Brian McGuffog

We looked into each other's eyes while we had sex the morning of my surgery. It was powerful, and passionate. She rolled out of bed, and I grabbed my glasses from the nightstand to watch her get ready, like I did every morning. She stood on her toes to put on mascara, and I watched her through the mirror by the door. She caught me and smiled. I winked back. We were creatures of habit and I loved our mornings as much as I loved her.

I was so excited to see her through perfect eyes — I was getting PRK (photorefractive keratectomy — similar to LASIK) laser eye surgery in three hours. But it was the last morning I would ever see her that way.

At the doctor's office, they gave me Valium, dropped anesthetic in my eyes, and laid me down. My recovery was slated for four days, they reminded me. I wouldn't be able to open my eyes for the first two days and I liked the idea of it — just me and her, no TV or phones. The doctors pried my eyelids open and cut off the top layer of my cornea. The colors of the laser in my eye were beautiful — like the spots you see when you stare at the sun. Then, it was over in five minutes. They put me in a chair with the lights off, I took a Vicodin, and sat in the dark with my eyes closed.

She came to take me home, leading me by the hand to the elevator. When she opened the door to the outside, the sounds of the city erupted in my head, enhanced by my lack of vision. It was rush hour in Midtown Manhattan. Bodies brushed by. Every break in the sidewalk scared me. I clutched her arm like a child until she got me in a cab and played with my hair all the way home.

On the evening of my fourth day of recovery, I went outside to open my eyes for the first time since surgery, and felt the most incredible pain I'd ever known — shocking, searing pain. I stumbled back inside and found a mirror. My eye was swelling shut. By the time she got home, I was on the floor.

On the phone with the doctor, they told her to take me to Urgent Care. At that point, I could no longer see out of my right eye. It was Friday night in the East Village, and emergency care was packed — a four- to six-hour wait, they said. There was nowhere to sit.

"Look at my eye," I shouted at a nurse. "Look at it." There was no white left. It was blood-red. A kid cried when he saw me and his mom pulled him away. One nurse took pity and bumped us to the front of the line. The young doctor I saw told me that I had a severe ulcer in the cornea of my right eye and called for backup. They hooked me up to a handful of machines and shined lights in my eye so bright I almost threw up.

"Will I be able to see out of my eye?" I asked.

"I can't tell you that."

"What do you mean?"

"We'll just have to see."

She held my hand tighter.

"Please, just tell me something." I said. "Please."

The doctor kept drawing pictures of the ulcer in my eye.

"It's hard to tell at this point," he said. "It is one of the worst infections I've seen."

She took me home, where I mostly stayed for the next month. I went to the doctor every day, where they monitored the infection and shined brighter lights in my eye. We had an alarm set every hour, 24 hours, to administer all my medication. I was so weak, and she had to help me with everything. There were times when I'd get annoyed and push her away. She wasn't doing the drops right. That wasn't true, but I hated looking weak and unable in front of her. For the past nine months, I'd been trying so hard to prove I could take care of her, and then this. I wasn't man enough to be a good boyfriend.

We hadn't had sex, since the day of the surgery. I didn't feel sexy, or strong enough. I felt like an teenager again, unsure of my body and myself. I became what I feared for as long as I could remember: undesirable.

It had been four weeks, but now they said my recovery would be six months to a year, and there was still that chance that I would never see right again. I popped more Vicodin.

Brian McGuffog

Then, at the end of the first month, she saved me with a pair of thigh-high stockings. I came in from the shower, and she started to seduce me. She had tried several times before, but I was never up for it. I always blamed my eye. I wasn't sexy. I couldn't do it. This time, though, she put on the stockings and grabbed me in a way that I couldn't say no to. So I didn't. I didn't need my eyes for this.

We kissed in the way that only leads one direction. She forced me to see that I was desired, wanted. She made me see myself as a strong sexual being again. I felt human. I felt my strength rush back into my shoulders as I picked her up and laid her down on the bed. We made love for the first time since the morning of my surgery. The pain went away (temporarily, but still).

Within a few days, I threw away the Vicodin. The pain in my eye remained, but I could handle more. When I felt sick, I drank lots of water and went to bed — with her. Each time we were in bed together, I felt myself grow stronger and more confident that I could heal.

Three months later, I still get occasional migraines and nausea. I can't go on planes and no, I can't see clearly out of the eye. I wrote this in pencil. But I can handle it. I have something to escape into when I need to. And I learned that I don't need to have perfect vision to love her. I learned that it's OK to be the vulnerable one. It's OK to need her, and I do.

I can see that now.

Brian McGuffog

Disclaimer: The "she" in this story is an employee of Cosmopolitan.com.

Find Brian's photography at BrianMcGuffog.com.

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