This Ain't Nothin'

 

Crying is a guilty pleasure of mine. It's a rarified mood that I'm in, as it doesn't happen so much these days. Sure, I cry tears of self-pity, and my pain is mine. But occasionally, when the constellations and the stars align, I get a shot of empathy, mainlined into my cracked open heart. 

I've been broken, and that's OK with me. I sometimes wish the process was different, but what else would it be? I'm a hard nut to crack. I've been hit on the head, and it didn't slow my roll. What can I say, I'm a Taurus, you know, the bull.

I feel the pain of bugs I've killed, entire families, obliterated indiscriminately. I've also set a bunch of spiders free, gently re-homing them, so maybe, Karma, consider this, and please be kind to me.

Today, I'm somewhere in between a lazy Sunday, a guilt-free Saturday and the pressure of Monday to conform, somewhat, if only for appearance sake, to the norm. Everyday people struggle every day. Sometimes, I feel it's only me. That's why the stye, the vulgar blip on my eye. Something had to get my attention. Now that you have it, what is it you'd like from me?

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I'll stop with the demi-rhymes and get to the straight dope. Nope. (I had to throw that last one in.) But seriously, folks...all jokes aside...

Today, I feel like I've been blended and processed, the rough edges sanded, nails pounded in, or pulled out all the way. Not sure which it is, but it feels a whole lot like being human. But a part of a bigger humanity kind of human. Like your suffering is my suffering, because I've been there, or somewhere like it. I don't even care about sentences, just sentiment, at this point. 

I got my eyelid injection on Wednesday. By Friday, the swelling had gone down considerably, and I could see (figuratively and literally) a way forward that didn't involve me looking like a Witchy Poo Elephant Man for the rest of my life. Maybe that's hyperbole, but that's also me. Big 'ol drama queen.

I went to Walmart, expecting to see my usual optometrist Dr. Tran, but she was off that day. A new guy named Than was there. Jeremy, I believe. I almost didn't get in because I was late to the appointment, having been delayed at my psychiatrist's office. 

I'd listened with fidgety interest to his psycho-medical ramblings which strayed into the territory of his own personal ideals, which fall even further on the hedonism scale than my own. Champagne, cocaine and strippers, to be precise. OK, Doc, you go. No judgement. But I did have an eye appointment to get to.

I sat in the Optometrist's office well into their lunch hour, and the receptionist warned me that I might not get in. I waited nonetheless, and I'm glad I did. It turns out that Dr. Tran was/is an intern at the Pearlman Eye Center in Woodland, where I had an appointment slated for Aug. 1. I was desperate to make that happen sooner, so I prevailed upon him to ask if he could get me in as soon as possible.

He made the phone call right then and there, and the next thing you know, I had an appointment for that day. I drove down there in record time and waited around in their air conditioned office, not the least bit nervous about the procedure that was about to take place. 

He examined my eyelid, and I could tell he was taking it seriously. His voice was monotone as he dictated to his transcriptionist, "7mm hordeolum, right upper eyelid."  

Better than my mom's reaction: "OH, MY GOD!" (Not helping, Mom.)

Anyway, I made it home, a little bleary-eyed, and some residual stinging from the 10 second long injection of .2 ml of some steroid or other. True to his prognostication, I had a shiner around the eye for a few days. It was a welcome cosmetic improvement, actually. It's clearing up now, four days later. 

The nodule has also reduced, and it doesn't appear as angry. It still has a hardness, which I suppose may never fully resolve. It is scar tissue at this point, but it is not the hideous growth that previously threatened to explode like the Alien did out of Sigourney Weaver. I was getting ready to have to name it or give it a baby shower. Now, I'm hoping we can just gradually drift apart amicably.

Saturday, I played the Dobbins Farmer's Market open mic with my neighbor. He is starting a side hustle called Mountain Mic or something of that nature. Open mic and karaoke for small local venues. I shared the stage with him on and off for 4 hours this week and a couple of Saturdays ago. I feel at ease talking to the mostly non-attentive sellers and customers. It's a positive atmosphere, and no one feels the need to heckle me. I do my own preemptive heckling anyway.

That's all for now. It's back to Sunday's remedial hedonism, which I had to postpone due to a prior engagement. The coffee was rather weak, however, and I'm going to go easy on the weed, or so I'm telling myself...

This Ain't Nothin'