Departing Glass – An Irishman’s Diary about laser eye surgery

When I finally decided to get laser eye surgery earlier this summer, I was happy to settle for the regular procedure, which would have fixed my focus for distance but left me needing glasses to read. Then the man in the Mater threw me by suggesting I might also be suitable for something called “monovision”.

This sounded a little alarming at first. I imagined the Cyclops, and wondered if the surgeon planned to merge my two current, underperforming eyes into a single centre of excellence, based in the middle of my forehead.

But when monovision was explained, it began to sound more like something from the Bionic Man. My right eye, dominant anyway, would be corrected for distance. My left would be corrected for reading. The brain would adjust accordingly, we hoped. If it did, I might never need any glasses again.

Lenses

First, however, I had to trial the effect with lenses. And so it was that, when setting off for the Euro 2016 tournament last June, to write about the Irish fans, I brought the lenses with me.

You’ll remember how, under the cover of attending football matches, the world’s greatest supporters were engaged in a humanitarian mission in France, part of which involved drinking all its pubs dry.

For both professional and optical reasons, I found myself studying this phenomenon more intensely than usual. And although it looked more attractive with the long-distance eye, especially around 3am every night, it was a generally positive experience, as were the lenses.

So in late August, I signed up to make the eye arrangement permanent. The operation took only minutes. And, apart from a little discomfort prior to the actual lasering, it was painless.

Eye surgery

If you’ve ever seen the opening shot of Luis Buñuel’s

Un Chien Anadalou

(1928), which also involves eye surgery of a kind, this was a good time to forget it. Otherwise, the only disconcerting moment was the slight burning smell. But that was over in seconds.

Afterwards, for a few hours, the eyes sting fiercely, as if you’re peeling industrial strength onions. They give you drops for this. But they also suggest you get a taxi home, which I said I’d do. Then, instead, anxious to see my new glass-free world, I walked. And after a few minutes, I was having to prop my eyelids open, physically, even to see the footpath. I must have looked very strange because, as glimpsed through the half-millimetre-wide slit that was the best I could manage, people on O’Connell Street were giving me a wide berth, in case I was dangerous.

Even so, I made it to the Luas and home safely, although to anyone else in this situation, I highly recommend the taxi.

Anyway, by next morning, the optical job-share was already fully functional. For anything further than arm’s length, my right eye did most of the work, as usual. Then, once I switched to reading, the left stepped in and said: “I’ll take it from here”.

Liberating

Three weeks later, it still feels both liberating and strange not to have glasses.

When you wear them for nearly 30 years, they become almost part of you.

But I don't miss their many inconveniences. The sudden fog when you open a dish-dryer or enter a warm pub at night. The longer-lasting fog when you can't find them. The occasional loss of dignity, à la Jürgen Klopp, when you knock them off in a moment of excitement.

Running, in rain, I often lamented that glasses were not equipped with wipers.

And they’re also very hard to wear under water, which may be why I have spent the past 10 years trying to learn how to swim.

I’m temporarily banned from swimming for ophthalmic reasons. When I get back to it, I look forward to seeing the pool.

Byline picture

But the inconveniences aside, I just never liked having glasses between me and the world. So I’m glad to be rid of them, at last, even if there remains one other procedure I now have to undergo and am putting off.

Yes, as a print journalist, I need a new byline picture. And I hate posing for such things, because I’m one of those people who finds it difficult to relax and smile simultaneously. Also, although not quite as permanent as tattoos, byline pics are like the ones in your passport: you’re stuck with them for years. Anyway, I’ll brace myself for it, soon.

But when I do, I’ll need the anaesthetic.