By Orit
June 1, 2005
My only decent pair of glasses broke en route from Los Angeles to Israel, and I knew it was a sign: it was time to perform corrective eye laser surgery, a.k.a Lasik.
I had debated whether or not to perform Lasik for a while, and I thought I would check out doctors in Los Angeles. But after my vacation to L.A., I decided that I was L.A.-sick, i.e. sick of L.A., and that doctors in Israel were just as good -- if not better.
"Make sure on the day of surgery someone comes with you," advised the Israeli receptionist, the day I set my appointment.
Great. Who would I call to come with me? Had I lived in Los Angeles, my dad, mom, or sister would have come. But I wasn't comfortable asking my family in Israel to escort me, and I didn't want my friends to take off work just to babysit me.
I'm a big girl. I don't need anyone, I thought. I'm strong, brave, and self-reliant. I could meet the laser eye to eye -- alone. But since I'd be wearing eye patches after the surgery, I'd at least need someone to pick me up. And since I'd be done at 4:00 p.m., I asked my friend Tovy to leave work an hour early to come get me. No problem.
The day of surgery arrives. As I wait on the sofa in the main office, I see a young woman leave the surgery room with two plastic eye protectors, her boyfriend holding her hand, guiding her.
How nice, I thought. He'll probably make her tea when she gets home and sing her a lullaby. That's okay. I still didn't need anyone. But I did need a valium, and luckily, it was procedure to give one to patients before the surgery.
The nurse sits me down outside the surgery room and drops anesthesia into my eyes. I see the blurred image of a teenager across from me. He had just had his eyes zapped.
"How was it?" I asked.
"Scary," he said.
"Really?" I asked, surprised. The doctors, technicians, and receptionists all made it sound like the surgery was simple, quick, and painless.
Then his father took his hand and led him out. That's okay. I still didn't need anyone to hold my hand.
Finally, I find myself on the operating table. The doctor pries my eyelids open with a metal tool, and then he sticks some sort of lens into my eye.
"You shouldn't see anything now," he warned. "That's normal."
A round cylinder latches onto the lens and mechanically cuts a flap on my cornea; this creates a window for the laser to enter. As the machine cuts my cornea, I see black and white circles, as if it were twisting and turning my eyeball.
He repeats this procedure on the other eye. I dig my fingers into my thighs to channel the pain elsewhere.
"Now, we are moving onto the laser portion of the surgery," said the doctor. "This will be less painful."
"You mean it's not over?" I asked, weakly.
"Almost."
I stare above, and green and red dots of light seem to shower my eyeballs. As the laser sculpts the collagen tissue of my cornea to perfection, I hear a buzz vaporizing the tissue and it feels like hot eye juice splatters my cheeks.
Done. I limped, dazed, to a reclining chair in a post-op waiting area.
"Keep your eyes closed," the nurse said. "Is someone here with you?"
"She's supposed to come," I assured.
I kept telling myself: Orit, you did great. You can wait alone, by yourself, a little longer.
It was 4:15 p.m., and there was still no sign of Tovy.
Suddenly, with my eyes burning, self-pity seizes me. Why am I here alone? Why couldn't I have insisted that someone be with me, from the beginning? Why do I have to be so damn independent? Can't I be vulnerable, for once?
Unable to look outside, I look even deeper inside: Wouldn't it be nice to have a dedicated boyfriend right now, a real partner? Why have I shut out love for so long? Wouldn't life in Israel be easier if I opened myself up to love -- not just a romantic thrill -- but to a supportive, loving man who will hold my hand in times like these?
WHERE THE HELL IS TOVY?
Tears start gushing down my face, and I'm not sure if they are a natural side-effect of the surgery or a result of my momentary, stinging sensation of loneliness.
"Tears are pouring," I told the nurse.
"Excellent," she enthused. "Make yourself cry."
Wonderful! This was one of those rare moments when it's good for your physical health, to bawl.
Finally, Tovy comes, explaining that she couldn't find the office. She holds my hand, comforting me. The tears continue to stream, but now I feel that they are tears of healing. I had my health, I had good friends, and I no longer had four eyes.
But maybe, throughout the surgical process, another flap was opened. Not the flap of my cornea, but the flap of my heart.
I know that my stubborn independence has sometimes kept me from letting people in. And especially when it comes to envisioning true and lasting romance, I am farsighted, with a high prescription. But it will take more than a laser beam and ten minutes to smooth out my heart's irregularities. And just as I won't compromise on a good doctor, I won't compromise on that one who will know intimately the mappings of my heart. So as I undertake the difficult task of perceiving the world more clearly and realizing the highest vision of myself, especially here in Israel, maybe it'll be nice to have someone hold my hand and, sometimes, wipe my tears.
This article appear originally in the Jewish Journal and is reprinted here with permission.
Views expressed by the author do not
necessarily reflect those of israelinsider.
 
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