Bette Midler has taught a very important thing.

I never want to be famous.

I wanted to be a STAR!! from the time I was 12. I felt this was the best way to meet celebrities and they were the people I wanted to be with/like. They were always perfect, looked great, were worshiped by millions and had loads of money. Then I talked my mother into paying for VIP tickets to a party Madame Midler was attending so I could meet her. We were not wealthy and those tickets were expensive. I’ve only very recently realized what my mother sacrificed to buy those tickets so I could meet my hero of many years.

Anyway, we went to the party and there she was. She treated me like garbage. I was nineteen, I had adored her for many years and she looked at me like I was muck on her shoe. This was at a function she was being paid to be at to meet her fans. I was within touching distance of her at Disneyworld a few years prior and didn’t say a world to her because she was on vacation and I didn’t want to bother her, but I felt I was justified this time. This time two thousand dollar tickets to be at the party were involved.

She came into the room thronged by paparazzi (and this was when her career was in a slump). Once she was finally by herself I tried to tell her what a fan I was–that I had come from North Carolina to New York just to see her, but she treated me like scum. I was stunned. It was inconceivable to me that a person I so admired could be such a jerk.

Once my mother and I were back at our crummy hotel I fell apart, crying and so on. I told my mother I couldn’t wait to be famous so I could treat people like crap, too. My mothers’ response: “Most people didn’t even get to touch her coat.” Yes, I got to touch her coat. That was supposed to be worth the two thousand dollars my mother paid.

Once I’d recovered I realized that I didn’t ever want that to be my life. I never wanted to have a life that wouldn’t allow me to go anywhere without being surrounded by the flashing of cameras. I have much more sympathy for celebrities (and am completely baffled by the people who’d court that insanity) and I’m grateful to have seen what being famous entailed before I sacrificed my life in the name of infamy.

I do hope she got what she wanted and I’m grateful for what she taught me.

And I haven’t bought an album or seen a film of hers since that evening–I simply can’t support a person who has so lost touch with her sense of humanity.

This is the first time I’ve written/spoken about that event, which was ten years ago, because it’s still so painful to me. I usually don’t think I’m worth a whole lot, but being treated as garbage by one’s idol is difficult to admit/look at, even a decade on.

Still, I’m grateful for it. I could have spent my life straining to be like her, only to either fail or get what I wanted and be a total bitch. And I can be a bitch without killing myself, thankyouverymuch.

[This is a post from a previous blog. Original post date: 8 October, 2007]

Today I’d like to talk to you about the joys of Christmas and the holiday season in general. Being a non-social person from birth, I was pretty much over the holiday by the time I was 13 or so. I moved out when I was 20 and promptly got a job in retail, thereby giving me an excellent reason not to return to my family’s house for eight wonderful holiday seasons. I now have a job that isn’t retail and therefore this year I had no acceptable reason to stay home. [”I don’t believe in your god, his son–who would’ve been born in the summer FYI–or slavering consumerism as a placeholder for love.” Isn’t acceptable to most families, including mine.]

So I dragged my poor husband the three hour drive up to deal with my family. Never again, kids. Humans are quite adaptable, you know. Particularly when the adaptation is to a life that suits a you just fine–for example, neither my husband nor myself can stand being around lots of noise, people or a bunch of physical affection and we haven’t had to put up with those things for many months now so being forced back into the box of trying to tolerate loud people, hugs and fairy tales had us both climbing the walls. We came home after roughly eighteen hours in their presence and slept for the better part of twenty-four hours. Our dog had stayed with the canine equivalent of my family–several loud, rambunctious dogs–and she fell asleep as soon as we got into the Jeep. We got home, she got on the sofa and slept almost a day. People exhaust all of us.

Then I saw this column on the BBC about the statistical rise of drinking and murder (and interestingly, church attendance) during December. “While people are less inclined to take their own lives in the festive season, they are more likely to kill others.” They don’t specify if the people killed share DNA with their murderers, but I would bet they do.

So. Dealing with family leads people to drink and possibly murder those family members. I’m guessing the church attendance is along the lines of: “Look, god, I had to do it. Otherwise she wasn’t ever going to shut up.” Or “Please, Jesus, help me keep from killing these idiots.”
Christmas is bad for your health. Besides being a giant lie. For these reasons it should be cancelled.

