by Chad Morris
The doctor would use little pads and clamps to keep my right eye open throughout the surgery. It reminded me of a mad scientist doing experiments. Again, I was glad for those numbing drops. The pads and clamps would also keep me from moving my eye during the surgery even though I was asleep. If it moved, that would be very, very bad.
“I’m going to put your mask on now,” one of the doctors announced. She put a mask over my nose and mouth. “Just breathe normally.”
I never thought about how I breathed until someone told me to do it normally. It was hard since I knew what was going to happen next.
It was just plain eerie to think of the surgeon fiddling with my eye. Even eerier with all of his assistants around. The doctor would rest a metal ring on top of my eye for extra security. Of course he could have put it on already and I wouldn’t know. I couldn’t feel it.
The doctor’s assistants shifted a large white machine on a metal stand until it was over me. It had a lens in the bottom and a screen on the side for the doctor to use. Was this the laser? I’d always wanted to be able to play with lasers. It was kind of like Squint and his light-daggers. Thankfully these would be much smaller and a lot more controlled. Of course, I never wanted to be the thing the lasers played on. But I had read that professionals could program them to be far more accurate than any doctor’s steady hand. And I really wanted this to be as accurate as possible. The laser would make a very careful circle at just the right depth and just the right diameter to remove my cornea.
My eyes felt heavy. Maybe the sleeping gas was working.
Part of me was furious that I was here. I hadn’t finished my comic. I didn’t have enough time. And the deadline was coming up and who knew what would happen.
But I couldn’t change that now.
Then it would be time for the new cornea, the new windshield. Well, at least new to me. Back when the doctor told me I would need a cornea transplant I had asked him where they would get it. He said, “Walmart.” Yeah, right. I’m sure he’s used that joke over and over. I couldn’t imagine how that would work. Sure, you go down aisle thirteen, look to the right, and pick out your new cornea. They’re right next to the metal lungs and just before the tooth crowns. “We find a donor,” the doctor eventually corrected.
“Who is going to donate the front of their eye?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine anyone doing that. “Wouldn’t they kind of need it?”
“Well,” the doctor said. “They decide to be a donor when they’re alive, but we don’t use it until after they’ve passed away. And we can use the corneas from most people. It doesn’t have to be a boy, or even a young person. You could get a cornea from a sixty-year-old woman, or a teenage girl. As long as that cornea is healthy, we can use it.”
I’d been trying not to think about the dead person part. Especially since I was going to have a part of a dead person on my eye. That would make me part zombie, right? Zombie boy. Maybe I would be able to see into the worlds of the undead afterward. Another good idea for a comic.
Then the creepiest part of the surgery—eye stitches. Seriously, eye stitches. That was the hardest part for me to watch online. I shuddered just thinking about it.
After they were done, there would be a long list of stuff I couldn’t do. Even bending over could change the pressure in my eye and lead to a bunch of bad complications. And of course I’d have to come back the next day for my follow-up appointment to see how well it had all worked.
Another yawn. I was falling asleep for sure.
I just hoped the last thing I’d ever see out of my right eye wasn’t the ceiling of the operating room.
My eye was so wrapped up I had no idea if I was blind or not. So as we drove back to the eye center for my day-after-surgery follow-up in the old Nissan Sentra, I tried to distract myself. I wondered how Squint would feel after he met the person who saved him. I imagined it over and over. He would wake up and find a girl who looked like uncut diamond.
“You owe me one,” the diamond girl said, her nearly transparent lips moving with every word.
As Squint got a good look at her, he thought he could see her light brown face and white suit beneath the diamond.
Squint shook his head, trying to focus his foggy mind. “What happened? Who are you?” He lay in some high-tech infirmary with a hydration blanket over the top of him giving off healing steam. His hair all tousled and bandages on the side of his head, he sat up with a lot of effort.
“I’m Diamond,” she said, and offered him a diamond handshake. Who shook hands anymore? But he shook it. “And I managed to get you and your rock dog out of there before those two crazies killed you.” She smiled. “You’re welcome.”
“Thank you,” Squint said, grabbing his head to try to keep it from ringing.
“It was foolish of you to go in there alone,” Diamond said.
Squint shook his head. “I didn’t go in there alone. I went with Rock.”
“You know what I mean,” Diamond said.
“Hey, wait,” Squint added. “Didn’t you go in alone?”
“That’s beside the point. I’m invincible.” She tapped her hard exterior.
Her diamond casing was impressive. “How did you get your powers?” Squint asked.
Diamond shook her head. “Let’s not pry. We just met each other.”
“But—” Squint started.
“And there’s something you should see,” Diamond said and handed him a mirror. Squint looked at the bandages covering half of his face, but especially over his eye.
“I’m trained in magical surgery,” Diamond said. “I did what I could, but unfortunately, your eye will never be the same.”
I thought that maybe I should give Squint more powers after the surgery. Maybe he could see the future through his new eye. Or he could see past walls. Or even see through other people’s eyes.
I’d have to decide. Of course I’d have a lot of time to think about it, while my eye was healing. If it was going to heal.
