Some 3 months ago, an eye surgeon clicked his last shot at the leaky sieve that was my eye and said, "Okay sport, see you in 3 months!", with the machine powering down.
Relief washed over me. Not because the procedure hurt that much but because it was OVER, as in done, finito. That's all folks. No more click-click-click. So I went about the business of my life.
Today was the three month anniversary and off I went to the office on the left side of the river to see if the fix(es) took. One would hope they did, considering there were over 1500 of them. Anyway, with that there was the sign-in, read the letters, drops, bright light, then wait.
...and wait...
...and wait...
...and wait.
Not that I'm complaining but for all intents and purposes it should have been about 45 minute to at most, hour and a half deal. Sure, I don't know the medical field and given my educationa success (chuckle) I don't know dick about how to be a doctor of any specialization but where does a 30-minute wait fit between vital signs and "I think we know what the problem night be..."? I assume that's taught in med school at some point.
To be fair, I was one of about 20 patients today and my surgeon was the only one there. Thus, I was one of plates he had to keep spinning. Still, it was a long wait.
As it turns out, thanks to the new hobby I acquired two years ago (diabetes) though he gave my eyes the old zapperoo there is still an area in each eye that's still swelling. Treatable, he says, by and injection of steroids.
Into my eye.
Yes, you read that right: AN INJECTION INTO MY EYEBALL(S).
My mind launched into a series of umages of soldiers scrambling to their planes, the sounds of air raid sirens and klaxon horns, and my thoughts flashed briefly to screaming a variation on "LIKE HELL MOTHERF*CKER!" and hitting the door.
More than once.
Yet I remained in place, cool as a cucumber. I stunned myself.
Many of you who know me well know that once upon a time the one thing that would strike fear in my heart and reduce me to the personality of a crying child it would be the idea of giving me a shot of any kind. If I can thank the dread ailment I have for anything it would be the 7 months of sticking myself with a needle delivering an insulin shot. So the freak out was brief and uneventful.
The injection itself wasn't bad. The sight of it was weird. They put a contraption on my eye to hold the lids open, (much like what Malcolm McDowell had on in "A Clockwork Orange). Then he came at me with the needle. I didn't feel the needle go in, but I saw the serum go in. It looked like water flowing onto a piece of glass.
Just like that, it was over. I have to do it one more time next week and hopefully that will be the end of it.
Next up, a visit to a urologist. The fun never stops for the lab rat.
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