[This is a re-post from Christmas 2007, but remains applicable]

When my uncle died he didn’t want a wake or funeral–he wanted only for my aunt to have him cremated. The day after he died was strange because, as much as I dislike wakes and funerals, there was nothing by which to commemorate him by. No wake is fine by me–a body in a box is not the person I knew. No funeral is fine by me–it seems to be an outpouring of emotion that is tortuous for those of us that prefer to grieve on our own. I’d be all right with funerals if people who didn’t wish to attend were allowed to deal with their loss in their own way, but saying you don’t want to go makes people think you’re a heartless jerk. No, it’s just that I can’t sort out how I feel when I’m thinking, ‘There are far too many loud people here; when can I be alone.’

So when I kick off, I’m donating my organs and the rest of my body to science. A few weeks later, when the pain isn’t so fresh, throw a party where people can talk about how I made them laugh or was infuriating as all get-out. [The best part of funerals, to my mind, is when everyone talks about what a tit so-and-so made of themselves that time in Vegas with the monkey and the nun.] Then everyone watch some Dylan Moran and Bill Bailey stand up DVDs. I’d much rather you be laughing at my funeral than crying. Laughter outlasts tears anyway, because I still find myself chuckling about things that happened years ago, but the people I’ve known who died years ago only evoke a wisp wistfulness.

And for the love of Nora, none of the cliches about how dear and lovely she was. If you didn’t know me in life then I don’t want you speaking at my post-death review party. I don’t believe in an afterlife but if there is one and some half-wit starts yammering about me you’ll know it because my supernatural self will be kicking his corporeal heiny.

Last weekend my husband and I decided to pick up some Play Doh/Plasticine and whilst we were at the toyshop I asked where their Harry Potter section was. They were out. Except! The very helpful guy went into the back and found a big Harry Potter (about a foot and a half tall), but who wants him? He makes me mutter ‘Goody-two-shoes,’ under my breath.

The very nice guy went into the back again and returned with the only other thing they had:

Dementor! YAY!

Last June [2007] I had my first psychotic episode; during which I tried to kill myself. I know that sounds highly dramatic, but that’s what happened, apparently. I say ‘apparently’ because I have no memory of it. I left work two hours early one day and when my husband came home at 5pm I was nearly unconscious and vomiting profusely from alcohol and pills. I had also been cutting myself. What I remember is going home at 3pm and then being in a hospital bed at 11pm. Then there’s another blank space followed by being at home about twelve hours later. Roughly eighteen hours are missing; though it was a very active eighteen hours. I’m amazed at the thought of being physically present for such a momentous occasion as my near-death while remembering nothing of it. It’s like seeing yourself in pictures in a place where you can’t recall being.

The entire episode is something that puzzles me. It’s been a bit over four months and I’m just starting to get my head round it.

What I’ve been thinking about most (besides how badly I feel at scaring K, my husband, so much) is when people say, regarding death, “At least they didn’t suffer.”

Suffering can only be appreciated from the point of surviving said suffering. If I had died that day I would have had no memory of being crazed or whatever was going on and so it wouldn’t’ve made any difference if my last moments were spent shouting at the universe or quietly meditating. Suffering before death is only important to the people who are still alive. Once you’re dead that’s pretty much it. Whatever pain you are in ceases to be once your heart stops beating. I used to be of the mindset that a person not suffering just prior to death was vastly better than being in horrible pain just before. Now I see that doesn’t matter. This is a good thing and this is why…

I’ve known two people who were murdered. One was killed during a robbery at his workplace and the other was killed in his bed while he slept*. I used to think, “Well, at he least was asleep and had no idea what happened,” and, “Christ, how horrible to know you’re going to die–to spend your last moments fighting and pleading for mercy.” But now I see those thoughts are only tormenting/comforting the living.

In Judaism, the funeral service and shiva are for the living–to support those still alive–not really for the soul of the person no longer of this earth like in Christian ceremonies. The deceased has far better things to be getting on with. I’ve always found wakes and Christian-style funerals to be wrenching to no good purpose, though I can see why some people feel compelled to say goodbye to their loved one. I would not begrudge people wishing to say goodbye to me even though I wouldn’t have been in the room for some time.

Unlike the previous post (a quote from a dear friend) I have no great concept of what happens when one dies other than decomposition to the organic matter from which one came. To me, you get your time on Earth, spend it as you will. When you’re gone some people will remember you kindly and others won’t care one way or another. That’s fine with me. Hopefully no one will be actively glad I’m gone, but if that is the case, I won’t give two shits by that point.

The idea of suffering v. not suffering prior to death not being of any consequence was a real eye-opener for me, as I’ve been socialized to think that one’s last moments are best if they are peaceful. It’s better to go quickly rather than painfully. Now I see that’s more about the living. The people who survive you don’t want to see you suffer–they don’t want their last memories of you to be horrid. Your last memories won’t count for anything because you won’t know about them once you’re on the other side.

