Letter to my offspring

Got an email from my daughter, who’s anticipating eye surgery…

Sooo, my surgery date is getting closer and closer, and I’m kinda’ scared shitless. I was wondering if you’d tell me a little about your experience since it’s almost the same procedure.

If you can’t help your own kid, who can you help?

Heh.

Sure thing, kid. First, you get scared shitless. As the day approaches, you think up all sorts of reasons why your current situation isn’t so bad after all, and you should just let things slide.

Then you show up at the surgery center (if you do it like I did: I went to an eye surgery assembly line and not a hospital) and you sit in a waiting room and you watch terrified people walk in and heavily drugged people stagger out, bouncing off walls like the room is some sort of gigantic bumper pool table. You will not find this encouraging.

(Feeling better? Am I helping yet?)

At last the blessed moment arrives. You are swept up by a veritable platoon of nursing interns, surgically altered to be almost monstrously friendly and reassuring. I’ve met a lot of nurses: These people are to actual nurses as Michael Jackson was to an actual human being. They will lay you down on a gurney, pattering away all the while. They will ask you about twelve times to confirm that you’re having your [left/right] eye done today. IT IS VITALLY IMPORTANT TO ANSWER THIS QUESTION CORRECTLY EVERY SINGLE TIME.

You will receive several verging on many eye drops in the eye they’re planning to work on. The person doing this WILL NOT SHUT UP.

While you’re so distracted, somebody will start an IV. This is actually the worst part of the whole experience, because I hate it when people do that to me. But once you’re past the needle stick, believe me daughter, your troubles are over.

At some point in this process – and even having done it twice I still couldn’t tell you when – somebody will hit you with a drug that will make you not care if they scoop your eyeball out of your head with a melon baller and play pingpong with it right before your remaining eye. They will not actually do this.

You will be wheeled into a very cold room. You may be vaguely aware that someone is paying more attention to one of your eyes than is quite normal. You will not care. You know that thing where you can’t keep your eye open to insert a contact lens? This will not be a problem. They’ve got that licked.

You will be wheeled out of the very cold room, and a nice lady will offer you a drink of orange juice. Once she’s convinced you can remain upright, you’ll be directed back into the waiting room where you will stagger toward the door. You really really will need someone there to drive you home. If necessary, they will physically restrain you from trying to do it yourself.

Whatever drug they gave me hits quick and leaves quick. It’ll be an hour or two before you can see straight out of your remaining eye, but seriously, daughter: I’ve done it twice and there’s no pain or even discomfort. They’ve got this down to a science. By far the worst part of the experience is the anticipation.

Dad.

Arr.