Types of Eye Surgery in Bharti Eye Foundation
If you're experiencing vision problems or have been diagnosed with an eye condition that requires surgery, it's important to know your options. Bharti Eye Foundation is a leading eye care center in India that offers a range of surgical treatments for eye conditions. In this article, we'll discuss the types of eye surgery at Bharti Eye Foundation in detail, along with their benefits and risks.
Introduction: Understanding Eye Surgery
Eye surgery is a medical procedure that involves the use of specialized tools and techniques to correct vision problems or treat eye conditions. It is usually performed by an ophthalmologist, a medical doctor who specializes in eye care. Eye surgery can be used to treat a variety of conditions, including cataracts, glaucoma, macular degeneration, and diabetic retinopathy.
At Bharti Eye Foundation, patients have access to a range of advanced surgical treatments for eye conditions. The center is known for its state-of-the-art facilities, experienced surgeons, and patient-centered care.
What Are the 3 Types of Eye Surgery at Bharti Eye Foundation?
Bharti Eye Foundation offers 3 main types of eye surgery:
1. Cataract Surgery
Cataract surgery is a procedure that removes the cloudy lens from the eye and replaces it with an artificial lens. This surgery is usually performed on an outpatient basis and is one of the most common eye surgeries performed at Bharti Eye Foundation.
During cataract surgery, the surgeon makes a small incision in the eye and uses a special tool to break up the cloudy lens. The lens is then removed and replaced with an artificial lens. This procedure is usually performed under local anesthesia, and patients are able to go home the same day.
2. LASIK Surgery
LASIK (laser-assisted in situ keratomileusis) is a type of refractive surgery that is used to correct vision problems such as nearsightedness, farsightedness, and astigmatism. LASIK surgery uses a laser to reshape the cornea, which is the clear front part of the eye, to improve vision.
LASIK surgery involves the surgeon utilising a microkeratome or femtosecond laser to produce a tiny flap in the cornea. The flap is subsequently lifted, and the cornea is reshaped with a second laser. The flap is then replaced, and the eye is left to heal on its own. LASIK surgery is often conducted as an outpatient procedure and takes approximately 30 minutes to complete.
3. Glaucoma Surgery
Glaucoma is a condition that causes damage to the optic nerve, which can lead to vision loss or blindness. Glaucoma surgery is a procedure that is used to reduce pressure in the eye and prevent further damage to the optic nerve.
There are several types of glaucoma surgery, including trabeculectomy, tube shunt surgery, and minimally invasive glaucoma surgery (MIGS). The type of surgery used depends on the severity of the glaucoma and the patient's overall health. Glaucoma surgery is usually performed under local or general anesthesia and may require an overnight hospital stay.
Benefits and Risks of Eye Surgery
While eye surgery can be highly effective in treating vision problems and eye conditions, it is important to be aware of the potential risks and complications. Some of the benefits and risks of eye surgery include:
Benefits of Eye Surgery
Improved vision
Relief from symptoms such as pain, redness, and irritation
Reduced risk of vision loss or blindness
Improved quality of life
Risks of Eye Surgery
Infection
Bleeding
Swelling
Pain
Vision loss or blindness
Corneal scarring
Retinal detachment
It is important to discuss the potential risks and benefits of eye surgery with your ophthalmologist before deciding to undergo the procedure.
Conclusion
Bharti Eye Foundation offers a range of advanced surgical treatments for eye conditions, including cataract surgery, LASIK surgery, and glaucoma surgery. These procedures can help improve vision, relieve symptoms, and reduce the risk of vision loss or blindness. If you're considering eye surgery, it's important to discuss your options with your ophthalmologist and weigh the potential risks and benefits. With the right care and treatment, you can enjoy clearer vision and better eye health.
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On Jōnouchi's ADHD (1.39k words)
This headcanon is probably the longest on this blog; it's some compiled thoughts on how growing up with (undiagnosed) ADHD has affected Jōnouchi. It's halfway between headcanon and fanfiction piece, and was requested by @bloodyscott, whom I kept waiting for too long for a response. I apologise sincerely for the delay.
This headcanon begins below the cut, as it's obscenely long. You may find it more comfortable to read this from the blog page, or on Archive of Our Own (NOTE: tumblr is acting strange. To access the page, copy the link and manually remove the href.li portion and the second https), rather than on your dashboard/search, in terms of formatting and such.
From infancy, Jōnouchi wailed his way out of his crib, out of his room, out of his house—as a baby, he thrashed towards whatever freedom he could find. He loathed the four walls of the crib; he'd scarce room to move. A skin infection brought him, aged 4, to hospital, and the very sight of overrun grey plastic seats and skinny cubicles exhausted him more than his illness had ever threatened to.
In primary school, others’ desks would blend together in a whir. Here he was, stuck, dizzyingly sedentary—the longer he sat, the foggier the world seemed to grow. When he kicked and whined at other children throughout electric lunch breaks, and they shrank from his vitality, he learned to eat alone. As his peers trudged from class in packs, watching the pavement, he sat, sullen, as his father drove him home. Somehow, Katsuhiro had never trusted him not to lose himself in chasing his surrounds. The fabric of the car seat would bite into his shorts, and he’d squirm for the window, squealing towards the noise outside: Birds that cawed; scraps of paper that fluttered and choked on smog. That was a fragile era, when his mother still waited, with dry hands and chipped nails, at home. When his father already stank of beer, but still spoke loudly, deeply, boisterously. Again and again, Jōnouchi’s mother would sit her son down, and write his name, stroke by agonising stroke. She’d recite each mora in time with each character. Yet sound would cluster through his head, and his own name would dissolve amid his mother’s instructions, amid the blaze of sunlight trapped on the windowsill behind her. He would write, and the strokes would come out rushed, mis-ordered, lopsided.