You may say: You’d feel different if you’d actually died, but I have. I was clinically dead (drowned) when I was five years old. I remember the drowning, but there was no white light or whathaveyou. That experience was similar. I was swimming, swimming, swimming and then nothing and then I was on the beach, awake and surrounded by people. No breathing or heart-beat for several minutes. Death is a nothingness that happens when it happens. In many ways I find this comforting…

Anyway, just some thoughts I wanted to put out there/down for my future self.

*For those who care–the people who murdered my brother-in-law and my friend have been put in prison.
[This post is from a previous blog. Original post date: 18 October 2007]

Here in the States, we’ve just celebrated Thanksgiving. It’s a holiday any country could have because it’s not really about the Native Americans getting on with the settlers, is it? That’d sorta be like a holiday in Ireland celebrating the ten minutes the Irish got on with the English. Yeah, sure, we then stole your land and killed you for fun, but we really had a good party there for a bit, right? I do wonder what Native Americans think of this holiday…

But I digress.

This year was the first year I could remember that I had something to be grateful for other than my old stand-bys, “my health and I’m thankful my parents didn’t beat me with live electric cables.” Don’t get me wrong, I AM thankful for those things, but after one has used those for sixteen consecutive years it begins to sound like your life sucks the big one.

I used to dread Thanksgiving because I was expected to socialize as well as say what I was grateful for. There were times I wanted to say, “Well, I think everyone is grateful I’ve managed to ignore the voices for yet another year.”

This year, the year I finally had things to be grateful for, no one bloody asked! And you can’t go around crowing about how great everything is because you sound like an utter twat.

So I’m happy. I have a life-mate I adore. We’re both gainfully employed with the state in jobs we enjoy, with co-workers we actually like. We’re looking into perhaps, maybe buying a house we’re in love with so me can start our dog-family. With our jobs, we could be out of debt in 2-3 years. And we even have health insurance and paid vacations. Yay! Life doesn’t suck! It hasn’t not sucked in a very long time.

And it was entertaining to watch my English husband celebrate his first Thanksgiving by over-eating.

[This is a repost from a now-defunct blog. Original post date: 23 November 2007]

[Note: this was written during the time my therapist and psychiatrist were trying to decide if I has schizoid personality disorder. Like Asperger's, though I had many of the markers, they weren't severe enough to warrant an actual diagnosis. Still, I believe this is a useful post for the SPDers out there.]

Scenes From a Schizoid Childhood

I received a walkman for my twelfth birthday. I was so happy to be able to tune out the world and wore it everywhere. Mother shouted at me that she’d got it for me to use when I was alone—not when I was around other people. It hadn’t occurred to me not to wear it around other people. I now wear my mp3 player as much as possible—it helps with my ADD as well as keeps me from getting too anxious in crowds or when I have to do something outside of my routine.

A weekend day in the summer when I was about eight. Several family members were at the house, swimming in the back yard. I was minding my own business on my bed and my mother came in and shouted at me that I could be an asshole if I wanted and I should be ashamed of not wanting to spend time with my family. I was at a loss that I had done anything wrong. No one had told me I was supposed to want to spend time with people to whom I had nothing to say. My mother had never called me a name like that before and I didn’t understand what I had done that was so wrong.

As a teenager I was called a snob countless times because I preferred my own company to groups of my peers. I continue to be baffled by how being happy alone makes a person stuck up, as I do not think I am better than other people. I do not think of other people at all, much of the time. And I’m not bothered if they do not think of me.

I am a grown up now and if I want to listen to music all the time I shall. If I don’t want to converse with people I’m not going to feel bad about it. The insecurities of other people are their own look out.

[This post is from a previous blog]

Roughly once a month I have to explain why I don’t have a degree so I’ve decided to make a post I can send to those who bring it up. This may be of some use to those in a similar position that can’t find the exact words. Use what you need, comrades. I know how difficult it is to live in a culture that tells you you’re stupid if you don’t have a degree. I work in academia and I can tell you, having a degree is absolutely no guarantee of intelligence or sophistication of thought.
I tried to make a list from biggest reason to smallest reason but they interrelate, so, instead they’re in order from immediate problems (everyday problems with University) to the more existential issues.

1.I have the attention span of a gnat on speed. This makes paying attention in class damn near impossible. Lectures are vital so this is a fairly large problem. I could record the lectures and listen to/transcribe later except for my third point. If I’m truly interested in a subject, I have fewer problems paying attention. This is of no real use also because of point three.

