k, i'm a little better today. and i've come to grips with the fluctuations in vision i will continue to have over the next 6 weeks or so. my glasses are working better for distance (i think i may actually try to drive tomorrow!), but my up close vision is a little off today. at least i'm not crying anymore.
i'll tell you briefly (okay, not so briefly) what disturbed me so much about the lasik place of hell that zapped my eyes. after lasering each one of my eyeballs for 1 minute and 47 seconds, the surgeon (as the blasphemer calls himself) says, "okay, tessina. sit up. you are no longer nearsighted." and they send me out the door. literally, no post-op waiting, nothing. just out the door. as i sat waiting for my ride, i looked around and realized something was not right. no, i did not expect to see perfectly 5 minutes after having had my eyeballs zapped, but i did expect to be able to make out some features of the people sitting around me. surely i should be able to tell if that's a man or a woman. i got up, asked the receptionist to see an optometrist, somebody. they put me in a room and told me well, no, of course you can't see. i calmly explained (i know i was calm as i had 4mg of xanax in me) that i understood, but something was not right. i couldn't see anything. i left feeling a little concerned, but assumed things would be better the following day.
one day post-op appt.
i'm asked by a tech to cover the left eye. she starts me off on the 20/40 line and asks what i see. nothing. up one. nothing. up one. nothing. this continues until i'm at the big E, which i can barely make out. i cover the right eye. i can't see the big E at all. the screen is simply a lit blur. the tech leaves the room, saying nothing to me. that leaves me feeling very frightened. this begins the crying. the optometrist comes in, puts a light in my eye and tells me all looks great. says to come back in 3-5 days to have the 'healing lens' removed. i say, "but i can't see" the hysteria is building in my stomach like a belch. "yes, yes, things may be a bit hazy or cloudly right now, you have a lens on your eye and your cornea is still inflamed." "listen doc, you're talking to me like i haven't been blind all my life. as if i don't know what nearsighted looks and feels like. i am telling you, i'm still nearsighted." the belch reaches the surface and comes out in gasping sobs interrupted by broken sentences. " do you understand? can't see. not right. get my mother." i grab the fuckers arm and say, "there is something wrong.
he conceeds to get the blasphemous surgeon.
my mother comes into the room with me.
the door is left open.
the surgeon is outside the room. (from what i remember previous to the procedure, he is a young, good-looking black man that listens to country music) i can see his image and hear him talking to the techs and reception people around him.
here's the kicker:
they are taking his starbucks order.
perhaps you are familar with how funny it is to attempt to organize a starbucks trip around the office. "get me a mochachino, wait no...how about a vanilla chai latte?...make it non-fat. oh and don't forget to have them add cinammon. thanks, bettie....oh you know what? never mind, i've really been craving chocolate. get me one of those new melted chocolate drinks they have. i hear they're great. add a shot of espresso."
a similar conversation among several people out in the hall went on like that for NO LESS THAN 5 minutes. all the while, the surgeon is right outside the OPEN door to my room. I AM IN THAT ROOM, in tears and OBVIOUSLY DISTRESSED. i mean, these receptioninst bitches were just asked to bring the crazy girl in the red room her mother and 5mg of valium.
the surgeon finally comes in. i am DISGUSTED by what just went down right outside the room. i tell him the hot chocolate was a good choice. he asks me if i work at starbucks?
this guy doesn't remember me? i mean, by itself, my name should jog your memory. i trust it's not every day the name tessina comes rolling off your tongue. in addition, i had a damn high case of myopia. i don't imagine he deals with my degree of myopia too often. beyond that, you operated on my eyeballs less than 24 hours ago and you have no recollection of me at all, you fucker?
it is at this point that i realize i am not a patient at this place. i am nothing but a number. now, if everything goes well, you don't really care if you are just number. but when something goes awry, you really want to be someone's PATIENT.
at my insistence, he takes off the lenses and tells a tech to put me on a machine that wil automatically try to focus my eye. i will give a rough estimate of where my eyes are without my having to try to read a freaking chart.
the tech is walking in front of me back to the room. i'm asking her what the numbers are. she says that they really don't matter. the surgeon looks at the numbers and says, "right now you're somewhere between a -3 and a -4 in both eyes. so it appears there's been a slight undercorrection. which is good, i've seen people that have been overcorrected and that's bad."
i'm thankful that i now know i am not insane and exaggerating this. i tell him that not being able to see is bad and ask him how i might be able to return to work.
he doesn't really answer. he gives me a bottle of antibiotic eyedrops to console me. he writes me more lortabs. he tells me to be patient and sends me on my way.
it was my mistake. i should have never gone to a center. i should have gone to reputable opthamolgist. we have two renowned refractive surgeons at UPMC. there are times in life to be frugal and search for the best deal on something. a vaccum cleaner. a stereo. a new pair of boots. hell, even a car. but not your vision.
lesson learned.
