes to see properly.
By my rudimentary calculations, my vision surgery will “pay for itself” in less than five years based on what I used to spend on temporary corrective measures. Still, even just considering the procedure is a huge privilege—the ability to cover that cost up front (lasik, being elective, receives no insurance help) isn’t something to take for granted.
Take it for granted I almost did. I first decided to have surgery in the fall of 2022, a few months before we moved into our converted van full time, and I naively assumed the process would be smooth. After two consultations at a huge eye clinic down in Florida, I was told my astigmatism made me a poor candidate. They wouldn’t do the procedure. I barely made it out of the exam room and into a bathroom stall before I burst into tears at that last visit. (I’m embarrassed admitting that. Like I said: Even just considering lasik is a huge privilege. Who was I to be such a baby about it? But I was disappointed, damnit. I wanted to just see like so many people around me.)
A year later I’d resigned myself to a lifetime of contacts and glasses—and navigated my first several months of full-time van life without much hassle—but figured I’d try one more shot at my hometown eye doctor when we visited family for Christmas. Their facility offered not just lasik but also PRK (photorefractive keratectomy) which, despite necessitating a longer and more uncomfortable recovery, is often a better option for people with irregularly shaped corneas.
My last-ditch effort paid off. I asked a dozen questions when my surgeon said I couldn’t just have surgery, I could have regular lasik—and in less than a week I’d be able to see forever. Sign me up, I enthused, once he’d assuaged my concern that my corneas were too misshapen. (I never will know why the Florida practice thought I was such a bad candidate. Did my eye shape change in the year between? Was it the fact that I almost never wore contacts at all anymore? Regardless, I’m happy that surgeon was honest with me: If he wasn’t confident surgery would go well, I didn’t want him to perform it.)
Despite my excitement at this actually happening (!!) the day of my eye lasering came with nerves. I remember waking up in the van parked on the side of my parents’ house and wondering aloud to Sean what Dr. Edwards was doing at that exact moment. I’m routinely baffled by the realization that our critical professionals are people. My surgeon was just a guy. An educated, talented, accomplished guy, of course—but nonetheless mortal.
Add drugs to the equation, and I turned downright paranoid. At my follow up appointment later that week, Dr. Edwards said he was glad to see me doing well. “You were really out of it during surgery,” he chuckled. Out of it indeed.
During the procedure, I remember him telling me to look at a specific circle of light and me not knowing what he meant and him not confirming—instead just telling me to stay calm—all of which plunged me into panic that I was staring at the wrong place and therefore the laser machinery would shave off the wrong part of my eye and I would lose the vision I yearned so desperately to correct. The first question I asked the technician who led me from the room was “did it work?” She said yes. I didn’t buy it. “Are you sure?” I think she was glad to be rid of me.
When Sean finally got me to the van, still woozy from midazolam and hardly able to interpret any visual information through the goggles strapped to my face, he had to shake me by both shoulders. “You’re okay,” he promised.
I wasn’t convinced until that evening. After I slept off my meds, Sean took me to my favorite local ice cream shop. I waited in the car. As I did, I realized something astonishing: I could read the sign across the street. The letters were blurry around the edges, and what they said wasn’t exciting—in front of a wimpy central Wisconsin strip mall, all the words boasted about were Dunkin’ Donuts and mediocre Mexican food—yet it was the most exciting thing I’d ever read. I cried. I nearly tear up just remembering it.
It took a while for my night vision to lose the post-surgery halos. I still use dry eye drops once or twice a day. But every morning I am greeted by a miracle that still, more than 365 days later, hasn’t lost its novelty: I see without assistance.
I am not exaggerating about the novelty. At least once a week I shout about it to Sean. “Can you believe I’m seeing the Statue of Liberty without contacts right now?” “Can you believe I’m watching this movie without glasses?” “Can you believe my eyes are better than yours?”
I never can quite believe it.
Today I see lasik as part of my process to optimize myself. That sounds life-hack-bro-y, but I mean it in a purer way: Over the last two years I’ve tried to figure out what things held me back and how to work around them. I weaned off shampoo and face wash. I’ve grown more comfortable with different sensations while living on the road (like variable temperatures and sticky sweat and grains of sand stuck to my bare feet). I went to physical therapy to properly learn about strength training. At the end of 2022 I had four tattoos; today I have eleven. None of these things are necessities, exactly, but they all bring me great joy. They all make me feel like my body is more mine.
Admittedly, I sometimes also feel like an asshole loving my laser eye surgery results this much. I know I’m allowed to be happy about a decision I made—especially a decision that required so much forethought, financial planning, and understanding of risk—but I feel guilty too. Although it wasn’t my “fault” I had poor vision, I also didn’t do anything to deserve the resources I had at my disposal to fix that poor vision. And is it ableist to celebrate my sight? (At the risk of a tangent, I’ve had this concern about art in the past, too, particularly the idea that visual “beauty” is worth living for. What about people who aren’t able to see? Their experiences are as rich and moving as the rest of ours. Are we being unkind to profess how much we love looking at something—the ocean, a sunset, our dogs playing tug? “Stop making everything so complicated,” I can practically hear Sean telling me. I’m not sure I can help it, or that I’d want to.)
I don’t have answers to the messiness of that particular line of thought, but I do know this: When I let myself enjoy the moment, there’s pure magic in seeing all the individual shorebirds on the beach at sunrise—some flying far in the distance—without glasses blurred by salty air. I will keep saying “thank you” for this.