Do you know, it has turned into sheer torture sitting in front of this blasted computer. Because, as ridiculous as it sounds, it is windy -- kind of in the manner of a howling gale, only without the howling bit. And it is right smack in my eyes, causing me to squint, or type with my eyes closed, and feeling generally downright miserable.
If you've been paying attention at all, you will know that I am an avid reader -- usually going for a new book every week or two. As I write this, I am on page 302 of The Lacuna (by Barbara Kingsolver)**, and it has taken me weeks and weeks to get there. I can't even read anymore, and to be perfectly frank, it is making me mad and extremely depressed. My eyes are burning burning burning twenty four hours a day. I'm at my wits end over here.
So I went to the doctor. He looked me over (some quick procedure involving a very long cotton swab and a bright light, both of which went right in my eyes), and pronounced that every single duct in my eyes was clogged right up. Well, what do you know? He offered to fix the problem then and there, sitting alongside me and explaining it all in a very kindly manner. I said 'sounds great', and then I immediately passed out. I swear it's true. One moment I am sitting there, minding my own business and freezing my tuchas off; the next I am trying to rip off my sweater as fast as I can, because I am covered with sweat and feeling a bit woozy (to say the least). So I guess this means that I am officially 'one of those'. I realize this is incredibly lame of me, and I have been quite disgusted and rather put out with myself ever since. But there it is.
What's more was that they made me reschedule my cotton swab eyeball compression appointment because I was apparently not in the right state to continue on with it. Right-o. I went back for my second appointment a week later and did just fine -- seven o'clock in the morning, a healthy dose of valerian extract swimming in my system, and there I was. The nasty procedure was done in less than ten minutes. And I felt great for about a day and a half. But wait, there's more.
I called and said I had allergies something awful, 'and could you please prescribe a drop of some sort, pretty pretty please?' And they said 'not a chance, instead we'd like you to rearrange your whole day and come back in'. Fine. Whatever. So with Emilia in tow, I went in one afternoon and left an hour later with plugs. Yes, that's right. Plugs. Some tiny things they squash into your eyes using a very long (and very menacing) silver pokey-thing. I did not pass out this time, thank you very much, but am very glad that I had the presence of mind to have a nice valerian cocktail earlier. (Oh, that stuff is a marvel!) Anyway, Michael called when we were on our way out. 'Whatcha doing?' 'Leaving the eye doctor. I got plugs.' 'What? It sounded like you said plugs.' And then he went from yelling about something or another to laughing at me for getting plugs. Whatever.
In the meantime... I have a small mole on my cheek (that would be facial cheek, thanks) that my sister was looking at in California last month. 'Ewww, you ought to have a doctor look at that thing!' Ordinarily I would be offended by such a suggestion, but the thing was swollen up to nearly the size of my head, so I figured she made a fine point. Long story short, I went in to get my mole looked at by the dermatologist and left with a case of mild rosacea. The mole is not anything to worry about, but I got a fist-full of written prescriptions to take with me. Fanfeckingtastic.
And would you like to hear how much those three prescriptions cost? I thought you would. Around two hundred and fifteen dollars, American -- and that is with insurance. Bloody hell. I nearly threw up on the spot. And if I had any sense at all, I would have told them where they could kindly stick it and then sped out of the drive-thru. But, instead, I coughed it up. Prescriptions in hand, we drove home, me quietly crying all the while because it had already proven to be an insanely expensive week, and I was at my wits end. On the bright side though, crying is quite good for a chronic dry-eye issue. Good thing Emilia was amusing herself in the back seat with the camera, taking pictures of everything she saw, otherwise she would have witnessed her mama nearly going off the deep end. I was good as new though by the time we got home.
So now I have these prescriptions (with something like forty-two refills remaining) and I'm quite put out. They are nasty, smelly, quite cheaply made, and not my cup of tea at all. And what's more is that they appear to be worsening the problem because I can promise you that I look like absolute shite. Sad, no? Because to be perfectly honest, I don't take looking like something the cat dragged in too kindly. The funny thing is that these prescriptions have totally and completely made my eyes worse. Ever since I started using them my eyes have been out of control (so have my lips -- burning like crazy). I've been considering wearing swim goggles around the house, just to cut down on the breeze. The only reason I haven't is because that sounds like crazy and somewhat eccentric behaviour to me.
But there you have it -- and I must say, how very typical of me. Piles of random appointments, piles of prescriptions paid for by piles of money, and piles of 'medical' issues that are causing piles of general upset. The eye doctor, who is really quite nice and looks just like George Will, said the next option is eye drops that cost about two hundred smackers a month. He is opposed to me trying them at all because he does not want to line the pockets of drug companies. I am with him one hundred percent on this, but what's more is that two hundred extra dollars a month would be like trying to squeeze blood from a turnip. It's just not going to happen.
It is aggravating to no end. All this because my eyes are dry and my face looks better when not actually being looked at by anyone. Ugh, I'm so depressed. Now then, if you'll just excuse me, I'm going to look for some goggles and then go to bed. Michael is out of town, which means I am up much later than I ought to be.
(Photo taken by one Miss Milia while we drove home from the pharmacy. Her aim is getting much better, if her subject matter is not. She has expanded from taking pictures solely of Governor's bum and Frosty the Snowman on the telly -- she now likes to take pictures of mama's bum, too. Someone really ought to tell her that this may not be so nice for one's self-esteem at the moment. Seriously, not cool.
**A quick sidenote on The Lacuna -- it's all about Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera, or the first half is anyway. Frida Kahlo was so incredibly beautiful, but it mystifies me why she refused to wax that mustache off her face. As a general rule, I belong to team 'wax that shit off!' But I also am the sort that ends up with piles of prescriptions for my face because I can't leave well enough alone. Ahem.
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