Why I trusted an eye surgeon nicknamed 'Dr Blindstein' to make me see clearly again!
...And If he could fix her eyes, he could fix anyone's, says ISABEL OAKESHOTT
MY EYESIGHT has been an issue since I was eight. As a girl, I had pink plastic glasses, which were always falling apart. Every year, my myopia (short-sightedness) became worse. Aged 16, I was allowed contact lenses, which was liberating — but my eyesight kept deteriorating.
Then I developed astigmatism, an imperfection in the curvature of the cornea. It means the eye is shaped more like a rugby ball than a football, so light is focused at more than one place. This further complicated my prescription.
By my 30s, I was running out of options for contact lenses. I came to dread my annual appointments with the optician, who would tell me off for wearing lenses for more than the recommended number of hours a day.
Without lenses or glasses, I couldn’t even see my own face in the mirror. I thought my prescription (around -12 with - 3 astigmatism) was too extreme for laser eye surgery. High Street clinics won’t treat patients like me because they do not see enough of us to develop the expertise.
Then I heard about Professor Dan Reinstein in London. He specialises in complex cases that other clinics won’t consider. Could he treat me?
MARCH 2017
I EMAIL the clinic with a copy of my prescription. They reply, sounding optimistic. I’ll need tests and scans to assess whether I’m suitable. They want a €580 deposit, which they’ll refund if they can’t operate. If they can, the cost will be €7,400. I take a deep breath and hand over my credit card.
APRIL 2017
THE clinic is lovely. There are plush sofas and fresh flowers. A flat-screen TV has David Attenborough on a loop. But this is my eyes we’re talking about — the decor doesn’t matter. Can they fix me?
For the next two hours, I sit in consultation rooms, staring at flickering lights, letters and shapes through machines. I have drops of orange dye inserted into my eyes; my pupils are dilated and I try not to blink while they take endless photos.
Nurses measure everything from the thickness of my corneas to the dryness of my eyes — as the procedure involves an incision in the cornea, it is essential there is enough tissue to work with.
Some people are born with thin corneas, meaning they’re unsuitable.
Finally, I get to see Professor Reinstein’s assistant, Vimal. He delivers the verdict: I’m suitable for surgery! But there’s a catch. My eyes are too dry. Laser surgery affects the nerves on the surface of the eye, interrupting tear production.
Eyes can be very dry post-surgery, which is uncomfortable and makes it harder to see well. I need to treat my eyes with artificial tears before booking surgery so that they’re in the best possible shape.
That night, I have dinner with a friend and tell him my exciting news.
‘It’s not Professor Reinstein, is it?’ he asks, sounding worried. ‘Yes?’ I reply. ‘Oh God,’ he groans — and reveals that none other than British foreign secretary Boris Johnson had his eyes lasered by the professor and now nicknames him ‘Professor Blindstein’.
I’m crestfallen. I resolve to do more research.
MAY 2017
I DECIDE not to be put off by the ‘Blindstein’ thing. Boris certainly hasn’t been spotted wandering around with a white stick. He’s also prone to flowery language.
And Professor Reinstein’s reputation is unblemished. He’s operated on thousands of patients. People come to him from all over the world. I’m going ahead with it.
For six weeks, I have to make my eyes less dry, using a variety of eyelid wipes, eye gels and artificial tears. At night, I have to smear my eyes with a gummy paste. It’s horrible, but it will be worth it if it works.
I return to the clinic: the ointments and pastes have done the trick and I’m ready for the operation.
I’ll be having something called ReLEx SMILE or ‘keyhole’ LASIK.
SMILE (small incision lenticule extraction) is a newer, less invasive procedure than standard LASIK laser eye surgery (see box, below).
Instead of raising a flap in the cornea to remove a bit of the tissue below and change the cornea’s shape, an infrared laser creates a tiny tunnel or ‘keyhole’, through which the surgeon draws the tissue out.
In an approach pioneered by Professor Reinstein, my left eye is going to be left slightly ‘undercorrected’ (still a little short-sighted) so that, as my eyes age, I will have better ‘near vision’.
Hopefully, this means I won’t need reading glasses for a long time. If I’m really lucky, the procedure will give me 20/20 vision.
However, there are no guarantees and it could take two operations to achieve full correction.
Long-term, after a decade or so, as my eyes naturally change, I might need more surgery to fine-tune the results.
Vimal talks me through everything that could go wrong. If I’m really unlucky, my eyesight might get worse. Could I go blind? Apparently not. The most serious risk is an infection post-operation, but this is extremely rare. The risks of something significant going wrong are less than one in 1,000.
Something else is bothering me: Vimal says I might have ‘cloudy vision’ for several weeks afterwards, because of corneal swelling. And my brain will take time to adjust to my new eyes. Vimal stresses it’s ‘a bit of a journey’.
