Under the Banyan Tree

I have very poor eyesight. In fact, I'm myopic. Or myopic plus. So when I recently determined I would have Lasik, after years of hesitance or fear or straight up refusal to allow even the most skilled surgeon to take a stab -- literally -- at my cornea,  a generous doctor (who performs pro bono cataract procedures in Ethiopia every summer) informed me, nicely but firmly, that I was not a candidate. I am what they call hyper-myopic. My sight is beyond Lasik correction. There is, Dr. Nice Guy mentioned while removing a brochure from the pile on his desk next to the framed picture of him and a smiling cataract surgery patient, an option, a refractive surgery that entails folding a lens -- like a taco, he said -- and inserting it behind my iris. But I'm too young to opt for the procedure yet, so I'll have to wait. Damnit. In the meantime I'll continue to order boxes of six pairs of contact lenses that I change every two weeks and confront, or at least deal with, the insec