With the surgical blade poised above my right eye, the last thing on my mind is moving. I'm not even breathing.

"Are you with me?" Dr. Anthony J. Kameen asks.

"Yes," I say.

I'm really not breathing: If I can just get through the next few minutes of this new kind of laser surgery, I have a good chance at being able to see clearly for the first time in my life, of going from 20/400 vision to 20/20.

For as long as I can remember, I've had poor vision. Photos of my childhood show black eyes and bruising - being a tomboy is difficult when you can't see.

I cheated on elementary-school eye tests, memorizing the answers of the students in front of me, but teachers eventually caught on. By sixth grade, I sported an extremely unattractive pair of spectacles to correct my nearsightedness and astigmatism.

After college, I tried wearing contact lenses, but they felt gummy and uncomfortable.

By the time radial keratotomy eye surgery came around more than a decade ago, I was ready to consider it. But the thought of someone making pizza-slice cuts in my cornea was unnerving.

Then just over a year ago, I started hearing ads for a new kind of laser surgery, laser-assisted in situ keratomileusis.

I called an 800 number (800-441-2456) and learned about LASIK from the LCA Vision Center affiliate at Greater Baltimore Medical Center. Easier than radial keratotomy. Safer. Better results. Less pain. (I particularly liked that part.)

Instead of making numerous cuts to reshape a cornea to correct vision, the LASIK doctor makes one cut to create a flap of cells, folds that back, then corrects the vision by using a laser to remove vision-distorting bulges. The flap is replaced, making for quick healing.

LCA offered a free evaluation, but I chickened out.

This summer, I received an updated brochure that mentioned 12-months-same-as-cash financing - an attractive deal for surgery that costs about $5,000 and is not covered by insurance.

But the deciding factor didn't come in a brochure. It came on my night stand.

I was awakened by noise one morning. Groggily, I turned to the digital clock on my night stand.

1:05 p.m.

Ack! I was due at work - 30 minutes away - in 25 minutes. I started to call my boss, bending closer to the clock to calculate just how late I would be.

7:05 a.m.

I'd mistaken the 7 for a 1.

I still had five hours to sleep.

After I woke up again, I became convinced that I should at least see if LASIK was an option. I'd seen Kameen do the eyes of Ravens player Benny Thompson live on television, so I thought the operation couldn't be that difficult.

At GBMC, a consultant told me I was a good candidate for the surgery. But I had lots of questions about my expected results. What is the likelihood I would achieve 20/40 vision or better with only one surgery? (98.8 percent; average is 97.5 percent.) 20/20? (93.5 percent; average is 93 percent.) How many surgeries had Kameen done? (4,000.) Of those, how many eyes had serious complications? (Four, but all were later successfully re-treated with LASIK surgery.)

I agreed to further evaluation, basically a complete eye exam including a computer-mapping of my eye. As I stared into a target of lights, an ultrasonic evaluation of my cornea showed the doctor where my eye was misshapen. From the looks of the printout, I had the Rocky Mountains in one eye and the Andes in the other.

My surgery was set for Aug. 31.

Reaction from family and friends was decidedly unmixed:

"You're going to do WHAT?"

"Ewwwwwww."

"Why would you get your eyeballs sliced open?"

"What if they mess up?"

But there is no turning back. The morning of surgery, I sign a release and financing papers and then pop the 10 milligram Valium tablet given to me. I want the Valium to work quickly, because I need it. My hands clench the arms of my chair in the lobby. I make mindless small talk.

Soon, they are ready for me. I move to the next waiting area to be prepped. For my post-op recovery period, I am given a clutch bag of drops and nighttime eye shields - and very large, very ugly sunglasses. My hair is bundled into a surgical cap. I am given anesthetic drops to numb my eyes.

Minutes later, I walk into a dimly lighted room with a large machine in the center. I take my place at the table, where Kameen's assistant takes my glasses.

"I forgot I had them on," I say with a giggle. My eyes tear when I realize that, if this works, I'll never have to put them on again.

Then the surgery begins.

Kameen inserts a speculum in my eye to spread my eyelids apart so he can cut a flap thinner than a hair on the membrane covering my cornea. The paper-clip-sized speculum wires are uncomfortable, but not painful.

"In the next few seconds, you're going to feel pressure, followed by a dimming of your vision," he says. "Are you with me now?"

"Yes." Please, don't let it hurt. Please don't let me squirm. Please let me be brave.

I see a disk placed on my eye. This is the suction device that will hold my eye steady as Kameen cuts.

"Pressure now," Kameen says. I feel pushing on my eye. "Now your job is to try not to squeeze either eye. Keep both eyes open."

Within a couple of seconds, my vision dims and darkness follows.

"The motor's going to start now," he says.

I hear the whir. I'm scared. I brace myself for pain.

It doesn't come.

"Pressure off, please," he says. "And the hard part is over."

My insides do a Snoopy dance. The first cut is painless!

"Now what I'm going to do is lift up this flap, Jo," he says. "You won't feel that at all, but you're going to notice quite a bit of blurring when I do that. That'll start now. Isn't that weird? Very bizarre."

It looks as if he's pulling a thin contact lens across my eye, or a piece of plastic wrap. He's right. It is weird. But I don't feel a thing.

He turns off the lights - all except for the red light in front of my eye, but I have a hard time seeing it. Soon, however, I see a red blur. My job is to stare at that light while the laser reshapes my cornea.

