Booked, cooked and shook: My experience getting LASIK in Japan

“I’ve lost my glasses!” cries my grandmother for the hundredth time, glasses perched in her hair.

I sigh as I say, “I remember those days ... before I got LASIK,” as if I'm suddenly the star of my own infomercial.

You see, I'm what you call an "OLC" (Obnoxious LASIK Convert). We're always ready to spread the good word about the laser, and love to tell others just how great it is to be free of the stress of counting contact lens capsules before vacations, cleaning eyeglasses daily, and living in fear of a fate similar to the one that faced the bespectacled protagonist in a particularly creepy episode of “The Twilight Zone” titled “Time Enough at Last.”

The main thing holding most people back from this procedure is probably an instinct for self-preservation. The very mention of “surgery” and “eyes” in the same sentence will send a shiver down most anyone’s spine. This is where an OLC like me is happy to step in and be of service. I believe forewarned is forearmed and that knowledge is the most potent antidote to nightmare.

With that in mind, what follows is a detailed account of my own journey of receiving LASIK surgery in Japan.

The quest

At 25, I was a prime candidate for the laser. My minus-six eyes were officially the weakest in my family, scraping past my father’s astigmatic old-man eyeballs by age 20. My eyes were on the clock (or the blurry patch I thought might be a clock), waiting for my ophthalmologist to confirm my eyes had stopped changing. There’s no point getting LASIK if your prescription could still change, but my doctor assured me most people’s eyes stabilize by their late 20s.

That year, my ophthalmologist gave their blessing.

Additionally, I had geography’s blessing as I’d just moved to the Tokyo area to enroll in a Japanese language school. I rubbed my hands, delighted by the wealth of eye clinics around me, and set out on my research.

Across the usual forums and Facebook groups, one name popped up: Shinagawa LASIK Center.

“People are so thoughtful to put this information up there,” I thought. I read further. Not only were people eager to recommend the Shinagawa clinic (confusingly located in Yurakucho), they were also posting their coupon codes in droves.

“Use this coupon, and the procedure’s ¥50,000 off,” they wrote. I was nearly brought to tears. “People are so nice,” I thought. “Everyone is offering their coupons. I’ll definitely make sure to pay this good deed forward.”

The Shinagawa LASIK Center members were a little less altruistic — though no less helpful — than I assumed. The clinic operates under a referral code marketing system in which new clients get a discount and former clients get monetary rewards for reeling them in.

Altruism or self-interest aside, the system worked and Shinagawa LASIK Center was the top option that appeared on my browser. From that point, I only had eyes for them.

The test

Before locking in a surgery plan and date, the clinic requires a basic suitability examination. Notably, for this appointment, interpreters are optional. For non-native but confident speakers of Japanese, the appointment isn’t too hard to navigate.

Many of the tests and procedures here are identical to a typical ophthalmology appointment, including the infamous “air puff test,” which measures the pressure inside your eyeball and never fails to make me squirm. Japanese vision tests typically use the Landolt C chart, featuring rows of increasingly tiny, rotated “C” shapes.

The final, most memorable test is for corneal thickness. After applying numbing drops, the doctor lightly placed a blunt-ended instrument (an ultrasound pachymeter) against the center of one eye. The device then emitted an ultrasound. I felt nothing, thanks to the local anesthesia, but visually the ultrasound appeared like a ripple through my vision.

Corneal thickness measured, the lab technicians sped me into a separate room for my final consultation. I couldn’t help repeatedly blinking, since my eyes were still numb and slightly tingly; I had the sensation they were coated in rubber.

The LASIK consultant laid out several laminated sheets with machine photos, bullet points, stats and numbers.

“You have a very weird orbital bone,” he said.

“Why, thank you,” I replied. My hairdresser concurs, my head is curiously rugby ball-shaped, so this news was worrying but not surprising.

“The first machine we use needs to clamp down on your face to cut your eye properly,” he said. “Because your orbital bone is weird, it limits which machine we can use — we’ll have to use a more expensive model.”

It quickly became clear to me why LASIK prices fall within a broad range. Because of my funky orbital bone, as well as my high level of vision correction (minus-six), the older, cheaper machines would be too risky. While not the most expensive set on the menu (using state-of-the-art machines, the price can rocket up to ¥800,000), my surgery was on the more costly end at approximately ¥500,000 (with the current low yen that equals around $3,400). Before the discount, of course.

The menu decided, I locked in an appointment the following week for a final eye exam and the surgery proper. I was amazed by how quickly it all was happening.

