Monday, April 27, 2009


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?


Cyberfish said...

I suppose its best this way. With all the recent maritime troubles, you wouldn't want to be inadvertently mistaken as one of those lot. Besides, without the parrot, the pegleg, the head scarf, and the jolly roger, what would be the point. Historically the only difference between a pirate and any other sailor is opportunity. Welcome back.

Trauma Queen said...

drat...u can still make a n eye-patch and wear it :)