As we were walking into the doctor’s office, I got another text. From my mom.
Hey Flinty, I’m sooooo sorry I missed ur surgery. But G-ma said it went great. I’ll come by later with a gift. u!
She gave me no reason why she’d missed it. And no apology. And I doubted she’d come by with a gift. Not that she never brings me gifts—it’s that she promises a lot of things she never does.
When we sat down in the waiting room, I erased the text. I didn’t want to reread it later and get upset.
Eventually, a gray-haired lady led my grandparents and me into a waiting room. Fifteen minutes later, some of the doctor’s assistants got to work pulling the tape off from around my eye. It felt like a radioactive octopus sucker being ripped, one tentacle at a time, from the swollen area around my eye. Sensitive stuff. I think I lost half of my eyebrow, but my right eye wasn’t covered anymore.
My pulse raced as I slowly started to open my right eye. This was the moment of truth. I half expected to be blind. Or now was the time I got supernatural eye powers. I felt like Squint when the Empress first gave him his light-daggers. Or when she gave him Rock.
The light hit me hard. It was painful, but . . . BAZAAM! I could see! I blinked over and over. Now I hoped I could see well.
My eye went in and out of focus, but that was probably because it had been covered so long. It felt goopy as the doctor inspected his handiwork. “That’s looking really good, Flint. Can you see okay?” I nodded. I had to blink away a few blurs. There was something about his smile that seemed happier than I expected. Maybe he really was excited for how well it turned out.
“How does it feel?” Grandma asked.
“Fine,” I said. Which was only partially true. I had more of a dull pain than before, and something was dripping from my eye.
“He told me this morning that it hurt,” Grandma said, making me sound like a liar. Did
she always have that many wrinkles around her eyes? Maybe this surgery stuff had aged her.
“That’s actually to be expected,” the doctor said, still looking me over. He wiped up the goop coming from my eye with a tissue.
“Good to hear,” Grandpa said. His face was wrinkly too. And I hadn’t noticed how many little wisps of hair he had coming out of his ears. He looked much older today for some reason. Older—and there was something about his eyes.
My breath caught in my throat. They weren’t older. The doctor wasn’t happier. I could see better. So much better.
Three things happened so quickly I couldn’t tell you which came first. My lips curled into a smile, a huge one. My chest felt like it filled with a tingly helium, growing and lifting. And my nose started to run. The last one might have had to do with my weepy eye, but maybe not.
“These drops are to prevent infection,” the doctor said, moving to write stuff on a pad of paper. “Your body is dealing with something new and we need to help it.”
He kept talking, but I wasn’t listening. I was looking at nearly everything in the room. The surgery only happened yesterday and already I could see so much better. My hands had pores. The carpet had intertwining circles and dots, not “vomit-speckled” like I’d described it to Grandma on an earlier visit. The wall was textured. The wood desk had dark grain marks in it. I had completely forgotten that furniture had those. It was like my life had started all over again.
A chuckle. “Has your vision improved?” the doctor asked.
I nodded.
He laughed again. “By the way you’re looking around, I think it’s improved quite a bit. We don’t always know right away.”
It had been years since I had seen this clearly. I closed my right eye to see the difference between it and my left. My left eye was still fuzzy, especially without my glasses on, and my vision went a little double. It wasn’t nearly as bad as my right had been. But when I opened my right eye again, it dominated. I could see so much better.
I looked over at Grandpa and Grandma. Was she crying? “This is a downright bless-the-heavens miracle,” she said.
Grandpa hugged her from the side. “Just like Drew Brees,” he mumbled to himself.
“Should we test this vision out?” the doctor asked.
I nodded, grinning like an idiot. I hadn’t actually ever wanted an eye test before. In elementary school, when I had to take them, I used to try to memorize what the kid in front of me said and repeat it. I couldn’t read enough on my own. But this one felt different. I could actually do this.
The doctor stood and turned the electric eye chart on. “Flint, it’s good to see you so happy.”
He had no idea.
After doing better on the eye test than I’d done in a very, very long time, I looked past everyone to see the separate tiles on the ceiling. Ouch! Lights. Too bright.
“You’ll still be quite sensitive to light,” the doctor said, noticing what had just happened. He reached across his computer and grabbed a pair of sunglasses. They reminded me of the safety glasses we use in woodshop, but tinted. “You’ll need these for the next few weeks. They’ll protect you from dust, light, anything hitting your eye.” He found another patch. “And sleep with this patch taped on so you don’t hurt anything in your sleep.” He handed the patch to Grandma.
I held the glasses in my hand. I wasn’t ready to dim my vision just yet.
“But what about his regular glasses?” Grandma asked.
“His right eye is great now, but it will take a little while until we know how much his prescription has changed,” the doctor said. “The eye has to settle a little. I’m hopeful that he may not need correction at all in that eye. It may get even better than it is now. If he feels like he can see well enough, he can wear the sunglasses I gave him, and put his contact in his left eye.”
“He doesn’t like wearing his contacts,” Grandma said.
“I’m fine,” I said. She was right, but I didn’t need her worried about me.
