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?

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

Seriously? SERIOUSLY??!

So, we're less than two days away from the shebang and get this: I have a chronic sty on the lower lid of my right eye and what appears to be half a button candy-sized subconjunctival hemmorhage north and slightly east of my left iris. The sty is barely noticeable but has been squatting on my eyelid for quite some time now. Obviously, it's cancer but the opthamologist I visited on Friday said it was nothing more than a sty that wasn't being treated and, as a result, was not going away. Well, I've been treating it opthamologist-lady and guess what? IT'S STILL RIGHT HERE ON THE LOWER LID OF MY RIGHT EYE.

I didn't notice the subconjunctival hemmorhage until an hour ago, as I was removing my contact lenses and getting ready for bed. The websites I've frantically consulted (as well as MP, to whom I cried cautiously, half expecting my tears to be laced with blood) since are assuring me that it's nothing but a rupture of blood vessels under the conjunctiva caused, apparently, by strenuous exercising, coughing, vomiting, touching/widening eyes, sneezing, pulling extreme g-forces, choking, straining. I strenuously exercised this morning (long live boxing), which I suppose could have caused the rupture. It's a small enough hemmorhage for me to have missed during the day. I also did sneeze violently a couple of times today; the last time I sneezed violently was 2.5 hours ago as I re-watched The Westminster Dog Show that I'd DVR'd (yes, I hate the idea of breeding dogs and cats when there are millions in shelters but, no, I can't deny that those dogs in the show are precious). That could've been it, right? I also widen my eyes a hell of a lot when I'm talking and there was a lot of that happening earlier tonight over dinner with girl friends.I have to learn to stop that. I haven't vomited, choked, or experienced extreme g-forces lately, so I'm ruling those causes out.

But what if this hemmorhage is a sign of something much worse like cancer? And what if it is somehow connected to the chronic sty on the other eye? Well, I'm going to attempt to get an answer some time tomorrow.

There's just one thing I know: I WILL wear sunglasses to our Friday night engagement party if these eye issues persist.

Thirty is a little over a month away and I'm already crumbling to age, dear readers. Oh dear.

ALLERGY EYES: The New Sexy

So, my allergy eyes are so bad these days that I might need to start using steroid allergy drops!
"But, but, my eyes are my best feature!" I pleaded with my allergist over the phone yesterday. "I can't subject them to 'roids."
"You're shit out of luck, Nerddd," she replied.

Okay, I didn't say anything about the loveliness of my currently photo sensitive and watery eyes.
And she is anything but flippant.
But I am seeing my father's opthamologist on Monday, kittens. Yes, the very same opthamologist who my mother was trying to convince me to see several weeks ago (only some of you know about this story) and the following conversation with my mother did take place:

"But I've already had a comprehensive eye exam! Like last weekend, amma!" I told her.
"And, so you'll have another. Just say no to the pupil dilation drops!"
"Ugh!"
"Sabila, I think he's single! And he's half Pakistani and very cute!"
"UGH!"

And now I must see him.
I hate my sexy eyes.

DILATED PUPILS AGAIN

So, I visited opthamologist no. 2 today, who ended up not being the hotty optho that my mother was hoping I'd end up seeing but some little pregnant lady, instead. She confirmed what my allergist and I knew all along: my eyes are experiencing major allergic reactions. The underside of my eyelids have broken out into tiny little bumps, which are irritating and scratching up my corneas every time I blink. I'm to stay away from contact lenses for at least a month, during which time I'll be on two different prescription eye drops plus fake tears to help lubricate the balls.

Hypothetically speaking, let's say I have a hot date in another couple of weeks, right? This raises the very real possibility that I might be bespectacled during this potentially hot, hypothetical date. Glasses are WAY more attractive than red, watery, photo-sensitive eyes, yes but, still, I'd prefer not to wear glasses on a date. If I happened to have a date, of course. Which I don't...because I'm perpetually single and not very dating adept.

Ahem.

WHAT HAPPENED IN MAINE: Part II

11) After visiting the deliriously beautiful Marshall Point Lighthouse in Port Clyde, I jumped behind Barbie's wheel and drove us to Montpelier, the General Henry Knox Museum in Thomaston, Maine. We made it just in time to join a tour that was underway.

12) After the museum, RR and I (and by "RR and I," I actually mean "RR." By this time, I'd resumed my role of trusty navigator) drove in search of The Olson House, which was the subject of many paintings by Andrew Wyeth--one of the best known artists of the 20th century. Christina's World--a favorite of both mine and RR's--is, undoubtedly, his most famous work, so there was no way we were leaving Maine without having seen the house that figures so prominently in the painting. We found it. It was lovely albeit somewhat creepy from the inside. Across the road from the house is the Olson family plot, set among trees adjacent to water. That parcel of land was among the most peaceful I've ever seen.

13) I channeled Wyeth as I photographed RR channeling Christina outside the Olson house.

