Precognition

For Madness and Mayhem Day 10, a day late and a dollar or thousands short. The prompt: After having corrective vision surgery you begin seeing strange things.”

Did you know

you can’t see

the insides of

your eyelids?

The “flap ‘n’ zap” went off with only a bit of a hitch. I was awake through the whole procedure during which Dr. Farr earned $1,000 per minute for the 5 minute surgery. He spent the time telling me about all his upcoming trip to Victoria Falls, which I apparently helped pay for.

The only unusual occurrence was when my fiance passed out in the observation room just as they were finishing up my second eye. The thud may or may not have been loud - the operating theater is soundproof - but I felt the reverberations. “Oh dear!” The nurse exclaimed.

”Don’t worry,” I said, “he does that sometimes.”

“Maybe it’s the sight of blood?” Dr. Farr mused, as he checked his work.

“Blood?!” I screamed. “Is my eye bleeding?”

I woke Chris with the smelling salts in his pocket and told him his episode may have affected my surgery.

“Dr. Farr said he doesn’t really anticipate any likely lasting damage, but we may have to redo the flap on that side,” I reported, worried that complications may flare up while the doctor was on safari. “Apparently we won’t know anything until my post-op in 10 days.”

Chris needed coffee to get home; his wipe out was more traumatic to him than the surgery was to me. The trip home was excruciating even though I wore the typical cataract shades and kept my eyes closed, but I was still incredibly photosensitive.

The first episode was in the drive thru, after ordering from the boom box menu, before the barista actually handed him the drink. The pain was breathtaking - like a nail file on fire was sanding my eyes - but nothing compared to the image.

”That’s $6.73,” the barista drawled, reaching for Chris’ phone. How could they be having such a mundane conversation while the world was ending right before my very eyes.

Or was it beginning?

The implosion was like fireworks on acid, the heat searing like dry ice. Then nothing again.

I screamed. And screamed.

I couldn’t cry. My eyes were still numb, my tear ducts stuck.

”What the hell is wrong with you?” Chris yelled, pulling away from the window, coffee in hand, “She thought I was hurting you for fuck sake.”

”Sorry.” I said. “I just need the painkillers, I guess.”

I went to bed for the rest of the day, waking up only for more meds and a call from my mom, who had been completely against the LASIK and seemed very eager for a reason to say “I told you so.”

I awoke the next day hoping for the best, thinking I’d just stay in the dark for the weekend and be fine by Monday.

”Can you walk Buster?” Chris asked, “I don’t feel well. I think it’s from my fainting episode.” I didn’t remind him that I just had surgery, he still wouldn’t take Buster out, and there was no reason for the poor dog to suffer for my vanity.

We went down the shady side of the street, jumped at the mail truck, sniffed at everything, and finally, made the necessary deposits. Poop bag in hand, we crossed the street and headed up the hill toward home.

Did you know

you can’t see

the insides of

your eyelids?

I dropped the leash and bag and put my hands over the post - op shades. My scream sent Buster running and the neighbors all came cautiously outside, cell phones in hand.

The implosion was like fireworks and acid; then bleach and kerosene. A cold that can’t be described in terms of life or even death; a prehistoric cold borne of the blackest of space.

A cold like the end of the world.

Or was it the beginning?

The neighbors all stayed away, though they did get video, stills, and a call to 911. Someone managed to get Buster home. The medics thought I was having a bad trip from the painkillers and suggested I switch to Tylenol 3. I still couldn’t cry.

I Ubered home from the ER so as not to disturb Chris, who was resting from his ordeal of watching me taken away in an ambulance.

I was allowed to work from home until the post-op check up, which was nice, because I could sleep during the day and work at night, in the dark. I also walked Buster in the dark.

This worked great until Thursday, when there was a mandatory Zoom. They wanted me to take off my shades to prove I was really paying attention. I managed to hit mute before I hit the floor, keening and thrashing.

Did you know

you can’t see

the insides of

your eyelids?

The implosion was as hot and bright and cold as sunshine on snow; sandpaper on a scar, electric guitar in a cemetery. And then nothing.

I took Percocet and Tylenol 3, washed them down with Jack and Cab. I wanted to stay gone until Monday. I even slept through some calls from mom.

My post-op check up was scheduled for 9:30 a.m. I had Chris take me at 5:30, when it was still dark out; I waited in the garage like a vampire while he went to get more overpriced coffee.

“Eve Green for Dr. Farr,” I said at the desk. Please can I wait in a darkened room for the doctor? I’m, uh, having some issues with light.”

”Well, well, well, who do we have here?” Dr. Farr said, walking into the exam room a few minutes later. I see you’re having some residual photosensitivity, let’s take a look.

I tried to tell him not to turn on the lights while I scrunched my eyes shut, but it was too late.

Did you know

you can’t see

the insides of

your eyelids?

He fell off of the spinny stool when I howled like a wounded wolf. The building shook, so I assume Chris fainted again. The implosion was volcano on glacier - fire and ice and ice from the core of the planet. The world ending, or was it beginning?

Dr. Farr injected me with something and turned off the lights. A few minutes later, he used a blue beam from a pen across the room to look at my eyes. I was immobilized but I could hear him talking outside the door. “She has laser perforation of the lid of eye number two; we need to reconstruct her eyelid. I’ll need to work with a plastic surgeon. This is a very dangerous condition, it can lead to infection, vision loss, etc.”. “What about loss of sanity,” Chris asked, “she has been crazy loco or seizuring or something since the surgery. Can you fix that?”

“It should resolve after reconstruction. We aren’t meant to see the insides of our eyelids. Once light can’t get in, she should be back to normal.”

Did you know

you can’t see

the insides of

your eyelids?

And if you can, you may not want to. The birth of the universe is more than the average human can handle.

The surgery cost as much as the wedding, which we called off. Buster became my ESA and went to therapy with me. I took the severance pay from my old job and became an astronomer.

I may be the only human on earth who has seen the Big Bang, and I want to put that knowledge to good use

.