Iro wa nioedo
chirinuru wo.
At 10, his father grew quiet, and his mother yet quieter. Silence took up like a plague in Jōnouchi’s head, and swarmed in shapeless formation throughout parched mathematics lessons. Times tables hurled themselves headlong into a skull full of fog, and burst on contact. Are you listening? a teacher asked. How could he listen with a head full of noise, of unspoken words billowing back and forth? He gripped his seat, and glared back. Why should I care, anyway?
When his mother left, his father stopped caring to chaperone him. It had taken Jōnouchi a decade to earn the right to shed his infancy. He resented that it had been this long, so tried to join the huddle of middle schoolers. He told odd stories, and took off, queasy, in front of them. They withdrew their smiles when he approached on the second day. He growled his plaint, and resentment drove him to take the opposite route. He explored back alleys, wallflower convenience stores and dilapidated cinemas; the faster he walked, the more clearly he could see each brick, and the brighter each fleck in the pavement glinted. At speed, he delayed the journey home, and set his eyes on a gorgeous early winter sunset. The colours bellowed, too bold for winter, ungainly and vain. They were glorious.
Jōnouchi came home late. His father glared; fog crashed back down on his shoulders.
Wa ga yo tare zo
tsune naran?
A week before she cleared out too few of Katsuhiro’s belongings and packed too few suitcases, Jōnouchi’s mother drove both children two miles to the optometrist. My son, she explained, reads slowly, yet resents reading; it seems he can’t see very well. My daughter’s sight seems clearer, yet she complains of pain. The optometrist forced Jōnouchi to read down a chart of letters; he fidgeted, and, consumed in memories of a lonely lunch break the day prior, passed with flying colours. When the optometrist flashed a light to photograph his eyes, whatever hideous miracle that was, Jōnouchi screamed.
Katsuya Jōnouchi, the optometrist surmised, had perfect acuity of sight. He sought attention, stimulation. Meanwhile, Shizuka Jōnouchi, who had sat entirely still throughout her examination, had more ragged, derelict peripheral vision than her family had anticipated. Untreated, both your children will get much worse.
And in the months after Shizuka Jōnouchi became Shizuka Kawai and Mrs. Jōnouchi became That Bitch Who Never Cared, Katsuya Jōnouchi became horribly aware of how little time he had to be lethargic. He had to survive this schism; yet as he was, he barely felt capable of thinking. He walked, fidgeted, paced to prove to himself that he was a moving, breathing organism. Yet his father’s frustration would brook no exuberance. Long before Katsuhiro fully committed to flinging glass and spurning his son’s misery, Jōnouchi began learning to move silently, slowly, around his father. He memorised which mats snapped and snagged, which bits of fabric hissed when stepped on. He noted which windows opened most quietly. And yet he never managed a perfect, quiet exit. He couldn’t help but be conspicuous; he could only hope to get out too quickly for his father to react. And, to lift the torpor that followed escape, he would run to school, and, after, run back. Never did the sun shine brighter than when he was moving.
Uwi no okuyama
kyou koete.
When he met Hirutani, did he become more violent? No; every punch he threw during his delinquency had waited, kinetic and desperate, for days, months, years. In classrooms, his sole responses to being ordered around had been sullen deference, with sullenness being his sole demonstration of rebellion. Now, threatened with the obsolescence of his ego, of his perceived freedom, he chained himself to violence, over and over. The first time he punched a man in the gut, he found himself shaking. And rather than sink into sallow, domestic remorse, he slathered himself in white rage. And he went back and he went back and he went back, helpless to his own instincts, trying to dredge the noise in his skull out through his fists. No matter how many punches he threw, and no matter how many he received, he could not stop his head from blazing anew the moment he walked away.
Did Duel Monsters afford him any peace? He would be no man’s losing dog; nor would he be confined to dull celebrity. To play as a strategist consigned him to sitting still, committing himself to gambits he could never entirely trust, to moves that demanded a clear head. To play too whimsically would doom him to inferiority. Thus, he gave half his heart to diligence, and half to sheer fortune. Nobody could idolise his kind of folly, nor devalue his kind of skill. This was Jōnouchi’s will—to eschew having to wait in the mire of expectation; to escape the fog of obligation to anyone’s morals but his own. Honour suited him, so long as it was on his meticulous terms. In games of Duel Monsters, he became a knight-errant of sorts: predictably unpredictable, unexpectedly canny, blindly faithful. With this relationship to his own fate laid out so, he could finally draw cards without fearing those next to come. And thus, hyperkinetic, he found a peace in the game. So he played and played until he forgot how long he’d been playing, and Duel Monsters became as second nature.
Asaki yume miji
ei mo suzu.
Two weeks before Jōnouchi’s graduation, Shizuka invited him to her place to dine. Their father was not to join them. Jōnouchi protested, and his desperation died in a pinprick throat. Wisteria spilled itself over the footpath. Each step threatened to plunge, vertiginous, to the ground.
When Jōnouchi saw his mother, his throat turned to sandpaper. She looked so old.
You cried so much as a baby, she told him. Kicked and screamed to see the world. You weren’t comfortable waiting in your crib—I’d end up coming to you at 4AM, walking you around the perimeter of the house till my heels burned. And you seemed so afraid of all the noises of the night—groaning engines, singing birds. Now, look at you—you’ve grown up so terribly fast.
Could he afford to tell her how even now, he bit down the urge to kick and scream, to launch himself, all fists and sparks, onto his tormentors? No; so, all night, he gripped his glass as tight as he could. The cold lingered and itched on his palms for days. Holding onto things, it seemed, was not so difficult as he’d once believed.
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