Longest Lasting Lash (and subsequently a long post)


Maybe I’m not a Maybeline kind of gal. But my short, uncurled, mascara-bare lashes last a long time. Unfortunately not in a good way.

Technically, I am not a hypochondriac. Unofficially, I am a major hypochondriac. Weird since I have a high pain thresh hold. I don’t mind going to the doctor. Shots are a walk in the park. I sometimes have enjoyed surgery. That’s beside the point.

The point.

I went for my yearly eye appointment back in July. I wrote about my yearly eye appointment back in July. I complained about my yearly eye appointment back in July.

Reader’s Digest version: my doc of 18 years left the clinic, thus forcing me to see some barely out of eye doctor school medicine woman. She didn’t meet my high standards of ophthalmology. And she freaked me, the quasi-hypochondriac out when she told me my upper left eyelid had “bumps” on it from allergies. A sample of some allergy-relief drops were handed to me. And I left the clinic thinking I was most likely just fine.

August. About three+ weeks ago — I say “about” because my August has been so crazy I can’t keep track of any dates — I noticed a little eye lash floating around in my left eye. I was pretty sure I got it out. I blinked. Used eye drops. Naturally, I figured it worked its way out of my little eye.

When my left eye started bothering me, about a week after my initial eye lash in the eye finding, I tried to ignore my hypochondriac voice telling me that I had some massive allergy bump growing inside my eye or some sort of cyst, ulcer, or cancerous tumor of the eye. I started wearing my glasses more often. Avoiding my contacts, thinking that was the culprit. Blinking, rubbing, and widening my eye in front of the mirror, I tried to figure out what was going on. I continued convincing myself it was nothing.

Then. I started really getting irritated. I started complaining (something I can do at the drop of a hat…). I couldn’t wear my contacts for more than a few hours, if that. It even hurt to wear my glasses. Great.

Fully vocalizing my eye issue, I was encouraged to head back to the eye doc to get it checked out. I think my hypochondriac brain cheered. And then got to work whispering that I would go in and have some major allergy problem, a massive cyst, a growing cancerous tumor, or something disgusting wart growing on the inside of my eye (is that even possible?).

Calling the clinic before I headed out the door early yesterday morning, I explained my issue and made an appointment. I didn’t care who I saw. I didn’t care which clinic I went to.

The eye doc had an opening at 8:45 a.m. I snapped it up. Penned it in my planner. And felt better knowing someone would be looking me in the eye and giving me an answer to the pain I was experiencing.

Clinics tend to have multiple locations and so I had made an appointment with a doc I had never seen before at a clinic I had only passed a million times before. So, why did I print out Google Map directions? Why did I follow them and not my own instinct? Who knows. But I was flustered and late. Not really lost, but annoyed at myself and my tardiness.

Screeching into the parking lot, I parked and ran into the building toward the elevator. A woman waited for me with the elevator doors open. I ran past her to the sign to see where the eye clinic was located. I ran down a hall. Dead end. I ran up a flight of stairs. Nope. I ran to the drug store near the front entrance. The pharmacist was busy filling pill bottles. I interrupted his counting, sorry to the person who gets one less pill in their next bottle, and asked him where the eye clinic was located.

He looked up. He looked past me toward the hall. He said, “It’s right over there.”

Sure enough. The eye clinic was the first suite when you entered the building. Had I been thinking, on-time, and using my witty words, I would have said something brilliant like, “And that’s why I’m going to the eye doctor.” But I was concerned I’d be late and miss my chance to hear the doctor tell me I had cancer of the eye. I just laughed and ran out the door, tossing a quick “thanks” back to the pharmacist.

I checked in. Flashed my insurance card. And obeyed the front desk woman who told me to take a seat.

Thankfully doctors run late these days. Really late.

I waited in the waiting room. I listened to two older ladies talk about their shoes. I stifled a laugh when one of them talked about “kids” these days and the jeans they purchase that are all ripped up. She stopped mid-sentence since the old Polo jeans I blindly threw on this morning had definite rips in them. Big whoop. I read magazines and felt horrible about myself after scanning the features on “amazing kids” closer to their birth than death who have accomplished things like climbing Everest, winning national culinary awards, designing clothes for superstars (if you can call Miley Cyrus a super star), and writing books.

Bored and wishing I had brought a book, I was relieved when the doctor was finally ready to see me.

I sat in the typical eye exam chair. The doctor introduced himself. That’s nice. He scanned my chart and made a comment on the fact that I had been one of Dr. __________’s patients. Holding back the tears from the mention of my beloved doctor’s name, or the irritation in my left eye, I answered with a “yep.”

The doc, whom I liked better than the lady doc I saw in July, had me rest my chin in the chin rest and look at the blue light. He snapped on a non-latex glove, at least it better have been non-latex since I’m allergic, and pulled out a long Q-tip (what’s the technical name again? swab?). He had me hold very still.

I didn’t blink. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t sneeze.

With my eyelid flipped up, he asked the assistant to get a “forceps.” A comforting word that one likes to hear whilst one’s eyelid is flipped inside out like one of those popper toys. The assistant handed him the forceps. Again, he told me to hold still.

Then I heard him. And this is what he said. I had an eye lash stuck in my eye.

Safe to say it never worked its way out of my eye three+ weeks ago.

I felt kind of silly. Like the time I went to the dentist because I thought my wisdom teeth were pushing through — only to be told it was a canker sore along my gum.

He reassured me my allergies were not the cause. He gave me a sample of some eye drops and “prescribed” that I use it 4 times/day until Saturday.

The best $25 I have spent in a long time. Because here I sit. Free of an eye lash in my eye, my first dose of yellow eye drops soaking in my eye, relieving the pressure and scratching from the longest lasting lash I have ever had.

____________________________________________________

I ask. You answer.

  1. Eye doctor tales? Do tell.
  2. Getting lost when something is right in front of you? Do tell.
  3. Going to the doctor for “ridiculous” reasons? Do tell.
  4. Suggestions for curing a hypochondriac who enjoys going to the doctor? Do tell.
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