2.I’m allergic to strangers. The chief reason I quit high school at 15 was because I could no longer take being forced to be around my peers for eight hours a day. I missed as many days as I could and rarely did my homework (or anything else) because all of my energy was spent on getting to school five hours before I was awake and then coping with enforced socialization with complete arseholes. Combined with the next point, every day was an exercise in psychological torture. I completely understand the students who shoot up their schools. I never considered doing that, but I did try to kill myself at thirteen because I couldn’t take it anymore.

3.I don’t care about most of what is required. In the U.S. universities require something called Basic Studies. The goal is to make college graduates well-rounded people by making them pass courses completely unrelated to their area of interest. This also prepares graduates for doing loads of rubbish they don’t want to after joining the workforce. The key integer here is being paid. I don’t mind doing random, useless things if I’m being paid for it, but once you ask me to pay you to do those things I just can’t seem to find the motivation. Funny that.

4.I have no life goals. Admitting that is a big taboo because every person is supposed to want to do something with his or her life. Well, here I am saying it: the only goal I have is to be as free of stress as possible. Considering that I can have psychotic episodes if I get too stressed out (not that those aren’t fuuu-UUUN!) this is an excellent goal, to my mind. If I really wanted to do something in particular I could possibly, mayhap, find the wherewithal to plow through the higher education system. One should keep in mind that schizoids don’t often have over-arching goals before deciding to hold one’s breath while waiting for me to get inspired. Also, if I did manage to get me one of them there DAY-grees I wouldn’t want to do anything with it–I like my life just as it is. I’d go into academia, except I’d have to teach and I couldn’t stand students when I was one. I can’t imagine having to deal with them year in, year out for thirty years. My dream job is low stress/responsibility, requiring a relatively low amount of thinking–not mindless, but not taxing–livable pay, sane co-workers and health care insurance. I have that so I’m not inspired to change my situation.

5.I’m not interested in anything for any length of time. In points one and three I said that if I’m really interested in a subject I’m more able to concentrate and get somewhere. If the U.S. system were like the U.K. system, where you solely focus on what you’re studying and Basic Studies don’t exist I may have some hope of getting a degree, but probably not, as I lose interest in most things relatively quickly.

6.I can do my current job without a load of student debt. Until I got a job in academia, I knew more people with Master’s degrees that didn’t use their degrees than those who did. Most of them had jobs very similar to mine. The difference between the two of us was that I didn’t have tens (or hundreds) of thousands of dollars in student loans to pay off. As I said, I like my current job quite a bit and wouldn’t want to try to pay off loans of that size.

When I asked people why they didn’t use their degree the answer was something like: I realised I didn’t like my subject. They’d started university and by the time they got through two years of basic studies and started studying their actual major they didn’t care about it anymore, but they’d gone too far and didn’t want to partially start over and switch majors. Then it was time to enter the RealWorld™ or go to grad school… Flash forward a few years and they have a mountain of debt and a shiny degree in something they care nothing for.

I would be just like those people if it weren’t for my apathy and deficit of an attention span, as it was always presented to me that I was going to college and probably further. I was 29 before I realised I no longer needed to feel stupid for not following a path that I’d neither chosen nor been interested in. I spent the first three decades of my life feeling like a loser because I hadn’t done what other people thought would make me happy. Obviously, organised education doesn’t make me happy. It makes me anxious and depressed.

These things do not mean that I don’t enjoy learning. I read a lot and I’m growing less and less tolerant of ‘lighter’ literature. I’ve lately taken a more structured approach to teaching myself how to think more analytically, as discussed in my next post.

I would like to end this post by saying that I’m ticked off that no one told me it was possible to have a decent job without a degree. From the time I was moved to the ‘academically gifted’ class when I was eight, it was assumed I was one day going to uni. When I was thirteen I told one of my teachers that I was going to quit school as soon as I could do and she said that was fine if I wanted a menial job. It was always presented to me that if I didn’t have a degree I would wind up doing jobs that were ‘beneath’ me.

Now I’m offended of the implicit classism in that sort of statement and I’m pissed right off that no one told me I could have a decent job without a degree. It took ten years of being miserable and falling into my current job before I discovered that not having a degree wasn’t a prison sentence. Way to wreck someone’s self-esteem, Western Culture.

[This post is from a previous blog]

Some Thoughts on Travelling

Travelling is not a thing at which I excel.

That’s not precise, though. I find my way to my destination well enough. I just don’t care to do anything once I’ve arrived. From the memories I retain of the several trips I’ve made in my life I may as well have stayed home. None were particularly life-changing. Well, I suppose they’ve shown me that I really do not enjoy travelling.

I was once stranded at an airport hotel for three days because of inclement weather and I’ve never been happier. I’d stopped at a bookshop the day before and had an mp3 player. I lounged in bed, reading and listening to music. No one expected me to do anything so no one was disappointed when I returned home with the news that I’d seen nothing of interest nor done anything of interest and didn’t particularly care.