I had two homework assignments in the meantime: Give up contact lenses and use glasses for seven days (since lenses leave impressions in the eye and can affect examination results) and find a Japanese interpreter.

“We require it for all non-native Japanese speakers,” a consultant at the front desk explained. “Just in case there’s a problem or a panic, we want to make sure you have support.”

The stress

The intervening week seemed to crawl by. I was excited for the eye surgery and also annoyed at having to spend the days like Poindexter behind a set of coke bottle glasses. I hadn’t worn specs regularly since middle school.

The interpreter my friend found was a young man named Kenta: a professional jujitsu artist with arms thicker than my legs. Arriving in Yurakucho around 9 a.m. on the morning of the final exam and surgery, I pretended Kenta was not just my interpreter but a sort of celebrity bodyguard. Hey, whatever calms you down, right?

Together, we sped into the LASIK center and began the final tests. These were quick — they triple-checked my vision correction, narrowing it down to a precise decimal. They then accepted my discounted ¥450,000 fee (in cash), and asked us to remain nearby until the surgery, at 3 p.m. sharp.

“Have lunch, have a coffee,” a member of staff said, “just please be back on time.”

We snacked on cheap pseudo-Italian food in the mall across the road — my treat since Kenta was charging so little for interpreting.

“You nervous?” he asked.

My heart fluttered, my feet tapped. I shimmied my shoulders against the back of my chair.

“Nope.”

“I always thought about getting LASIK,” Kenta sighed. “I have to wear contacts whenever I wrestle.”

“Who knows,” I responded, “with the amount I’m paying, maybe they’ll throw in a little freebie for you?”

He laughed. I popped a roasted cherry tomato into my mouth and felt it squish.

The clock hit 3 p.m., and we were met with a quick succession of locker rooms, scrubs and hairnets. Suddenly, Kenta and I were sitting in a waiting room, dressed and prepped like characters from a hospital drama. A variety show buzzed on the TV while a couple of other twitchy patients stared into space — none of us were wearing glasses at this point, so perhaps the TV was a useless gesture. They called my name, and we marched into the first operation room.

Besides brawn, I should point out that Kenta was a man with brains. He was spectacularly bilingual and spat out medical words such as “irradiation” (shōsha) and “anesthesia” (masui) left and right — though he did occasionally mix the latter up with “euthanasia.”

“So in this room, please sit on the table and the doctors will apply the euthanasia,” he whispered.

My eyes grew round.

“I mean — anesthesia. Sorry, my bad. They’ll give you local anesthesia.”

Much better.

Machine No. 1: “The Can Opener”

These next few sections are not for the squeamish. As I’d learned during my consultation the week before, the first machine uses a thin laser to make a circular incision in your corneal flaps, allowing the doctors to peel them open later.

Lying on my back, I watched the machine’s laser aperture descending over my face. A technician covered my left eye as the machine locked down on my right. It hummed against my face like an overeager cat.

For a moment — sudden shock! — my vision went completely dark as the Can Opener disrupted my optic nerve. I lay still as I heard and felt the machine traversing its circular path around my cornea. No pain — only vibrating pressure. Then my vision returned and I heaved an internal sigh of relief.

The technicians blocked out my right eye and moved the aperture to my left.

When I popped up a few seconds later, a technician slipped a pair of goggles onto my face. I didn’t feel particularly different. My vision was as blurry as before. I had a brief moment of confusion; was the operation complete?

“He said the flaps of your eyes are open now,” Kenta explained. “So keep your goggles on and your eyes closed as much as possible. It’s easy for your eyes to dry out!”

“My flaps are open?” I gasped. “How embarrassing.”

“We’ll just go down the hall now to the next room,” Kenta added. “Then there will be a second operation.”

The two of us shuffled down the fluorescent-lit hallway to another doorway, where chairs lined the wall. We sat down to wait. I dutifully closed my eyes so my flaps would stay moist.

“If your eyes start to sting or itch, the doctor said to let them know,” Kenta instructed. “They’ll apply more euthanasia.”

I turned my head toward him.

“... I mixed them up again, didn’t I? Oh, I’m so sorry!”

In the middle of our giggle, the doors to the second operation room opened and the nurses steered us in.

Machine No. 2: “The Barbecue Grill”

The second machine produces a broad laser into your bared corneas, changing the thickness in order to correct your vision.

This was a much friendlier device. Nothing clamped or pinched my face, nor did my vision turn black. Indeed, the laser aperture on this machine kept a respectful distance from my face at all times.