“Or if that’s too irritating, we can punch the right lens out of his glasses,” the doctor said, “and he could wear the sunglasses over them.”
I nodded. That sounded weird, but we could worry about that later.
The doctor kept talking. “Also—you can’t bend over for at least a few weeks. Don’t pick anything up off the ground, don’t tie your shoes, don’t try to lift anything.” This was repeated instruction from before. “It will change the pressure in your eye. Oh, and especially—no lifting weights.”
For some reason, Grandpa thought that last one was really funny. “Flint doesn’t lift weights,” he said. Thankfully the doctor kept going.
“Take it easy. No strenuous running or exercise. And you’ll want to adjust your wardrobe as well for the next little while. Button-up shirts so you don’t have to pull anything over your head. Elastic-waist pants so that you can remove them easily without bending over. Slip-on shoes so your laces don’t get untied.”
Whoa, that list was intense. And dorky. Grandma’s brow furrowed. I doubted we had the money for a new wardrobe as well as a new eye. I don’t think she was worried about the dorky part.
The doctor wheeled over on his rolling stool close to me again and looked at my eye. I noticed the embroidery on his white coat.
Dr. John Young, M.D.
Corneal Surgeon
Now I might be able to remember his name. We got some last instructions and hit the road. Despite wearing the sunglasses, I kept my eyes closed most of the way home. The light outside was harsher than inside the dim doctor’s office, but I did peek once in a while. I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see the leaves on the trees, the layers in the clouds, and the gravel off the side of the road. I wanted to see the clean lines of the store signs, the fabric weave of my shirt sleeves, the way light bounced off of all of the little bumps on the fake leather of the dashboard. I kept stealing glances at my grandma’s and grandpa’s faces. Still older and more tired than I thought. But also more—I could see so much more of them.
Tears gathered in the corner of my eyes. Not because they were dry and irritated but because I was so happy. I would have given the Hulk a bath just to look at the suds on his brown fur. I hated giving the Hulk his bath, but I was that happy.
The doctor had said my eye might get even better.
Better. That just felt unreal.
An idea flicked through my mind, something else I wanted to see. I was immediately antsy.
“When we get home,” Grandma said, “you should write a letter to the family of whoever gave you that cornea.”
“Absolutely,” I said. I was so grateful I would have done an interpretational thank-you dance for them if that was what they wanted. But then reality hit. “Wait—we don’t know who they are.” Grandma had already asked the doctor about the donor and was told there were laws that kept everything anonymous.
“True,” Grandma said, “but we can write a letter and the doctor’s staff can deliver it for us. If the family decides that it’s okay then we might even be able to meet them one day.”
“Like Deion Branch,” Grandpa said, “saying thank you.”
“Okay,” I said.
We pulled into the carport and I jumped out of the car and ran into the house. There was something in my room I had to see. And this time I wouldn’t have to squint.
The Hulk barked at me and I could see him better than ever. That crazy gamma-ray bulldog almost looked like he was smiling at me. Or drooling at me. Or both.
I said hello super-fast, rubbed his chubby bulldog cheeks, then ran down the hall. His bath would have to wait. Maybe for a long time. Nobody had asked me to do it, anyway. “Don’t run!” Grandma yelled after me. “You heard what the doctor said! Don’t run. Don’t run.”
She could call out all she wanted to. I had somewhere to . . . I slowed when I was only a fe
w steps from my room. I had to push against the wall to keep myself steady. My head pounded. Apparently, there was a good reason for the no-running advice, especially a day after surgery—my body wasn’t ready for that.
After a minute, I seemed to be alright. I walked into my room slowly and stared at my desk. My comic pages were sitting right in the center in neat stacks. I wouldn’t have to squint to see them. I wouldn’t have to tilt or twist. I wouldn’t have to focus through double vision.
Technically, I wasn’t supposed to read or write for a while. It would strain my eye too much. But the doctor didn’t say anything about drawing. He especially didn’t say anything about looking at drawings. My heart was pounding.
I sat down and closed my eyes for a moment, getting ready to get a good look at my work. I imagined Squint and the countless hours I’d spent drawing the underappreciated hero. I thought about all he had been through. And how much more time it was going to take to finish his story and be able to show it to the world. It was worth it. All this double vision, all the doctor visits—even the surgery had been worth it.
I opened wide and picked up the first sheet on the top. It was my latest sketch. Squint had just been saved by a diamond arm.
The layout was great. There was action and depth. But something was off.
My right eye was blurry with moisture so I blinked a few times, then used the back of my hand to wipe it away gently.
Better.
I looked at the page again. My heart slowed. I twisted the page and looked at it from different angles. I took off the protective glasses.
Squint was off. Disproportionate. Some of the angles and lines weren’t right at all. And that wasn’t the end. The whole page was off. Lines weren’t sharp. This wasn’t what I drew. It couldn’t be.
Maybe it was only the last few pages as my eyes deteriorated. I grabbed the next page on the stack. The metal castle was slightly tilted. It didn’t loom or look foreboding when it leaned—it looked like it was about to tip over. It’s tough for a hero to look awesome when the bad guy might be defeated by his own faulty architecture.