Monday, December 1, 2008

A crochet hook down your eye socket!

It’s very common, so we were told. It’s no big deal. Up to 6% of babies are born with a blocked tear duct and for most of them it resolves itself before their first birthdays.

Willfully, I never asked the what if?

L’s goopy eye never ungooped and our pediatrician finally recommended an ophthalmologic consult, who in turn recommended a good old-fashioned “probing.” It’s so simple, really. A quick, five-minute outpatient procedure. You just hold her down, and we take a little needle and go in the corner of her eye, scoop out the blockage, poke around a bit in the nasal sinus passages and make sure they’re clear and sufficiently wide, and voila! DEGOOPED.

That’s when I redeclared my love for M and reminded him that I perfectly well could have had babies on my own but I chose to let him marry me first and then join me in this adventure. And for that privilege he’d have to be the baby-holder-downer while I pretended it was a regular Monday at work, letting my internal avatar hum a happy tune of ear-plugging LALALALALALA! I CAN’T HEAR YOU! to the my-baby-being-held-down-and-probed disruption to our blissful work-and-daycare routine.

It’s not so different from the toilet that keeps running. I love you, babe! We both know I lived alone for years. We both know I could make the toilet stop running. We both know that if you were out of town for work as you sometimes seem to be, I would make the toilet stop running. But aren’t we both so lucky I have you in my life? Please be my toilet fixer?

So the appointment was scheduled for 1pm today and until about 12:50, I had my brain nicely under control, a reasonable 95(rational)% knowing that everything would be fine, and a reasonable 5(overimaginative)% panicking about niggling scenarios like excessive bleeding or blindness or accidental brain perforating. But as my office phone continued to sit there and not ring, and not ring, and not ring, the 5% led a mutiny and started eating integers from the majority crowd, until the insurgents had cannibalized any rational thought and the victims were strewn haplessly against the crescendoing LALALA soundtrack of my no-longer-even-faking-it productivity.

That’s always good in an office setting.

2:08! (What happened to ‘five minute procedure’???) The boy calls with the all-clear. Maybe even literally: we should see immediate improvement. Give a week of eye drops. Then maybe, just maybe, forget it ever happened.

Because if it still doesn’t clear up after today, there will be in-hospital usage of balloon expanders and anesthesia. My brain will render me deaf from the inside out if it comes to that.

She’s lookin’ good, and less traumatized than me. She's a little bloodied, a little clingy. I saw her precious mauled discharge-y face and my heart was weakened and my marriage was strengthened, because what a prince have I to have run this unpleasant little errand today. The doctor assured that the blood and ick should be gone by tomorrow, and then a collective hope, please, that this is the end of that, and my biggest concern henceforth can be the regrowth of some goop-kidnapped eyelashes. This holiday season we need world peace and symmetrical quantities of eyelashes. Amen. Pin It