There's No Bismus Like Strabismus
February 2012
© Adam Granger
When I was eight, my parents noticed that I was walking into walls and sticking my fork into my forehead more than usual, so they took me to an ophthalmologist, who said my right eye was crossed inward and that I needed an operation to make it point straight ahead. I refused to consider surgery, so we went with Plan B: eye exercises, facilitated by a friendly Swiss therapist at an Oklahoma City hospital. They proved futile, and after a year or so, we all sort of forgot about it and got on with our lives.
My crossed eye—strabismus, in medical lingo—very gradually got worse until, fifty years later, I was having to drive with my right eye closed in order not to see two red Ford Focii coming toward me from two different directions. In social settings, I would ask someone a question and the person to the right of that person would answer.
I was considering an eye patch, thinking I could pick up some work in rum commercials on the side, when, at my next eye appointment, I casually asked if the operation I never had was still a possibility. I was informed that it was, indeed, and that my HMO even had a guy who specialized in the procedure.
I went for an evaluation, wherein a technician tried to force my right eye to see straight using an ever-stronger series of prisms. When she got to the one the thickness of Texas toast, she gave me the kind of smile you'd give a three-legged kitten, and told me the doctor would be in soon.
Enter Dr Freud, the surgeon (his name has been changed because I still have to see him for a follow-up appointment). He was a perfect blend of professionalism and friendliness. His demeanor was upbeat, but not funny, and that's good. One wants a minimum of hilarity in one's surgeon—the clown nose and seltzer bottle are best left in the doctors' lounge.
Dr Freud determined that I was an excellent candidate for a what is called an R and R—recession and resection—procedure, wherein muscles are detached from the eyeball and repositioned to correct the strabismus. He was efficient in his explanation of the surgery and patient in his answering of my questions. He has performed just under a thousand of these operations. I left his office eagerly clutching a surgery appointment. My eyes were in good hands.
At 6:30 a.m. on Thursday, December 2, 2011, my wife, Renee, and I reported to Minneapolis's Phillips Eye Institute. I was giddy—far more excited than one should be who is about to have a scalpel making kissy-face with his eyeball. I lay in the O.R. staging area drunk with anticipation, even before they started sedating me.
I met my nurse and my anesthesiologist, and I saw Dr Freud again. I noted that they were all clear-headed and steady on their feet, which augured well—and then I was out.
While I slumbered, Dr Freud did the R and R: specifically, a right lateral rectus recession and a right medial rectus resection, to correct esotropia—my crossed eye.
When I opened my eyes in the recovery room, I saw one light fixture in the ceiling instead of two and knew instantly that the operation had been a success. Dr Freud came in and gave post-op instructions to Renee, and we were on our way, arriving home at noon. I spent the rest of the day alternately dozing and looking at things with both eyeballs simultaneously.
The next day, Dr Freud called.
“How are you doing?”
“Dr Freud, I don't know you well, and I'm a happily married heterosexual male, but I think I love you.”
A short silence, and then, “So it's going well, then?”
He gave me recovery information, including the obligatory worst-case scenario:
“Occasionally the newly-sutured muscles become detached from the eyeball.”
“How will I know if that happens?”
“You won't be able to make your eye move.”
He added, unnecessarily, “If that happens, give us a call.”
It's hard to impress the significance of a newly attained ability upon people who have always had that ability. The months since my surgery have been a constant thrill. I walk through stores staring at quotidian objects as though I were fresh out of prison. I drive confidently and competently with both eyes open. I look people in the eye with both of mine and no one thinks I'm ogling their wife.
The only thing lacking in my sight now is true stereo vision. Dr Freud explained that I am now sending the optical signals to my brain that enable it, but since my brain has never had those signals to process, it doesn't know how to do so. I will, therefore, never actually experience stereo vision.
That may be so, but since I don't know what I'm missing, it's a vague and impotent deficit. What I do know—what is tangible—is the astounding change Dr Freud's handiwork has made in my every waking minute. And I'm not about to look that gift horse in the mouth with either eye.
My crossed eye—strabismus, in medical lingo—very gradually got worse until, fifty years later, I was having to drive with my right eye closed in order not to see two red Ford Focii coming toward me from two different directions. In social settings, I would ask someone a question and the person to the right of that person would answer.
I was considering an eye patch, thinking I could pick up some work in rum commercials on the side, when, at my next eye appointment, I casually asked if the operation I never had was still a possibility. I was informed that it was, indeed, and that my HMO even had a guy who specialized in the procedure.
I went for an evaluation, wherein a technician tried to force my right eye to see straight using an ever-stronger series of prisms. When she got to the one the thickness of Texas toast, she gave me the kind of smile you'd give a three-legged kitten, and told me the doctor would be in soon.
Enter Dr Freud, the surgeon (his name has been changed because I still have to see him for a follow-up appointment). He was a perfect blend of professionalism and friendliness. His demeanor was upbeat, but not funny, and that's good. One wants a minimum of hilarity in one's surgeon—the clown nose and seltzer bottle are best left in the doctors' lounge.
Dr Freud determined that I was an excellent candidate for a what is called an R and R—recession and resection—procedure, wherein muscles are detached from the eyeball and repositioned to correct the strabismus. He was efficient in his explanation of the surgery and patient in his answering of my questions. He has performed just under a thousand of these operations. I left his office eagerly clutching a surgery appointment. My eyes were in good hands.
At 6:30 a.m. on Thursday, December 2, 2011, my wife, Renee, and I reported to Minneapolis's Phillips Eye Institute. I was giddy—far more excited than one should be who is about to have a scalpel making kissy-face with his eyeball. I lay in the O.R. staging area drunk with anticipation, even before they started sedating me.
I met my nurse and my anesthesiologist, and I saw Dr Freud again. I noted that they were all clear-headed and steady on their feet, which augured well—and then I was out.
While I slumbered, Dr Freud did the R and R: specifically, a right lateral rectus recession and a right medial rectus resection, to correct esotropia—my crossed eye.
When I opened my eyes in the recovery room, I saw one light fixture in the ceiling instead of two and knew instantly that the operation had been a success. Dr Freud came in and gave post-op instructions to Renee, and we were on our way, arriving home at noon. I spent the rest of the day alternately dozing and looking at things with both eyeballs simultaneously.
The next day, Dr Freud called.
“How are you doing?”
“Dr Freud, I don't know you well, and I'm a happily married heterosexual male, but I think I love you.”
A short silence, and then, “So it's going well, then?”
He gave me recovery information, including the obligatory worst-case scenario:
“Occasionally the newly-sutured muscles become detached from the eyeball.”
“How will I know if that happens?”
“You won't be able to make your eye move.”
He added, unnecessarily, “If that happens, give us a call.”
It's hard to impress the significance of a newly attained ability upon people who have always had that ability. The months since my surgery have been a constant thrill. I walk through stores staring at quotidian objects as though I were fresh out of prison. I drive confidently and competently with both eyes open. I look people in the eye with both of mine and no one thinks I'm ogling their wife.
The only thing lacking in my sight now is true stereo vision. Dr Freud explained that I am now sending the optical signals to my brain that enable it, but since my brain has never had those signals to process, it doesn't know how to do so. I will, therefore, never actually experience stereo vision.
That may be so, but since I don't know what I'm missing, it's a vague and impotent deficit. What I do know—what is tangible—is the astounding change Dr Freud's handiwork has made in my every waking minute. And I'm not about to look that gift horse in the mouth with either eye.