After I laid down on the table beneath the aperture, technicians removed my goggles, pulled open my eyelids “Clockwork Orange”-style and gently peeled back my cornea flaps. They squeezed liberal amounts of eye drops into my eyes, and I settled in happily. About a foot above me, I could see the blurry green blob of the aperture.

“Please stare at the green light and don’t move. We’ll begin,” said a doctor in Japanese. “Thirty seconds to go.”

“Thirty seconds,” Kenta said in English.

The Barbecue Grill hummed. A beam struck my eye, like a reddish snowflake across my vision. The green blob above me began sharpening, narrowing to a tiny green light.

“Fifteen more seconds,” said the doctor.

“Fifteen more seconds,” Kenta chimed in, somewhat excitedly.

There was a delicious, tantalizing smell in the room. Like fresh barbecue. It was my own smell, I realized — my cornea sizzling. My stomach growled and I wondered if Kenta wanted to grab dinner afterward.

“Five more. Three ... two ...”

“Five more seconds, Kat. Just a few more,” Kenta confirmed.

The green light had become a crisp dot. This was the moment I’d waited years for — through a single eye, my vision was perfect. Sharp, exact. The world was clear as a winter's day.

The technicians dropped my flaps in place and squeegeed them down with soft tools, like tiny window washers, till they were tightly sealed to my eyeball once more. Then the Barbecue Grill hummed to the other side of my face, and they went to work on the second eye.

When we left the final operation room, Kenta's eyes were bright and he was grinning.

“Kat, it’s a good thing I like horror movies,” he said. “I didn’t tell you, but I could see on the monitor every single thing they did to your eyes. It was really creepy!”

The rest

My vision was exquisite — it was astounding, the immediacy of the thing. Of course, I’d heard this before from other friends who’d had LASIK, but it was amazing to experience for myself. My eyesight was as crisp as the first day in a fresh contact prescription.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep my eyes open for very long at the risk of losing their precious moisture.

Kenta and I sat in a crowded waiting room for our final papers and instructions. My goggles were on, my eyes closed. As an hour dragged by, a stinging and tightening sensation in my eyes began to grow. It was a relief when they finally called my name, squirted more drops in my eyes and gave me my exit paperwork.

“The first day is the most difficult. Your eyes might hurt; they might get very dry,” a doctor said. “Wear your goggles constantly — especially when you sleep. You don’t want to hit your eyes while the flaps are still healing.”

I was suddenly exhausted. My roommate met us at the entrance of the clinic where Kenta handed me over.

“Doggggg,” my roommate croaked. “Those look like old lady glasses.”

She peered closely at my sleepy eyes. “You can see me, right?”

“Seeing is a strong word,” I mumbled, eyes half-closed. I waved a hand, searching for Kenta’s shoulder. “Thanks, Kenta. Thank you so, so much.”

“Congratulations, Kat,” he said. “You got this. Rest well!”

The long train ride back to our apartment in Yokohama was a painful one. The LASIK Center had given me small bottles of numbing drops, antibiotic drops and basic lubrication drops, which I was to cycle through regularly, but on the train I was too jostled to risk it. And so I hunkered down miserably until we arrived at our station.

Home, a round of eye drops, and a shower — everything was becoming rosy again. I was well on my way to becoming a full-fledged OLC. I regaled my roommate for hours with morbid stories of the surgery and insisted she book an appointment. When I finally settled down for sleep (goggles in place), I slept as deeply as the dead.

The clinic called Kenta and I back the day after, the week after and, finally, a month after to check on my progress. Within 24 hours, I was basically symptom-free: The goggles felt more like a formality in case a bowling ball hit me in the face or something. At the doctor’s instruction, I threw out the numbing drops but continued applying the antibiotics and lubricants for a further two weeks.

At night, bright lights formed “halos” in my vision, a common side-effect of LASIK, but these barely registered to me and gradually faded as the months wore on.

I was exhilarated.

At my language school, despite my dorky-looking grandma glasses, I had a new swagger about the place. I was a freshly minted member of the OLC — a convert to LASIK! My only other classmate who’d had the procedure understood. Our eyes would meet in the hallway from time to time, and we’d exchange a quiet smile and a nod.

Now I can appreciate the small joys I haven't known since my childhood, like waking up in the morning, opening my eyes and seeing the world crystal clear. But more so than the things I notice, I appreciate the surgery for the things I no longer have to notice: worrying about my contact lens supply, for example, or whether my glasses are too out-of-date, or if I could survive blind on a deserted island if my plane crashed.

In the end, LASIK gave me more than just good vision. It gave me back a sense of simplicity.