But when I return from trips people ask, “What did you do?” If I told the truth: Lay on the bed and read. They’d ask: What’d you bother to leave for, then?

So I could read in peace. If I were at home chores would be asking to be done. On holiday there are no chores to be done. Except seeing things. Doing things. Things I’ll have no real memory of later. Holidays are for spending money on memories one can’t recall. I cognitively know I’ve been to Brindisi twice but I cannot recall one visual memory of the place. Was that worth $2800? So I could say I’d been there? That could be said about most other places I’ve been. In the end the memories are words I’ve told myself. I was at the Oracle at Delphi and it was bright. The hills were green.

Typing this reminds me of the episode of Black Books where they decide to go on holiday and Bernard Black says: So forget your beaches and jungles. We’re going somewhere I can sit, read and have a quiet drink. Mannie asks, “So, your ideal holiday would, in fact, be here?” Bernard: Correct. So find somewhere exactly like this.

The most recent experiment in travelling was to attend the wedding of a friend of my husband’s. We were able to stay in a rather lovely house for several days and that was nice. However, there were several other guests in the same house and I take it the feel was supposed to be communal. I can just about manage small talk when it behooves me (for work and such) but I cannot rise to the enforced occasion when it’s complete strangers about whom I know nothing nor care for. And I don’t really see the reason to put myself through something that only gives me anxiety and is, to my mind, a waste of time that could be used reading, writing or sleeping. I simply cannot believe that at the end of my life I’m going to regret not spending more time making forced conversation with strangers.

I do sometimes wonder what my husband must think. He has more tolerance for mindless chat. Or perhaps he fakes it better. I hope he doesn’t bother to make excuses for me. He’s welcome to say: She has a personality disorder that makes her allergic to people.

During this last trip I could hear the people outside laughing and being gay. It made me feel like Emily Dickinson. Except, you know, not a genius.

Because I don’t think or behave the way most humans do I’ve had to observe human behaviour in order to make a go at fitting in. What I often forget is that other people aren’t acting–they actually care about the things I pretend to care about. Most of the time, watching other people virulently discuss whatever they’re discussing reminds me of listening to people meticulously dissect a sporting event I care nothing for. So… all sporting events.

However, sometimes I can convince myself I give two hoots about certain things (e.g. politics) and I can get swept up in the name-calling and feces-flinging (who doesn’t enjoy quality recreations of that nature, I ask you) but then I remember, oh yeah, I don’t really care and it’s like waking from a dream. In the dream, I honestly cared about [insert thing here] but once awake I’m baffled as to why I cared, as it was such nonsense.

One very human thing about me is that I think other people must certainly feel the way I do–they don’t really take everything so seriously, do they? but I’ve come to the conclusion that some people really do take whatever is dear to them seriously. Deadly serious, indeed. But all the people shouting about their pet love/hate seem like they must know it doesn’t matter. Our time is short and who wants to spend that time being miserable? I mean, you have to spend your blip of time doing something and being honked off is definitely something to do, but … why? It doesn’t make you happy and it only ticks off everyone around you.

I’m not saying we should ignore the world and be mindless idiots–everyone could use some more thinking in their lives–but … is the basis of your vehemence that important? Really? Often, when I meet people who are shouting until they’re a lovely shade of aubergine I find myself wondering, “That’s important to you. Interesting.” Then pondering what that says about the person. And just try explaining why that thing isn’t important to you. The answer is the same for everyone on earth: “That’s not important to me because I have a different set of values influenced by a completely different set of life circumstances.”

Different isn’t bad, it’s just different. Many people have an extremely difficult time with this concept. Plurality doesn’t work in their minds. I don’t know why plurality is so threatening. If someone here has a guess I’d love to hear it.

When someone tells me I’m wrong about something I think, but don’t say (because that would involve having a pointless conversation), “Okay. You live in a world where everything is black and white, right and wrong. I live in a world of greys where you and I are allowed to have different opinions. Our worlds will never intersect. What you call wrong I call, ‘Not your opinion.’ So I’m not offended by your comment.”

It’s sort of like when Christians tell me I’m going to Hell–I don’t believe in Hell so I’m not bothered. I typically say, “Okay, well I hope you get reincarnated as a happier person.” Their response: ‘I don’t believe in reincarnation.’

Me: Now you know how I feel about Hell.

Them: B-but… YOU’RE WRONG

Me: ::sigh:: Okay.

I have books to read. I have languages to learn. I have other things to do than argue with people from other planets.

