But in the end, I sort of lucked out. I had an appointment with a general ophthalmologist and about 2 minutes into our appointment, this little man in a white lab coat came in and said, "ummm....can you help me? I can't log into my computer."
"You need a passcode?" my doctor asked him and he responded with a sheepish nod. "I'm so sorry," she said to me, "you'll have to excuse me for a moment."
I tried to play nice. "Oh sure! Take your time," I assured her, when I was really thinking "OK lady, but make it quick. I already sat for 30 minutes in the waiting room."
When she came back though, I was glad I had been so gracious. "Great news," she told me. "That is our strabismus specialist (which is what you have). He doesn't usually come to the Richmond branch on Tuesdays, but he just happens to be here and said he could squeeze you in." Apparently, if I had left and called to schedule an appointment with him, his next opening would have been at the end of May.
Of course my initial glee to meet with the wee man was soon overshadowed with the diagnosis: if I wanted my eye to stop marching to the beat of its own damn drummer, then I was going to have to tighten up a nerve ending to fix a muscle. And that, my friend, requires surgery.
"EYE surgery?" I croaked, picturing my eyeball out of its socket, resting in the palm of a be-gloved hand.
As it turns out, they don't have to actually remove my eyeball (thank the lord). I know this, because I googled strabismus surgery and found a Wikipedia entry about it.
Did you look at the link? I'm so sorry to do that, but I just HAD to. It is so sickening, that I couldn't possibly look at that image and not share it with someone. I still feel queasy about the whole thing, because I have a bit of a gag reflex when it comes to eyes and sharp instruments (and nail-biters, but that's a whole different blog entry). Whenever I think about it, a strange sensation comes over me that reminds me of my parents' neighbors--when the man of the house had back surgery, his squeamish wife couldn't bare to change the bandages, so she asked her son to do it. But as soon as he saw the incision, he began running around the room in circles screaming, "I've got butterflies in my butt! I've got butterflies in my butt!"
If you are afflicted with a weak stomach, then you know exactly what he means. Of course, it's somewhat related to, but not quite as fun as having "tickles in my belly," which I get when I see pictures of my niece wearing her new Adidas. As you can see, she takes after her aunt's sense of colorful style. Let's just hope she doesn't also inherit my penchant for random maladies:
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