From the Not-Quite-Dead

I spent the weekend--and a decent portion of the last week or two or three--in pain. Physical, psychological, emotional, intellectual. The whole range, everything you can think of. I'm not looking for sympathy (yeah, right) but rather looking to explain why I've been away.

Here's an example. On Friday, I was making a necklace. I fancy myself something of a jeweler these days. I'm not terribly good at it (my necklaces have a tendency to fall apart, at least the ones that I make for myself) but I enjoy it and frankly I can use the time spent thinking about something other than my own inner-workings. So I was slaving away over the bead-board, working with silk cord. And I wasn't being very sensible, working with super-glue without utilizing proper precautions. Naturally, I got the stuff all over my hands.

So I called my friend D, and she gave me advice on getting it off my hands. (No, I had not glued myself together like some sort of demented flippered beast.) (And I know that some of you would have liked that!) She recommended nail polish remover. I tried that. It worked, albeit not that well. Apparently one needs non-acetone-free nail polish remover to really do the trick, but I have the OPI-nail-friendly stuff that isn't built to be kind to super glue. Sigh. Anyway, shortly after trying to get the stuff off my hands, I ate dinner.

Are you picturing the rest? The frightening part? The drama?

I felt something itchy in my left eye. I brushed it gently with my left hand. I felt a brief sting. Nothing big. I didn't rub, knowing full well--having worn contacts for (damn!) 21 years that to rub is to court danger--that I'd do damage if I rubbed. The itch went away, and I thought nothing of it. Nothing, that is, until a few hours later when I slipped into the bathroom to remove my contacts before bed. And noticed a pool of blood that had filled the white of my left eye.

I didn't panic. Why panic? What was done was done. I noted it, looked closely at it (as closely as one can look at one's own eye--it's a neat trick, really), and went to bed.

Got up the next morning and called my mom. Tried not to freak her out, which is also a neat trick. "Hi, Mom. Calling long-distance to tell you my eyeball is bleeding (or, more accurately, has bled, but that you shouldn't worry. Just need my eye doctor's emergency number, since he lives in Minnesota, where you've had nearly 24 inches of snow in the last 24 hours."

She came through with the number for me, which is, incidentally, his home phone number. Gotta love small-townia.

Called my doctor, who's been my eye doctor since I was a wee lass. Or, since I was 13. And he was fresh out of eye doctor school. He's a hottie. We practically grew up together. I'm patient #108, and I'm convinced that he started counting at 101.

It's a "subcorneal hematoma." That's the bloody part. It was caused by a weakened blood vessel bursting. I might've sneezed or something, or it might've happened when I moved my bookcase, 'straining.' Had nothing--literally, nothing--to do with the chemical burn that I incurred in the super-glue incident. For which he called me a bonehead.

Anyway, as long as the blood moves around freely and doesn't get purple or the eye doesn't hurt, I'm fine. Could wear my contacts and everything.

So. One element of pain is eliminated.

I took pictures of The Eyeball that Ate Half of My Weekend. I may post one of them later, depending on how disgusting they are (I haven't looked at them since I took them) and how self-indulgent I'm feeling. I'll most certainly post again later, though, to share more of the weekend from hell.

Hope y'alls were (was?) better than mine.

No comments:

Post a Comment