My favourite people are the ones who want to die horribly. They’re the ones who, if you ask: And why is this thing so important? They answer: Because it can kill us!! [This typically applies to environmental issues and politicians perceived to be warmongers.]

They seem quite excited about our impending doom. (Similar to the people who tell me I’m going to Hell–they’re overjoyed by the prospect.) But it seems to me that if we’re dead then it doesn’t matter. And as long as we’re alive nothing is so bad. So get a hobby that makes your world a better place that doesn’t include shouting–shouting doesn’t help anyone. It’s not changing your opponents’ minds and it’s not making you any healthier. It seems to me that the best course of action would be to fix your world–you’re never going to wipe out all the people that disagree with you so don’t bother with theirs–and then you will have accomplished something with your zephyr of time.

Or you can carry on shouting and lamenting how stupid the Other Side is and how they’re going to bring us all down.

Yeah, that’s probably more fun anyway.

I forget that I’m not invisible. Most of my life I’ve considered myself to be invisible–it’s not a self-esteem thing, I just prefer to blend in to the point of not being noticed. So when someone does notice me I’m always surprised. It’s sort of a, ‘Oh, you can SEE me?’ response. Anyway, thanks to the people who’ve left notes and thoughts–I’m just taking some time off from everything right now.

Also, I have a new job, which I started full-time at the beginning of this month and it’s the first time I haven’t been able to be online all day and when I get home, I work on my recent resolution, more on that in the next paragraph. When I get home, I’m drained and only want to lie down anyway.

My resolution (which began in November, so it’s not really a ‘New Years’ resolution) was to read everything in the house and get rid of books if I’m not going to read them again, thereby having my library down to the essentials by the time we move to England. I’m reading rather than goofing around online now so I’m getting through 9-10 books a week, which is great. I’ll post some book reviews after this post. I figure I have about 750 unread books in the house, so that should keep me occupied for awhile.

Part of that resolution is not to buy any books–we can’t afford them anyway, we can barely afford food so books are definitely out of the question. I can receive books for free–the Great American Book Giveaway, for instance, which I won a book from–but I can’t spend money on any. I find ‘freezing’ my library, rather than having it as a growing entity, to be comforting, somehow. It’s as if my life is completely contained in these walls, which is nice.

Sue: The Dr Ablow Show was supposed to film last week, but because I have a new job I couldn’t take off work for it so we had to pass. Really, I was glad–I’m not dealing with travelling/thinking/leaving the house very well right now. I need my life to as simple as possible.
Meanwhile, my husband received his work permit last week. And only eight months after he came into the country. We’re both quite looking forward to being able to eat something other than ramen after he gets a job. We thought it was going to take another three months to arrive so we wound up staring at it in shock.

So, that’s my current news.

This is a repost from a now-defunct blog. Original post date: 20, Jan 2007]

November 10th, 2007

My surgery was last Thursday at 2pm. Friday at 8.15 I had a check up to be sure everything was healing well and I was at 20/20. Dr Tunis thinks I’ll be a little better than that when I’m completely healed. He said about 1 in five people with eyesight as bad as mine are at 20/20 eighteen hours later. So I’m special. I asked about a couple of bloodshot placed on my eye and the lovely nurse (everyone who works there is a gem) explained that it’s like an eye hickey and it’s caused by the suction ring used near the beginning of the procedure. Those will go away fairly soon.

My husband and I asked what “20/20″ meant exactly and were told it’s the size letters that a normal person could stand twenty feet away from and read clearly. I was something like 20/400, which means that for me to see letters clearly at twenty feet the letters would have to be big enough that a normal person could see them clearly at 400 feet.

During my check up I also asked for a break down of exactly what was done during the process so you’d have what I saw, what my husband saw and what was going on. That’s at the end of this post, after a warning for those weak of stomach.

This morning I woke up at 8.30 with a burning sensation in my right eye. It was acute burning every 60 seconds or so that made it impossible to keep my eye open. I called Dr Tunis’ cell phone, as he instructed me to do, and he met us at his office at 9.30. I just had a little inflammation because I’m a redhead (explained in the next paragraph) and he gave me a more potent eye drop.
Prior to this experience I was aware that the gene that causes red hair (MC1R) also causes sensitivity in epithelial cells. Epithelial cells make up skin and line internal organs. What I hadn’t made the connection to was that they also make up the cells on the eye.

Now, I knew my eyes were more sensitive to sunlight so I should’ve put two and two together but maths has never been my strong suit. During my consultation I was told that their redheaded patients nearly always had a more difficult time healing–they healed fine, it just took a bit longer. Any LASIK doctor you see should have noticed this in his patients and if he hasn’t noticed it he either isn’t very experienced or he isn’t very observant. Do you want that person operating on your eyes? For the pale skinned reds out there–it may be worth asking for the 1% Econopred plus.

