Oh, this makes me gasp:
Commoner woos blog princess?
MP did it first.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Monday, April 27, 2009
NO PIRATE PATCH
No untruths here, kittens: I was scared for my eye and my life as I made my way to the cosmetic opthamologist, with amma in tow (my vision would be compromised by the sexy pirate eye patch, so the doctor's office had asked me to bring along a friend) today. At what cost was I trying to rid myself of this chalazion? Anesthesia in my eyelid? A scalpel right next to my eyeball? One slip and I'm a goner, right? "This guy gets paid to make people beautiful," I reminded myself between frantic prayers. "There will be no slippage of the scalpel. There will be NO slippage of the scalpel."
I tried to focus on my breathing, on mental images of scalpels not slipping, and on mental images of me sporting an eye patch as amma and I made our way to the doctor's office. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a chair that looked a hell of a lot like a dentist's chair. You have correctly deduced that this did absolutely nothing to calm my already frayed nerves. The doctor strode in and at that moment of intense anxiety at the thought of the scalpel now slipping into my eye and permanently destroying what are arguably my best features, I decided that he was the sexiest man I've ever seen and that I loved him. I obviously Stockholm syndrom'd the situation, just like I did back when I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed back in college and decided that I was in love with my orthodontist. Stockholm syndrome aside, I love MP and everyone knows that David Benioff is the sexiest man I've ever met in my life (he's so much hotter than his pics that it's sick; it gives me a stomach ache every time I think about it).
Anyway, so there I am, stone-still in a dentist's chair, waiting for the cosmetic opthamologist to accidently slip his scalpel and blind me forever. But there's something even more horrible that I've forgotten about, kittens: the anesthesia. And my cosmetic opthamologist gently (sexily) reminds me that it's going to be the most painful part of the surgery.
"What could possibly be more painful than a scalpel in my eye?" I wonder and brush the warning aside until, holy Allah in Jannah with all of his angels, the cosmetic opthamologist sticks me right in the chalazion with a needle. And what I proceed to feel is fiery hot and spicy damnation spread all across my lower lid until all I want to do is go home with my chalazion intact and fuckin' cuddle with it at every milestone from here to freakin' eternity.
But the pain subsides. I stop squirming. Cosmetic opthamologist flips my lower eyelid inside out with something that might look like an eyelash curler and I'm horrified but am able to keep my eyes closed so the horribleness subsides, or so I think. Cosmetic opthamologist instructs me to take deep breaths, that I'm way too tense but when I proceed to follow his instructions, he tells me not to move my face, so I try to breathe without moving my face. I hear him snipping (there is no scalpel, apparently, only scissors) away at the chalazion and I feel pressure on my eyelid and I hope and pray that cosmetic opthamologist doesn't accidently poke me in the eye with the scissors. Then he says that he's going to cauterize the incision and that I may smell something burning and I try not to pass out.
And then we're done and cosmetic opthamologist slaps gauze onto my eye and I'm thinking that he'll put the patch over the gauze. He slaps tap over the gauze and I think, surely there will be an eye patch. But then the dentist's chair is being pushed up and I'm being told that I need to schedule a post-op appointment and I have to interrupt cosmetic opthamologist: "You mean this is the eye patch??" and I he laughs and says yes, what was I expecting and I feel like he's stabbed me in the eye with a scalpel. "A pirate's eye patch," I manage and he says that those are for pirates and for the movies, alas, and sends me along.
I take public transportation with my mom, not looking like a trendy pirate but like a freak and by the time we finally stumble into a train, there's room only for my mom to sit down and I'm totally fine standing but the guy sitting next to amma takes pity on my ugly eye patch and offers me his seat, which I take because, wait a minute, is that my anesthesia wearing off?
Yes. Yes it is. So, by the time we get home, the upper right quadrant of my face feels like it's been bashed in by a hammer (even my gums hurt) and, forgetting about the patch, I fall asleep.
I'm fine now, kittens: the patch is festering in the trash and though my eye is slightly swollen and lightly bruised, I'm well on the road to recovery and a chalazion-free life.