Kameen tells me the treatment on my right eye will last for 25 seconds. A fan turns on; it sounds like a vacuum cleaner. Then the laser pulses with a metallic clank as a technician counts down.

Twenty seconds. "Couldn't be better," Kameen says.

Fifteen seconds. Ten seconds. Five, four, three, two, one.

He uses tweezers to reposition the flap. It feels odd. Wet and soothing. He drips water on my eye as he carefully positions the flap. I struggle to blink, but the speculum holds strong.

"A little more water," he says.

I want to blink. But mostly, I want the speculum OUT of my eye. It doesn't hurt, but it has hit the limits of my discomfort scale.

For two minutes, he watches my eye to make sure the flap adheres properly. It bonds back to the cornea like rubber cement. The eye's own perfect Band-Aid.

"Everything looks great," the doctor says.

I feel detached. Quiet. But I manage a feeble "yes" when he asks if I'm OK. I ask for the speculum to be removed. He promises only a couple of seconds more.

"I was going to give you the speculum as a souvenir," he jokes as he removes it, "but I guess now I won't."

They prepare the laser for my left eye. "Do you need a break?" he asks. Kameen's assistant suggests I breathe. I do, then tell them I'm OK and ready to continue. Mostly, I want to get this done before the Valium and anesthetic drops wear off.

"You'll be walking out of this room in five minutes," he says.

The first order of business: speculum in the left eye. My left eye clamps shut, refusing to have anything to do with it. I take a breath and steel myself for a second try. The eye behaves.

I'm ready for the flap-and-zap surgery, but I'm tired and have to be reminded repeatedly to watch the light and not squeeze my eyes.

This time I feel the microkeratome's cut, a slight vibrating feeling. Kameen says many patients seem to notice the device work on that side, because of the angle. It's not painful, but I'm a bit unnerved. I want this to be over.

The flap is lifted. Just 24 seconds for this eye.

"Really nice," the doctor says, then puts water on the eye. "I don't think you like that much."

He's right. I don't. I feel cranky and I want the speculum out.

"Are you breathing?" he asks.

"I don't think so," I say, and manage a slight laugh. And he takes the hated speculum out.

I'm ready to sit up. I blink, trying to see whether the surgery worked. Blink. Squint. Blink. But exhaustion, dim light and cloudy vision prevent me from seeing much of anything clearly. More eye drops - I've lost count of how many I've had by this time.

"What you're going to notice when you leave here is that the world is going to be pretty smoky ... probably until bedtime."

He's right. Everything is hazy, gauzy. But the basic vision is clear enough for me to read license plates as I'm driven home. I'm reading license plates!

He also warns me that my eyes will probably burn or feel scratchy.

He's wrong. I'm tired by the time I get home - from Valium, loss of adrenalin or the lack of sleep the night before - so I take a four-hour nap after carefully taping the sleep shields over my eyes so I don't rub them in my sleep.

By the time I wake up, much of the haze is gone. I'm amazed. I can't stop looking at objects all around the room, testing my vision against what it was before. I show off for my sister-in-law by reading TV listings. I can't stop smiling. A few hours later, however, I fall asleep, exhausted.

At my follow-up appointment the next day, Kameen will tell me I'm on my way to 20/20 vision. I'll walk from chilly to humid air without lenses to fog. I'll learn the joys of peripheral vision, of seeing my feet as I walk down stairs.

But when my alarm rings that morning, I don't need Kameen to tell me how the surgery went. I look through my eye shields toward my clock and grin as my pain-free eyes see crystal-clear evidence from three feet away:

7:30 a.m.

Recovery diary

My LASIK eye surgery took less than 15 minutes, after a brief retesting of my eyes and anesthetic drops. The post-op recovery period was a bit longer, but just as smooth:

Day 1: Surgery. I read license plates on the way home. Dr. Anthony J. Kameen calls to make sure I'm doing well. I am.

Day 2: Kameen tells me that right eye is 20/20; left is 20/30. I stop by the office on the way home to pick up my own car. "Last visit before surgery?" someone asks. My eyes aren't even red. I read for three hours that night.

Day 3: Eyes hurt like the devil from all the reading. It feels as if I have an eyelash in each eye. After a few more hours of sleep, however, they feel fine. I go to an Orioles game.

Day 4: I'm among the first in line when the MVA office opens in Columbia. I get my very first unrestricted driver's license. I stop by the office - "How many fingers?" I'm asked at least 20 times. My favorite comment was from a woman who knew something was different about my look: "I love your hair!"

Day 5: I notice my left eye is seeing about the same as my right eye.

Day 9: First day back at work. I have to put tear-replacement drops in my eyes 10 times because reading for nine hours straight dries out my eyes.

Day 10: I test 20/20 in both eyes at my second follow-up appointment. Some fuzziness remains at times, particularly when my eyes are dry.

Day 15: Vision is much more stable, and dryness is diminishing by leaps and bounds.

- Jo Bremer

What time is it?

Before surgery, my 20/400 sight made it difficult to see clocks - even those with bold numbers. Is it 11:10 or 1:55? Now my 20/20 vision makes it possible to see the time - and even the skinny red second hand - on this clock.

- Jo Bremer

Jo Bremer is The Sun's assistant national editor.

Pub Date: 9/20/98