Several months ago, I grew a thing on my bottom eyelid. It was an eye chode. It was a pimple with attitude, a crusty, scaly white bulge, all hard and nasty. Almost like a barnacle, making me look like I was slowly transitioning from cursed crew member to a wretched part of the Flying Dutchman herself.
I asked around, and was told by several relatively informed sources that I had gotten old, and shit grows on you when you get old.
Then you have to go have it removed.
I did what I always do in situations like this, I waited for it to go away. Unfortunately, as is often the case with eye barnacles, it did not go away. Two months, maybe three (more like six) months later, friends and loved ones began to say that my eye barnacle had begun to “gross people out”, and that it “looked like the first phase of my transformation to the undead.”.
Whatever, I went to the eye doctor. Wimps.
You know you’ve waited too long to go to the optometrist when he’s blatantly and obviously disgusted and horrified by your condition, and says something like:
“Woah… okay… I’m going to send you to a guy who might be able to do something about that…Thing. That thing on your eye. You should go see him, I don’t think I know how to fix that creepy mess.”
I’m paraphrasing of course, but it was something like that.
So I went to the referred “guy”, an ophthalmologist, and he said, “No biggie, we’ll remove that hot mess in no time” as he flashed a brilliantly white and winning smile.
Well alrighty then, thought I. No biggie, it’s nothing. Looks like I didn’t need that intervention after all.
And so I went, like a good little Quasimodo, to the ophthalmologist’s office on the appointed day, at the appointed time, (which happened to be the very asscrack of dawn, because that’s the only time he does these… things), and was quickly and efficiently ushered into the back.
Immediately I knew something was very wrong. The nurses were being extra nice. They’re never extra nice unless they’re about to hurt you in some new and inventive way, especially at the asscrack of dawn. NOBODY’S EXTRA NICE AT THE ASSCRACK OF DAWN. Suddenly, I realized that nobody had explained the procedure to me. In fact, nobody had even told me what the fuck was growing on my face.
I don’t know what I thought was going to happen. Maybe the ophthalmologist would bring out a fairy, to kiss my crusty white eye chode away. Perhaps he had a phoenix, who would cry healing tears onto my eye goiter, thus rendering it inert and curing me of my Pirates of the Carribean disease. It could happen, right? I mean, I didn’t know what they had in store for my barnacle.
The nurse said, in a manner far too bubbly to be any good for me,
“Okay, Naptimethoughts, I’m going to have you lie down here, and we’ll just chat until we’re ready to start, m’kay?”
Her tone was like high fructose corn syrup. I looked around and saw a gigantic needle.
That’s going in my eye. I know that’s going in my eye.
I made for the door.
The nurse went for the block. “Oh, the bed’s over there, honey!” She walked me back over to what they’re calling a “bed”. It was an eye dr.’s chair, with a pillow for my head that they had rocked back to a bed-like position.
“What, exactly, do you intend to do to me?” I asked.
“Well, it’s a very simple procedure. You’ll HARDLY feel anything.”
It’s a lie. She stank of lies.
HARDLY. I’ll hardly feel anything. She went on to explain the procedure.
“All we’re going to do is take this gigantic needle, and stick it into your eye. Once that’s over, we’ll inject the contents of the syringe, which will sting like a raging nest of hornets. See? We’ve taken the liberty to pre-fill this gargantuan syringe just for you. (She flicks the syringe affectionately) Then, we’re going to use these rusty bent toenail scissors (okay, they weren’t really rusty or bent. I just liked the image that rusty bent toenail scissors produced in my head. I couldn’t really see anyhow. I was busy plotting my escape.) to cut that giant abnormal growth off of your eyelid, shove goo inside the hole we’ve made in your face, and then put a patch over the whole mess, so you’ll see in two dimensions for the rest of the day.”
I made for the door.
She pushed me back down. “Don’t worry, the worst part is the gigantic needle.”
Whew. It was a close call, but Captain Obvious made it in time to save the day once more.
“After that you’ll HARDLY feel anything”
The doctor came in. He, too, was awfully chipper.
They put a blue cloth with a slit for my eye over my face so that I got to breathe my own carbon dioxide over and over again all throughout the surgery. I forgot to thank them for that.
He told me to close my eye so that he could put iodine on the affected area. I did as I was told, and I felt the nurse put one hand on either side of my head. When I opened my eye, it was looking at the overlarge hands of the doctor, holding the gargantuan needle, all in two dimensions. I was pinned. Then came the biggest lie of all:
He shoved that needle into my eye like it was a particularly stubborn piece of quilting.
The nurse was right, whatever it was that they use to make the quick snip of the crusty white growth painless stung like my eyeball was a slug and the doctor was a very cruel child with a salt shaker. It felt like my eyeball was the last fucking pickle in the jar, and somebody REALLY wanted it. I asked for nitrous oxide. They laughed a cruel, heartless laugh, like I was being funny.
I never joke about drugs.
Once they removed the gigantic needle, and after I stopped screaming like a little girl, they both smiled as if they hadn’t just put a gigantic needle into my eye.
“There, isn’t that better?”
Fuck you, Dr. Evil, I’m breathing strictly carbon dioxide. If you’re lucky, I’ll hallucinate that this was all a bad dream. If not, you better remember to put that large gauge needle out of my reach before you decide to let go of my head.
Next came the toenail scissors. I watched as they cut the second head off my eyelid. They made small talk as what seemed like ricotta cheese vomited like lava out of the hole where my eye volcano had lived mere moments before. To me, this is not the time for small talk.
Him: “So, what do you do for a living, Naptimethoughts?”
Me: “I’m a serial killer.”
Him: “Haha, You’re funny. I like that.”
Me: “No I’m not. I kill medical professionals who stick huge needles in my eyes.”
Him: “Ha! I bet a sense of humor comes in handy while you’re chasing those two kids around all day, huh?”
Me: (Passed out from lack of oxygen.)
The whole thing took a lot longer than I expected. Once they got the thing off my eye, the nurse stuck it in a little bottle and told me that they were going to send it off to the lab to make sure the ricotta cheese wasn’t malignant.
No one told me there was a possibility that Quasimodo had cancer. Thanks for the update, nurse Ratched.
Next came the goo and eye patch, which was not what I was expecting at all. I was thinking “Arrrrrgh” but instead I got “owie bandaid and medical tape”.
That was a serious disappointment.
I knew it was about over when the extra niceness went away, and they let me up. They must do this a lot, because by the time I had made my way from dizzy in the chair to discombobulated and upright, my murderous rage had turned into a simple urge to leave by way of the door, and not do a Herman Munster through the wall.
I couldn’t tell you what my lifetimes’ finest hour has been, but I can tell you that it was NOT driving home from the doctors office that day, all squinty with my good eye, and flipping the bird at everyone behind me that got annoyed at my choice of speed.
50 is the LIMIT, you know, so 25 is perfectly acceptable.
I was within range.
I’d probably have had some choice words for me too, truth be told. I made it home, though, and took a nice long nap.
All this and I didn’t even look like a pirate. Lame.