Can I just say right here and now that I am a true coward? I hate shots! There, I said it. No more
macho-macho man. Call me
Captain Sissy; I don’t care.
Even though I got through my first eye surgery with dry pants and most of my dignity, within minutes of hearing that I needed a second surgery, I was on the phone whimpering to my Dad, “Where’s my Mommy?”
If any of you
manly men out there (or
manly women, whatever) are thinking “Wuss! It’s just a little out-patient surgery”, I invite you to sit in my doctor’s office and watch an entertaining video he has called
We’re Going To Shove Things Into Your Eyeball.
When they put my wife, my son, and myself in front if the TV to watch it, two people ran out of the waiting room mumbling “Oh, no, not that again.” Todd turned the nicest shade of green and decided right there to become a politician instead of a doctor.
I managed to find enough gonads to get through the eye surgery once more; although the doctor had to put up with repeated “Now why do I have to be awake during this?” That’s when I learned I had to lay face down for up to a month.
(Aaagggh!)For those of you that don’t know, doctors coined the term
A-D-D sometime during my childhood. The only reason they didn’t call it
M-A-R-K was to save my parents further embarrassment.
A month lying still and staring into my pillow? Let’s give it an hour and see if I’m still sane.
(Hmmm, fourty-seven-minutes. I almost made it.) Only a laptop, a stack of DVD’s, and a nifty little torture device that holds your head over the edge of the bed saved me.
Why lay on my stomach, you ask? Let me explain. They call my eye surgery a
pneumatic retinopexy, which is Latin for “
suck out your eyeball and replace it with a dry martini”. Half my eye is filled with a
gas bubble. Apparently, the gas bubble needs to stay over the repaired area of my eye. Why this is, I don’t know, despite three different explanations by three different doctors.
Now the first tear was at the top of my eye, so no problem because gas likes to go up. The second tear, however, was at the bottom of my eye. So the doctor required me to lay face down. It could have been worse, but wasn’t because he did not think a 250-pound man could maintain a headstand for a whole month.
I have this firm belief that any injury should take no more than a week to heal. And after spending that week on my face,
nothing, not even an eye that still looks like a meatball, is going to convince me otherwise. So on Friday morning, instead of quietly lying in my torture device like a good boy, I was out scrapping old paint off my mother-in-law’s porch.
(Hey, I still held my head down.)Now I know this is
screwed up thinking, but my reasoning went like this:
Hey, I’ve got a doctor appointment this afternoon. I’m sure my eye has healed by now. And if I did pop another hole in my eye, I’ll be there in just a bit so he can fix it right up …which isn’t really going to happen, because it’s been a week, and I’m all healed, right?
Afternoon comes, and I go to my eye doctor’s office. While he examines me eye, I dutifully look up, … now left, … now up and left, … now left and not so much up, … now up and… That’s when I hear the doctor make that sigh/grunt combination that almost always means
bad news.
“You have a hole in your eye that’s not healing properly.”
My stomach flips over, and my heart reaches up and starts gagging me. “Um, okay. Do I need another surgery?”
(Please no please no please no please no)“No, …”
(That’s good. That’s so good. Thank you.) “…but I’m going to have to put more gas into your eye.”
(Oh, that’s bad. That’s gotta’ be bad. Damn you.) “Don’t worry. We’ll just numb your eye and inject the gas right here.”
(Did anyone else count two shots in the eyeball in what he just said? ‘Cause I sure did.)About now is when I go into my
Buddhist-heavy-breathing-try-to-stay-calm routine.
(In through the nose, hold it, release, and relax.) It doesn’t work. But the doctor wants to give me plenty of time to practice, because he says, “Be right back” and disappears for 15 minutes.
When he comes back, he says, “Ready?”
Now I know how I must look at this point. I’ve got that
deer in the headlights look. My face is white, because all the blood has run off to protect my vital organs. I am breathing heavily.
(Hell, no, I’m not ready!) I hear myself say, “Yep, lets go.”
You’ve been to the dentist. You know how the Novocain shot works. The dentist pulls out this mondo-huge needle, and then he starts his
distraction technique. “How about those Chiefs? They’re doing pretty well this year. Huh?”
(Does he really think if we talk about football, I’m going to forget that he’s shoving a needle into my eye? I don’t think so.)“Uh, huh,” I answer nervously. And perhaps this illustrates the purpose behind the sports conversation, because what I really want to say is “Mommy!”
“Hold perfectly still.” That sounds like an unfinished sentence that ends with “so
I don’t miss and jam this needle deep into your eyeball causing excruciating pain.” I hold my head very,
very still. Meanwhile, my legs are flailing around like the arms of the
Lost In Space robot.
(Warning, Will Robinson! Warning!)The doctor finishes and tells me “All done. You did just fine.”
(Did I hear a snicker in his voice?) He leaves to let the eye numb
(and to tell the rest of the office about the 6’6” baby in room 3).Fifteen more minutes of breathing, meditating, and relaxing. It’s still not working.
(However, on a side note, I do start to see this light…) I keep touching my eyelid to see if it is numb yet. Nope, feels just like normal (with emphasis on
feel). “
Did the doctor give me enough anesthetic?" I wonder. Parts of the eye video begin replaying in my head.
The doctor returns. “Uh, Doc,” I say, “I’m not sure that I’m numb. I can still feel my eyelid.”
“That’s normal,” he reassures. “It’s your eye we numbed. The eyelid still has feeling.”
I’m not buying it. I’ve been to the dentist. When he numbs my teeth, the whole side of my face goes plastic. But I say. “I guess I’m a little nervous. Something about getting a shot in your eye… I mean, you could cut off my pinkie, and it wouldn’t bother me, but my eye…”
“Well, we could cut off your pinkie if it would distract you.” He’s not smiling. And this is the first time he’s ever cracked a joke.
(Is he really joking?) Panic meter starts to waver wildly.
“I need you to lay over on your side. We have to drain the fluid that’s in your eye while we insert gas into it.” I am actively trying to shut down my brain. I don’t want to see the images it comes up with based on his description.
Needle approaches my eye slowly.
(This is going to hurt. Oh crap oh crap oh crap.)“Now don’t move.”
(Oh crap oh crap oh crap!) Panic meter fully pegged to the right.
And my eye starts to bubble like a fish tank. I feel needle against my eyelash and the coldness of it, but it does not hurt. I would breath a sigh of relief, but I’m not about to move.
Before I know it, it’s over. I try to give that
no big deal look; but once again, I’m just grateful that my pants are still dry.
So now I’m back home in my torture device. My wife just came in to give me a kiss and hug, but I’m not doing it. Nosiree, I’m not moving from this spot for the next two weeks. There’s nothing like a shot in the eyeball to get you to follow doctor’s orders.
