Well, don’t come to our house for that if I’m not home. I can be an empathetic & compassionate person. Artis, however, struggles a bit in this area, as evidenced by this morning’s melee. So, if one car is in the driveway and it’s not Klaus, just keep on goin’.
Bright and early, I was getting ready for work & brushing my teeth. I don’t recall exactly what I was thinking about at the time, but I’m positive that it was something angelic and harmonious. Charitable acts were surely involved. Meanwhile, a brute demon (aka Artis) lurked downstairs, watching television & thinking non-angelic and non-harmonious thoughts…probably wishing me harm. I was scrubbing away at my pearly whites when a contact lens wearer’s worst fear was realized...OK, maybe not WORST fear, but certainly not something one looks forward to…an eyelash went underneath my contact and was scratching away at my eye. I liken it to be much like a cat at a scratching post…it was ferocious. While I avoided screaming, I did have to immediately squeeze not one, but BOTH eyes shut because it hurt that badly!
Gentle reader, you’ll recall that I was in the process of brushing my teeth when this happened. In my haste to try to get this horrendous pain out of my eye, I pulled my toothbrush out of my mouth while the motor was still running & the toothbrush head was still spinning, because I needed both of my hands for this one. Not being able to see a thing, I was just sure I’d managed to fling white toothpaste specks all over the bathroom and the black polo shirt I was wearing.
I was able to squint my left (non-attacked) eye open enough to find my contact lens case, but then I realized my solution bottle was empty, so I ended up having to open a new bottle mostly by touch since I couldn’t keep my good eye open long enough to see if I was making progress with the beastly wrapper. I eventually got it open, got my contact into the case, and doused it with solution so it could sit while I assessed the situation. And it was not a pretty situation. Despite the eyelash floating in the solution-filled lens case, it still felt like it was in my eye. I eventually got the scratching to stop, but by then my eye was red & puffy. The base of my eyelid looked like it was filling with blood because it was so red.
Surely, I thought, an eye doctor will have nothing but supportive & kind words to say to make me feel better about what I’d just encountered. Even more than that, surely, I thought, the one I love will be ever-so sympathetic to my plight, and the feeling of cat nails being scratched across my naked eyeball will somehow be lessened by his kind words. The fact that both facets of an eye doctor & the one I love are embodied in the same personage just made it that much better. Or so I thought.
After cleaning off my dusty eyeglasses & getting them onto my face so I could see again, I made my way downstairs to tell Artis of the trauma he’d just missed upstairs. I told him that it was so painful that I momentarily thought that I may have to have my eye removed. And that there may have been blood. Rather than being met with any type of kind, sweet support, what did the beloved eye doctor say to me? He said, “Stop. I’ll hear none of this. Look—you must watch my favorite part of ‘Talladega Nights’! I recorded it for you to see.” What he didn’t realize is that it was a close call—I’d almost gotten to where I wouldn’t have been able to see this movie clip…or anything else ever again using my right eye.
And so, unsupported & rejected in sympathy, there I sat listening to the movie lines that held more importance than my vision…”Dear eight pound, six ounce little baby Jesus…”
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