Before LASIK:

I used to get called out at night.  Many times, I was in the field
looking at a cow laying in the mud, groaning and struggling to get up.
Diagnosis:  First-calf heifer unable to deliver, needs C-section.  With
the rancher's help we dragged her to the fence, rolled her onto her
back and tied her legs to the fence posts.  Two cowboys rolled their
trucks over and I used their headlights for illumination.  After
shaving her belly with a straight razor and while scrubbing with
surgical soap, it starts to snow.  If anything, the snow increases
ambient light, making it easier to see into the hole in her belly as I
look for the calf.  Once he's out I hand him over to the rancher who
rubs him down with a burlap sack.  I close the uterine incsion then
close the layers of abdomen.   I finish just as the cow comes out of
anesthesia and begins to thrash against the ropes.  I cut her loose and
watch her struggle to stand then low for her calf.  He's instantly at
her side, looking for milk.    In the dark, the rancher and I watch to
see him nurse.  We're all covered in snow by them.  Once we hear the
loud slurping sounds that means he's found the nipple we know they'll
be okay.  The rancher, typically laconic, slaps me on the back and
says, "Good job, Doc."

After LASIK:

Four years later, it's night.  My wife and I get in the line. She's
leading the way because I can't see anything.   As we enter we're
handed candles with paper skirts to catch the dripping wax.  Then
someone lights the candles.  In the darkened room we find seats.  100
people with 100 candles.  The flickering lights bounce off walls and
make faces look demonic.   There is no light except the candles.  I'm
sure for everyone else it's lovely and creates a calm mood.  For me
it's a nightmare of starbursts shooting from every candle.  I think,
"If there's a Hell, this is what it will look like."    I walk out.   I
haven't got back to church since that miserable night.