In the Star Trek shows and films, someone can yell out, with grave urgency or casual cheer, “Scotty, beam me up” then off they go. But when they land back in the ship after escaping the clutches of attacking lizard-headed creatures or the like, they often have a moment of looking just a little shaken up (except for Spock of course, who is almost always composed).
Every surgery I’ve been through for is akin to being rematerialized in a new place, perhaps in a way that humans might be if they could be transported through particle accelerators without dissolving or exploding in the process. Then again, surgery is like this: you go into a space transporter device made of anesthesia, then you wake up somewhere else changed in big or little ways. I’ve rematerialized over the years in various expeditions without breasts or with a radioactive disk inserted in my eye. Even after the small surgeries, like having scar tissue and a cataract removed last fall, I came to consciousness changed. I think this is true of eye surgeries especially because while eyes are small, what they see if humongous.
A week ago, I did a short stint in the transporter to have my eyelid sewn in a way that would allow me to finally open and keep open my right eye (the muscles were damaged in treatment for an ocular melanoma). It was a short ride in the transporter because, even through I was thankfully very numb during the procedure, the doctor needed me awake enough to open and close my eye repeatedly and keep looking down at my feet, a trick when lying down, but I’ve had a lot of practice with this over the last two years.
Then I was rolled back to the recovery room, sat up, and, with Ken’s help, put on my jacket and scarf. Then we were home, and as all the marvelous magic of the numbing meds wore away, I hurt but mitigated it with some over-the-counter meds. Then it was the next day, and as the week unfolded, I realized having a much more open eye meant I could see a lot more. But it also meant that I was shaken up in new ways, as if some of me was still in one place and the rest was here. During this full landing in one place, I was dizzy, nauseas, disoriented, eye-strained, and wiped out, which turned out not to be a good match for many Zoom coaching sessions while also working in Google Docs (thanks to my coachees who helpfully rescheduled with me for next week).
As I start to come out of this, rematerializing as a two-eyed seeing creature, there’s a lot to grapple with, namely that my right eye — surprise! because I couldn’t see this for so long — seems to be Minnie-Mouse-dilated, likely permanently (but I will find out more about that soon). This explains why this magic and challenged eye sees a much brighter and at times light-blasted world than my left eye. Of course, I’m also legally blind in this eye, which is a strange way of saying I can see with it but in the language of impressionist paintings.
But there’s mainly joy here in Mudville, especially as the nausea relents (thank you, candied ginger and time), of seeing a vaster scope, and when I look in the mirror, seeing both eyes open and learning their new recalibration dance of tracking together. One thing that continually dazzles me is how the eyes can innovate and reset themselves to find new ways to team up, very much like the heart as we go through another $%&#@# learning adventure.
As we find our way to the other side of the transport, all has the potential to wake us up to nuances and vistas of this world. I’m reminded of what Antoine de Saint-Exupéry writes in The Little Prince: “And now here is my secret, a very simple secret: It is only with the heart that one can see rightly; what is essential is invisible to the eye.” True that, but also, what becomes more visible to the eye can show the heart how to see.
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