Way back in 2003, I pooh-pooh LASIK surgery.
Spoiler alert: A couple years later, I had LASIK surgery.
Perhaps it was when I corrected the misunderstanding:
Pardon me, but my family doesn’t have a generations-long tradition for opening the front of the eyeball like a can of french-cut green beans and firing a computer-guided thing-we-used-to-call-a-“laser” against the retina until it scorched enough of the cones and rods to make things better, as though it was a military expedition to win over the hearts and minds of my optic nerve with napalm. Oh, yeah, and then they close it back up, and it either works or you’re blind, oops.
The laser doesn’t work on the retina after all.