This next section contains graphic description of the surgery. Squeamish people may wish to stop reading now.

Once you’re in the chair with your paper hat on:

Numbing drops: Proparacaine & 4% Lidocaine.

Take measurement of corneal thickness. [They touch your eye with a round lighted instrument–it doesn’t hurt.]

Apply lid speculum. [The doctor said it’s going to pinch, but I didn’t feel anything.]

Check intraocular pressure.

Add saline solution to lubricate eye.

Suction ring on eye to lift it up a bit to cut the corneal flap. [This is when everything goes dark because the eye is being pulled forward a bit, so light coming in doesn’t reach … the part of the eye it needs to reach for you to see (the optic nerve, I believe). This process increases the intraocular pressure in the eye.]

Use microkeratome to cut flap. [This is the buzzing sound you hear. With a blade it takes perhaps ten seconds. If you go bladeless then a laser cuts the flap and it takes sixty seconds, which means the intraocular pressure is increased for ten times longer than with the blade. If the intraocular pressure is increased for four minutes you will be blind, so it’s best to limit the time that pressure is up. There are no benefits for going bladeless as opposed to with a blade except that you get to pay several hundred dollars more. That’s only a benefit for the surgeon.]

Release suction. [Light returns.]

Lift flap.

Dry cornea with Weck cell.

The laser locks on your eye so if your eye moves it can track the movement.

Do ablation with VISX laser. [This sounds like a cross between ‘ping-ping-ping’ and the sound you imagine electricity making. It doesn’t feel like anything. This is the part where the person watching on the monitor sees the laser lining up each imperfection with a cross-hair and zapping it. It does about several hundred in a minute so it’s very quick.]

Use saline solution to wash off cornea and reclose flap. [They run a tiny instrument beneath the flap to irrigate the area. Again–no pain. And it’s so close to your eye you can’t see what it is very clearly.]

Dry cornea with Weck cell. [This is the small, padded Tippex/White Out bit.]

Instill antibiotic drop.

Remove lid speculum.

Close eye for three minutes.

Ta-da!

[The next two posts have nothing to do with being an autodidact--unless you consider eye surgery to be a benefit for reading. These two posts were Googled regularly on my previous blog so I'm putting them up again.]

November 8th, 2007
I had LASIK surgery at 2pm EST today (Thursday, Nov 8). Currently, I’m wearing my protective goggles and am on a little Percoset to help with the discomfort, but that’s all it is–discomfort. I can see fine, but my vision is a little foggy (it’s now 5.5 hours since the surgery.) My husband watched on the TV just outside the laser suite and after I awoke from my post -surgery-sleep-through-the-worst nap we compared notes.

What I Saw
I took a Valium thirty minutes prior to my appt (they told me to do that, I wasn’t personally medicating) but I wasn’t feeling anything by the time I got there so they had me take another. [It was at this time I saw the warning on the prescription bottle that said to avoid eating grapefruit while taking Valium. I must look into that. Does it make LSD or something?] A nurse brought me a bag with sunglasses and goggles in and I would have to wear one of them at all times until my follow up appointment tomorrow morning. A paper cap was put over my hair and several drops were put in my eyes to numb them.

The doctor came out (Dr Tunis at Doctor’s Vision Center) and asked if I had any further questions–my only one was when I could take a shower and he said the next morning. He also said that there’d be a point during the procedure where I wouldn’t be able to see anything–it would go black. He’d tell me when that was about to happen and it was normal so not to freak out.

As we were walking up the hall to the laser suite the Valium kicked in. Nice. I chose to leave my glasses with my husband outside the laser suite. It’s chilly in there (65 F/18 C) so they’d told me to dress warmly and also gave me a blanket. That was also to help me not reach up to wipe away tears.

I got on a chair similar to the ones in a dentist’s office, but it was lying perfectly flat. The chair was turned so my head was under the machine. All I could see was a white circle of light with a blinking red dot in the middle not unlike HAL in 2001. Fortunately, the machine didn’t talk to me. Dr Tunis sat above my head and told me everything I was going to see–not what he was actually doing, which, as you’ll see in Karl’s section, was a good thing.

A piece of gauze was placed over my right eye and the doctor told me to keep both eyes open. Then there were drops to be sure I was comfortably numb and then it was time for the Clockwork Orange eyelid restraints. “You’re going to feel a little pinch.” That was an overstatement, as I didn’t feel anything other than my eyelid being urged open.