14) RR and I dreamt about bidding farewell to our lives down south and enrolling in the College of the Atlantic, which was right across the way from our hotel and where we could pursue degrees in Human Ecology, while watching ridiculously fit and shirtless blondes emerge from a campus garden like Adam. Sigh.

15) In an effort to prove ourselves as adventurous foodies, RR and I had lobster ice cream. We ate enough of the ice cream (and by "enough," I mean not very much at all) to conclude that we're not very good at playing adventurous foodies.

16) The final day of our vacation was grossly misspent on an agonizingly boring trip to Yarmouth, Nova Scotia. Was Yarmouth worth the six hours of brain numbing misery--that's three hours each way, folks--we experienced on The Cat? No. Now as beautiful as the rest of Nova Scotia might be--and I have no doubt it is--Yarmouth was the pits. Our "Ultimate Nova Scotia" bus tour was awful. Our loquacious tour guide drove past the local McDonald's (or, as the locals like to call it, the American Embassy! Har, har, har) and WalMart and her doctor's office. I was quickly losing consciousness by the time she stopped outside her opthamologist's house. Like we gave a hoot, right?
Even seeing the spout of an ocassional whale or dolphin on the way out to Nova Scotia didn't make the trip any less wretched. The highlight of the awful Yarmouth trip ended up being the two hours we spent watching Music and Lyrics on the ride back home (and by "home," I mean "Bar Harbor," of course).

17) Lobster dishes I had in Maine: lobster roll, lobster sandwich, lobster ice cream, lobster salad, and a lobster strudel.

18) On the flight home, I ended up sitting next to a gregarious teacher from Chicago, who, after I'd told him that I was an awfully nervous flier, did a fine job distracting me with conversation. We talked about books, injuries, hiking, religion, war, politics, his fear that he'd miss his connecting flight home from JFK. He was such a lovely person, that I gave him my copy of Brian Hall's I Should Be Extremely Happy in Your Company. When, shortly after landing, the pilot announced that our same flight would be going to Chicago, the gentleman declared that I must be a lucky charm! I've never had a pleasanter flight in my life!

DILATED PUPILS or PHOTOPHOBIC IN CHINATOWN

I had my first comprehensive eye exam with an opthamologist on Friday. The office was located in the heart of Chinatown. Part of the comprehensive exam involved the doctor dilating my pupils with tropicamide. He assured me that this drug-induced mydriasis wouldn't last longer than four hours. I'd have trouble reading and some sensitivity to light but it wouldn't be terrible. After the examination, I was so relieved that my eyes were healthy and I wouldn't need prosthetics, after all (welcome to the abnormally anxious world of the hypochondriac) that I didn't give the dilated pupils much thought as I joined our favorite commenter, Rachel, for lunch in the area. Rach and I had a good laugh when I had to squint down from under my glasses, senescent-style, in order to read the menu. Over the course of the meal, however, my vision deteriorated even in the relative dimness of the restaurant. I kept on taking off my glasses only to put them back on. Rach asked if I was okay. I said no and I tried to eat, which is hard to do when you're distracted by the thought of making your way back home with less than optimal vision. After pushing my charred salmon steak around in my plate, I rushed off to the cramped bathroom and nearly fell backwards into a stall when I took one look at my freakishly wide pupils and the tiniest slivers of brown iris that struggled against the expansion.

When we finally emerged into the hot, bustling streets of downtown Manhattan, my light-hungry pupils had their fill and I, reduced to a bright blindness was incapacitated. I dodged tourists and merchandise, pungent smells that I could almost touch and taste, while hanging off Rach's arm. I must've looked blind to the throngs that made their way around us as we attempted to find cheap knockoff sunglasses that might ease my pain. Anyone who knows me knows that I don't do sunglasses--I feel like a phony in them--but these desperate times called for $8 aviators, which, even I must admit, looked pretty hot (well, at least from what I could see...which, we've determined, wasn't very much at all).

While the the aviators had reduced the photosensitivity, vision was now greatly compromised by the fact that I had to remove my glasses in order to wear my sunglasses. Suddenly, I found myself shoved into one of my worst nightmares: being dropped off in a teeming metropolis sans contact lenses or glasses. The early afternoon was overwhelming and frightening.

To make a long story short, Rach did see me to the PATH station in a cab and I, even in my myopic and photophobic condition, did manage to stumble and feel my way home, looking hot in the aviators the entire way. It was intense.

The morale of this story: don't ever have your pupils dilated in Chinatown. Also, having someone wait for you in a car with aviators and enough Benadryls to knock you out for several hours might be a good idea. Plus, please keep in mind that if your eyes are as crazy, hypersensitive as are mine, they're likely to remain dilated for well over thirty-six hours, which is fucked up. Finally, you don't look nearly as phony as you think you do in sunglasses, so keep them on. Your eyes will thank you.