Here's a picture of my not-a-pirate's-patch. A pirate wouldn't be caught dead in this get-up. See what I mean?
I tried to focus on my breathing, on mental images of scalpels not slipping, and on mental images of me sporting an eye patch as amma and I made our way to the doctor's office. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a chair that looked a hell of a lot like a dentist's chair. You have correctly deduced that this did absolutely nothing to calm my already frayed nerves. The doctor strode in and at that moment of intense anxiety at the thought of the scalpel now slipping into my eye and permanently destroying what are arguably my best features, I decided that he was the sexiest man I've ever seen and that I loved him. I obviously Stockholm syndrom'd the situation, just like I did back when I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed back in college and decided that I was in love with my orthodontist. Stockholm syndrome aside, I love MP and everyone knows that David Benioff is the sexiest man I've ever met in my life (he's so much hotter than his pics that it's sick; it gives me a stomach ache every time I think about it).
Anyway, so there I am, stone-still in a dentist's chair, waiting for the cosmetic opthamologist to accidently slip his scalpel and blind me forever. But there's something even more horrible that I've forgotten about, kittens: the anesthesia. And my cosmetic opthamologist gently (sexily) reminds me that it's going to be the most painful part of the surgery.
"What could possibly be more painful than a scalpel in my eye?" I wonder and brush the warning aside until, holy Allah in Jannah with all of his angels, the cosmetic opthamologist sticks me right in the chalazion with a needle. And what I proceed to feel is fiery hot and spicy damnation spread all across my lower lid until all I want to do is go home with my chalazion intact and fuckin' cuddle with it at every milestone from here to freakin' eternity.
But the pain subsides. I stop squirming. Cosmetic opthamologist flips my lower eyelid inside out with something that might look like an eyelash curler and I'm horrified but am able to keep my eyes closed so the horribleness subsides, or so I think. Cosmetic opthamologist instructs me to take deep breaths, that I'm way too tense but when I proceed to follow his instructions, he tells me not to move my face, so I try to breathe without moving my face. I hear him snipping (there is no scalpel, apparently, only scissors) away at the chalazion and I feel pressure on my eyelid and I hope and pray that cosmetic opthamologist doesn't accidently poke me in the eye with the scissors. Then he says that he's going to cauterize the incision and that I may smell something burning and I try not to pass out.
And then we're done and cosmetic opthamologist slaps gauze onto my eye and I'm thinking that he'll put the patch over the gauze. He slaps tap over the gauze and I think, surely there will be an eye patch. But then the dentist's chair is being pushed up and I'm being told that I need to schedule a post-op appointment and I have to interrupt cosmetic opthamologist: "You mean this is the eye patch??" and I he laughs and says yes, what was I expecting and I feel like he's stabbed me in the eye with a scalpel. "A pirate's eye patch," I manage and he says that those are for pirates and for the movies, alas, and sends me along.
I take public transportation with my mom, not looking like a trendy pirate but like a freak and by the time we finally stumble into a train, there's room only for my mom to sit down and I'm totally fine standing but the guy sitting next to amma takes pity on my ugly eye patch and offers me his seat, which I take because, wait a minute, is that my anesthesia wearing off?
Yes. Yes it is. So, by the time we get home, the upper right quadrant of my face feels like it's been bashed in by a hammer (even my gums hurt) and, forgetting about the patch, I fall asleep.
I'm fine now, kittens: the patch is festering in the trash and though my eye is slightly swollen and lightly bruised, I'm well on the road to recovery and a chalazion-free life.
Here's a picture of my not-a-pirate's-patch. A pirate wouldn't be caught dead in this get-up. See what I mean?
