I’ve been in rip-roaring funk the past two days. I woke up yesterday prepared to click the keys until the skin began to roll of my finger tips. Unfortunately the plans cha – cha- changed, when I ended up at a Doc-in-the-Box instead, having purple eye drops dribbled into my blood-shot and weary right eye, while being examined with the same kind of black light they use in hotels to detect semen on bedding. Yeppers, it was another daily adventure in the life of Cindy.
I was at my favorite coffee shop, sitting at my favorite table, and had set up my throne in a way that I knew would be conducive to productivity and caffeine consumption.
And then I did it.
I rubbed my eye.
After over an hour of poking, prodding, scratching and flooding my eye to get the third and remaining piece (who knew that contacts could come out in pieces) out of my eye, I panicked. Not the kind of panic that others recognize and give you a paper bag to breath in to, but the internal kind – the kind when you feel like you’re going to completely freak the frack out, but nobody knows because you’re acting cool and sipping a latte. I knew it was in there, and I couldn’t get it out. I thought of Stevie Wonder and then Ray Charles. My heart began to beat faster, as I thought of my friend Phyllis who teaches the Blind and Visually impaired.
As I began to pack up my throne, I contemplated what to do. Afterall, who goes to a hospital for a contact removal procedure? I had depleted an entire bottle of eye drops, which left me looking like a drowned rat who’d forgotten to put make-up on one side of her face, and I still had a foreign body stuck in my eye, making me feel that it would be moving to my brain at any moment. (yes, I know this is impossible, but in the middle of the freak and the frack, it felt like a distinct possibility)
I raced across the street, driving with my one good eye (I know…bad idea…please see illogical response of freaking and fracking above) to the local clinic where they were able to remove the remaining piece of my assistive vision with only a few “uh-oh’s” and “let’s try that again” moments. Unfortunately, I was left with a cornea that the doctor described as looking like “a lawn mower had attacked it.”
She told me it was going to hurt. Well duh!
She told me it was going to cause blurry vision for several days. Well double duh!
She told me the ointment would help. She was wrong.
It’s been a long 24 hours, but alas it is now beginning to feel a little better, allowing me to write a few words, while invisible violins softly play “woe is me” in the background.