I was instructed to keep looking at the blinking red dot. Something circular and white came into view but it was so close it was blurry (that was a huge relief, as I thought I’d only be able to see the instruments once they were super close.) The white piece was clicked onto the eyelid restraint and another, smaller circular bit came into view. “You’re going to hear a whirring by your ear, try not to jump.” I heard the whirring and didn’t jump.

Then the circular bits were removed. “The light’s going to go away now,” and it did. It was surreal to know my eye was open but everything was dark. “And the light should be coming back.” The red, blinking light slowly came back into view. “The laser is lining up with your eye…” Then the correction began, which was a rapid, pinging-type sound. An assistant counted down, which I appreciated. My eyes took 60 seconds each.

“The light is going to get clearer now.” And something came into view while the light clarified and wavered a bit, similar to being underwater. The light was moved around a bit more and I could tell Dr Tunis was wiping some sort of sponge/swab type thing over my eye.

The same procedure was repeated on my right eye, which was just as easy and painless. I stood up and could a sign on the wall. It was like looking through Vaseline, but still legible. Considering that prior to the procedure I couldn’t see the hands on a clock without glasses, that seemed like a miracle.

We went into an examination room and I was given more instructions and read a few letters projected on the wall. Dr Tunis gave my husband two lenses to see the world the way I used to. My prescription was -10 so he gave Karl +10 lenses (or vice versa, I can’t recall, I was on Percoset by that time, as well.)

I went home, put on my goggles and went to sleep for the worst part of the recovery process.

What He Saw
In the waiting room next to the operating room they had thoughtfully provided a monitor upon which you could, if so desired, watch the LASIK procedure take place in glorious super-close-up.

I took a seat on the sofa provided and looked up just in time to see drops of some kind being administered to my wife’s incredibly dilated left eye, accompanied by much blinking. Drops were added several times until the blinking stopped, and then I saw some kind of torture device made of wire being wedged into place under her eyelids. The device was then expanded, forcing the eyelids apart so that no more blinking could take place.

Now a white plastic object with a circular hole in its center was placed on the exposed eye. It seemed to clip into the wire torture device somehow and the hole was centered directly over the cornea. Another tool was introduced on the edge of the monitor. It dropped what looked like a very delicate circular piece of clear plastic onto the assembly. Before I’d had much of a chance to wonder what this was all leading up to, another piece of equipment entered the view, guided carefully into the white device currently anchored in place over the eye. Then the whirring sound began.

It sounded like someone was using a circular saw. And then the newest piece of equipment in the scene began to move deliberately across the screen and I realized that someone probably was using a circular saw, albeit a very small, razor-thin one. Aha! So that plastic white thing was some kind of cutting guide! The sound ceased, the miniature power-tool was retracted, and the cutting guide removed. It looked as if nothing had been done to my wife’s eye until a new implement entered the fray and unceremoniously flipped back the newly cut corneal flap, exposing what looked like a circular sheet of frosted glass beneath. My jaw hit the floor and I found myself perched on the edge of my seat in amazement. I began to wonder just what, if anything, my wife was seeing during all of this.

At that point, the nurse who had prepped her for the procedure appeared next to me, saw the look on my face, and said something like, ‘Oh, so you saw him do the first flap, then?’ Yes. Yes I most certainly did. Thanks for the warning.

Next, the view on the monitor switched to an even closer view of the cornea, upon which a circular crosshair was superimposed in shades of purple and red. Time for the laser, then. What followed was the sight of the crosshair jumping around rapidly within a tiny area of the cornea accompanied by the sound of hundreds of steel tacks being dropped into a can, one-by-one, in rapid succession. This went on for about a minute, and I could here one of the assistants in the operating room counting down the seconds. Then the monitor switched back to its original viewpoint, sans crosshairs, and the thin metal implement which had been used to open the flap returned once more to close it. But it hung around this time, inserting itself underneath the flap and moving back and forth for a while beneath the gelatinous tissue for several seconds before being withdrawn.

Now a new, and much friendlier-looking tool arrived on the scene. It resembled one of those applicators that you now get in a Tippex bottle instead of a brush – a thin stick with a wedge of sponge on the end. This was used to smooth the flap back into its rightful place and remove any air bubbles. Finally, the wire device that was holding my wife’s eyelids apart was removed and more drops were applied to the somewhat bloodshot eyeball, followed by much blinking. Then some kind of fabric, which seemed to be woven from rope from my extreme close-up view, obscured the eye from site and the camera panned across her face, ready for round two with her right eye. I took the opportunity during this brief interlude to help myself to a cup of coffee from the dispenser provided on the table behind me and then, suitably refreshed and prepared for what was going to happen, watched the whole procedure take place once more.