So, back in Part 1, we covered the LASIK consultation and my ignorant decision to sign up even though everything I saw scared the shit out of me.

In Part 2, we talked about the waiting room and how odd it was that they were playing a movie that featured Vince Vaughn, Owen Wilson, and a form of the word “fuck” every nine seconds.

Where does that leave us?

The Actual Surgery

A lady in scrubs came and summoned me and another guy into the Prep Station. The Prep Station is a small room where they make you put on a silly hat and paper booties over your shoes.

Discussion Question: How do you put size 10 paper booties over size 12 work boots?

Answer: You don’t. You just rip it to the point that it serves no sanitary purpose whatsoever.

At this point, I had been waiting an hour and a half and the guy I was in the Prep Station with was there before me, so for all I know he’d been there since 1988. Needless to say, we were both anxious to get on with it already. Naturally, this was a good reason to make us wait another half hour, only now it was just the two of us in silly hats and shoes with no television or obscene DVD to provide awkward entertainment.

We solved this, as all men do, by talking about football. Turns out the guy’s name was Henry, 48 years old, lives in Baltimore, and was a really nice guy even though he likes all the wrong football teams. The small talk led to a discussion about why we were there. Henry wanted laser eye surgery because he’s a truck driver who cannot maintain his credentials if his eyes get any worse. I, on the other hand, elected to have laser eye surgery on the off chance that the laser would zap my brain and give me super powers.

Then they came and took Henry away. I never saw him again.

When the nurse came to get me, I considered hitting her with a chair and making a run for it, but I’m pretty sure the cap and booties drained all of my testosterone. As I entered The Laser Chamber of Death, I noted that the door I came through appeared to be the only exit. Since Henry was nowhere to be found, it was obvious that they fucked up and disintegrated him.

It was at that moment that they made me lay down on a table built for small people. At 6′2″, this is kinda like laying on a TV tray. As soon I was horizontal, the nurse gave me a teddy bear (seriously), apparently so I would have something to strangle while they violated my peepers. Then they taped my eyes open like you see in movie scenes depicting the type of torture that gives you dry heaves.

Time for something they call “numbing eye drops.” Calling this process “drops” is like using the word “sprinkle” to describe a hurricane. Basically what they did was pour a bucket of something they claimed was medicinal all over my face. This was starting to resemble an elaborate fraternity prank, which would indicate that the whole Wedding Crashers thing was a missed clue.

Then the actual doctor showed up and scrubbed my eyeballs with a toothbrush. This served no obvious purpose, so I think he just did it to annoy me. I expected him to start singing, “You can’t bli-ink! Nanny Nanny Boo Boo!” And it’s not like I could have done anything if he had, because my head was taped to a table directly underneath a Gigantic Laser Spewing Machine. So I pretended the teddy bear was the doctor and wrung its neck like a wet towel.

There’s really not much to say about the surgery itself, other than that I don’t believe for a minute that they did anything. The guy turned on a bright light, told me to stare at it (like I had a choice), I heard a bunch of zappy noises, and it was over. I never saw a laser, which I find odd because they claimed to shoot it right into my eyes.

As of this writing, I’m still convinced that broken eyes can be fixed with some masking tape and a toothbrush. The laser thing is a myth.

Part 4 will wrap this whole thing up. Possible Title: How To Survive For Two Weeks When You Can’t See A Goddamn Thing. Stay tuned.

Tags: lasik, prk, laser eye surgery, wedding crashers