-me
i'll tell you briefly (okay, not so briefly) what disturbed me so much about the lasik place of hell that zapped my eyes. after lasering each one of my eyeballs for 1 minute and 47 seconds, the surgeon (as the blasphemer calls himself) says, "okay, tessina. sit up. you are no longer nearsighted." and they send me out the door. literally, no post-op waiting, nothing. just out the door. as i sat waiting for my ride, i looked around and realized something was not right. no, i did not expect to see perfectly 5 minutes after having had my eyeballs zapped, but i did expect to be able to make out some features of the people sitting around me. surely i should be able to tell if that's a man or a woman. i got up, asked the receptionist to see an optometrist, somebody. they put me in a room and told me well, no, of course you can't see. i calmly explained (i know i was calm as i had 4mg of xanax in me) that i understood, but something was not right. i couldn't see anything. i left feeling a little concerned, but assumed things would be better the following day.
one day post-op appt.
i'm asked by a tech to cover the left eye. she starts me off on the 20/40 line and asks what i see. nothing. up one. nothing. up one. nothing. this continues until i'm at the big E, which i can barely make out. i cover the right eye. i can't see the big E at all. the screen is simply a lit blur. the tech leaves the room, saying nothing to me. that leaves me feeling very frightened. this begins the crying. the optometrist comes in, puts a light in my eye and tells me all looks great. says to come back in 3-5 days to have the 'healing lens' removed. i say, "but i can't see" the hysteria is building in my stomach like a belch. "yes, yes, things may be a bit hazy or cloudly right now, you have a lens on your eye and your cornea is still inflamed." "listen doc, you're talking to me like i haven't been blind all my life. as if i don't know what nearsighted looks and feels like. i am telling you, i'm still nearsighted." the belch reaches the surface and comes out in gasping sobs interrupted by broken sentences. " do you understand? can't see. not right. get my mother." i grab the fuckers arm and say, "there is something wrong.
he conceeds to get the blasphemous surgeon.
my mother comes into the room with me.
the door is left open.
the surgeon is outside the room. (from what i remember previous to the procedure, he is a young, good-looking black man that listens to country music) i can see his image and hear him talking to the techs and reception people around him.
here's the kicker:
they are taking his starbucks order.
perhaps you are familar with how funny it is to attempt to organize a starbucks trip around the office. "get me a mochachino, wait no...how about a vanilla chai latte?...make it non-fat. oh and don't forget to have them add cinammon. thanks, bettie....oh you know what? never mind, i've really been craving chocolate. get me one of those new melted chocolate drinks they have. i hear they're great. add a shot of espresso."
a similar conversation among several people out in the hall went on like that for NO LESS THAN 5 minutes. all the while, the surgeon is right outside the OPEN door to my room. I AM IN THAT ROOM, in tears and OBVIOUSLY DISTRESSED. i mean, these receptioninst bitches were just asked to bring the crazy girl in the red room her mother and 5mg of valium.
the surgeon finally comes in. i am DISGUSTED by what just went down right outside the room. i tell him the hot chocolate was a good choice. he asks me if i work at starbucks?
this guy doesn't remember me? i mean, by itself, my name should jog your memory. i trust it's not every day the name tessina comes rolling off your tongue. in addition, i had a damn high case of myopia. i don't imagine he deals with my degree of myopia too often. beyond that, you operated on my eyeballs less than 24 hours ago and you have no recollection of me at all, you fucker?
it is at this point that i realize i am not a patient at this place. i am nothing but a number. now, if everything goes well, you don't really care if you are just number. but when something goes awry, you really want to be someone's PATIENT.
at my insistence, he takes off the lenses and tells a tech to put me on a machine that wil automatically try to focus my eye. i will give a rough estimate of where my eyes are without my having to try to read a freaking chart.
the tech is walking in front of me back to the room. i'm asking her what the numbers are. she says that they really don't matter. the surgeon looks at the numbers and says, "right now you're somewhere between a -3 and a -4 in both eyes. so it appears there's been a slight undercorrection. which is good, i've seen people that have been overcorrected and that's bad."
i'm thankful that i now know i am not insane and exaggerating this. i tell him that not being able to see is bad and ask him how i might be able to return to work.
he doesn't really answer. he gives me a bottle of antibiotic eyedrops to console me. he writes me more lortabs. he tells me to be patient and sends me on my way.
it was my mistake. i should have never gone to a center. i should have gone to reputable opthamolgist. we have two renowned refractive surgeons at UPMC. there are times in life to be frugal and search for the best deal on something. a vaccum cleaner. a stereo. a new pair of boots. hell, even a car. but not your vision.
lesson learned.
-me
VIEW 11 of 11 COMMENTS
On a more serious note, I hope your eyes feel better and heal quickly. That is bush league that they treated you like that. Gotta run but hopefully we get to chat and you can tell me how much you hate the Baltimore Ravens.
If I don't hear from you soon...good luck Sunday...even if I'm not 100% cheering with you. Later
odi omnes