A SCALPEL VERY CLOSE TO THE EYE or THIS IS WHAT I GET FOR BEING A BAD, BAD BLOGGER
I've been a very bad blogger. I used to blog almost daily until this very blog introduced me to my current fiance and though my relationship with MP hasn't by any means robbed me of my charming nerdiness, it has robbed me of my free time. And now we're planning a wedding and I need a whole seperate post to explain to you how miserably stressful wedding planning and choosing a wedding planner and keeping everyone happy has been (hell, I probably need a whole new and anonymous blog to do that without stepping on toes and hurting feelings, winkwink).
Speaking of parenthetical winkwinks, I will have a scalpel very close to my right eyeball tomorrow. Yes, kittens, your terribly neglectful blogger is going under the knife! Remember that chronic sty/cancer on the lower eyelid of my right eye?
Well, it's still right here with me, folks.
The chronic sty has been on my eyelid for nearly five months now. It's been with me through some very meaningful milestones: my engagement party, MP's move to JC, his 33rd birthday, my 30th birthday party, the year 2009.
Chronic sty has been right here, illegally squatting on my eyelid and making me feel like a freak.
Except it isn't a chronic sty, after all. I went to a third opthamologist a couple of weeks ago (this one is a surgeon--a cosmetic opthamologist--referred to me by the wonderful second opthamologist I saw (as an aside, second opthamologist is the closest thing to a small town doctor in this town and I'm happy to refer anyone who needs an opthamoligst to him. For real)), who declared that the eyelid squatter was no chronic sty. It's actually a chalazion, a lump formed in the eyelid when one of the many oil-secreting glands we have along our lids become blocked with the very oil they secrete. The gland is supposed to rupture, releasing the built up oil but, in my case, it's deep in the eyelid and there appears to be too much skin surrounding it for that to happen.
So, I'm having the squatter removed tomorrow because: 1) while a chalazion might taste delicious if it was an Italian pastry, it's actually just an inflamed, ugly, but luckily small and useless mess at the moment; 2) I'm getting married so, as much as this guy's been a part of all of the milestones this year, I won't miss it at all next year; 3) and I get to sport a patch after the procedure, which is pretty cool.
I'll need to focus on these reasons tomorrow when the doctor injects my eyelid with anesthesia (he admitted that this would hurt like a mofo) and then scoops the shi-zat out.
Gulps and petrified sighs from JC. Wish me luck. Believe it or not, I've missed you g
Speaking of parenthetical winkwinks, I will have a scalpel very close to my right eyeball tomorrow. Yes, kittens, your terribly neglectful blogger is going under the knife! Remember that chronic sty/cancer on the lower eyelid of my right eye?
Well, it's still right here with me, folks.
The chronic sty has been on my eyelid for nearly five months now. It's been with me through some very meaningful milestones: my engagement party, MP's move to JC, his 33rd birthday, my 30th birthday party, the year 2009.
Chronic sty has been right here, illegally squatting on my eyelid and making me feel like a freak.
Except it isn't a chronic sty, after all. I went to a third opthamologist a couple of weeks ago (this one is a surgeon--a cosmetic opthamologist--referred to me by the wonderful second opthamologist I saw (as an aside, second opthamologist is the closest thing to a small town doctor in this town and I'm happy to refer anyone who needs an opthamoligst to him. For real)), who declared that the eyelid squatter was no chronic sty. It's actually a chalazion, a lump formed in the eyelid when one of the many oil-secreting glands we have along our lids become blocked with the very oil they secrete. The gland is supposed to rupture, releasing the built up oil but, in my case, it's deep in the eyelid and there appears to be too much skin surrounding it for that to happen.
So, I'm having the squatter removed tomorrow because: 1) while a chalazion might taste delicious if it was an Italian pastry, it's actually just an inflamed, ugly, but luckily small and useless mess at the moment; 2) I'm getting married so, as much as this guy's been a part of all of the milestones this year, I won't miss it at all next year; 3) and I get to sport a patch after the procedure, which is pretty cool.
I'll need to focus on these reasons tomorrow when the doctor injects my eyelid with anesthesia (he admitted that this would hurt like a mofo) and then scoops the shi-zat out.
Gulps and petrified sighs from JC. Wish me luck. Believe it or not, I've missed you g
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