JULY 2017
I BOOK surgery for September, then cancel. Autumn is the busiest period in the political calendar. As a jour-
nalist, I don’t want to attend party conferences with blurry vision! In truth, I’m wobbling. I can see fine with my glasses and contacts. What if it goes wrong? Why am I putting myself through this?
DECEMBER 2017
I TALK it over with a friend whose eyes were as bad as mine, until he was treated by Professor Reinstein. He says it’s one of the best things he’s ever done. I ask my sister, who had laser eye surgery ten years ago — she says it’s one of the best things she’s ever done, too. I re-book for January 19. AT the clinic, I have to go through all the examinations again, in case anything has changed.
Perhaps because I’m tired, one of the tests affects me more than it did the first time. For the rest of the day, I can’t read or see my phone. I can’t judge distances and it’s clear I shouldn’t drive. I hate it! What if the operation goes wrong and I’m left like this?
That night, I have a bit of a meltdown — but I don’t cancel.
JANUARY 18, 2018
TWENTY-FOUR hours to go. As instructed, I’ve not worn contact lenses for a week. It’s been torture. Today, I’m not allowed to wear make-up in case particles get in my eyes. Glasses and a bare face!
At my pre-surgery appointment, I finally get to meet Professor Reinstein. He studies my optical measurements and suddenly goes very quiet. My heart sinks: after all this, what’s wrong? Nothing — he just wants to perform a slightly different procedure, which he thinks will produce better results. It’s very technical, but relates to the size of the incision he’ll make.
The technique he wants to use is approved (‘CE marked’) for lower prescriptions than mine (up to -8.75), but he knows it is safe and effective for patients like me. I’ll be part of a clinical trial designed to demonstrate current guidelines are too conservative.
I’m a little nervous: who wants to be a guinea pig? Professor Reinstein reassures me he has already done this successfully — and published his results — in hundreds of eyes for prescriptions like mine (and higher). So it’s not really an experiment! I’m in.
Annoyingly, clinical trial regulations mean I must have seven days to consider, so we have to postpone. It’s a blow, but I’m determined to press ahead.
I feel the need to broach the ‘Blindstein’ thing. Nervously, I tell him. He roars with laughter.
‘After 28,000 procedures, I haven’t blinded anyone yet!’ he says.
THE DAY OF SURGERY
I ARRIVE at the clinic excited, but nervous. I’m given a bag full of medicine: four types of eyedrops, painkillers and a sleeping pill. A spreadsheet explains what needs to be taken when. A nurse inserts numbing drops into my eyes.
Then they take away my glasses. I’m guided along a corridor, the nurse pointing out steps and corners. Professor Reinstein’s in the operating theatre, all scrubbed up, but, without my specs, I can’t even see him. I lie down.
Ten minutes later, it’s all over. Stressful and scary, but not painful. Professor Reinstein talked reassuringly throughout, so I knew what was happening.
I sit up in the operating theatre. My head is swimming, but I’m amazed: I can see the professor’s face! Vimal said there would be no ‘light-bulb moment’. He was wrong: I can read the clock on the wall!
I’m overwhelmed. The professor sits with me while I do my best to hold it together. ‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he says. And it is.
Immediately after the operation, the eyes are very sensitive to light, so it’s best to keep them shut for a few hours. This is also the key risk period for infection: I can’t afford to be exposed to dust or other particles, meaning no public transport for a few days.
Back at my flat, I spend the afternoon in a darkened room. The clinic has given me a bleeper that goes off every half-hour, when I need to insert antibiotic drops.
After four hours in the dark, I can start getting back to normal. I’m already thrilled. My sight isn’t perfect, but it’s pretty good.
For the next week, I have to wear goggles in bed, in case I accidentally rub or bash my eyes in my sleep. I look ridiculous, but I don’t care — my contact lenses are in the bin!
A WEEK LATER
MY VISION has been fluctuating, especially in the morning, when it can be quite blurry. This is linked to dryness, which tends to be worse when patients first wake up.
Though I’m able to function, I have to increase the font size on my computer to work and I need masses of eye drops. There are good days and less good days.
One morning, ten days after surgery, I can’t work on my laptop at all. I return to the clinic for urgent checks. Apparently, I’m just sleep-deprived and dehydrated, meaning my eyes are even drier than usual.
Professor Reinstein checks my progress and is happy. When the swelling goes down, he thinks I’ll have 20/20 vision. Exciting!
A MONTH LATER
I DO have 20/20 vision. It’s been life-changing. After all these years, I still reach for my glasses the minute I wake up, then realise I no longer need them. Late at night, I still feel guilty about wearing my contacts for too long — then realise I don’t have any lenses in.
At a party, I bump into Boris ‘Blindstein’ Johnson.
‘We have something in common,’ I say, and ask about his eyesight.
It turns out that, like a small percentage of patients, he needed a second procedure for full correction. I ask him how he sees now.
‘Like a lynx,’ he says, happily, and ambles off.