I had to go to the ophthalmologist today. I have chronic bloodshot eyes (and, no, it isn’t alcohol-induced. I heard you mutter that, Terry!). (Terry is my brother.)
My eye doctor is funny. He’s extremely OCD. He has several nervous tics. He’s allergic to all perfumes, from shampoos, to rinses, to scented deoderant, so he keeps a fan running and he often opens the door to the exam room. He coughs a lot because of it, and apologizes in a way that makes you feel guilty for washing your hair (OK, not really. He apologizes that you should feel bad about washing your hair and explains that it is *his* problem, not yours). His employees have to be psychic because he’s extremely OCD.
Did I mention he has Obsessive Compulsive Disorder?
He’s also colorblind, a fact that I find quite amusing when he asks me to interpret something from a scan because he can’t see the reds or greens.
He was my second opinion on the diagnosis of glaucoma. I didn’t believe the first one and waited a few years before I went back to an eye doctor, only to receive the very same diagnosis based on the very same anomaly in my eyes. I liked the first doctor, but I couldn’t spell his name (it’s Czechoslovakian, an interesting language that omits most vowels and uses consonants as vowels. I love Czech surnames, but they don’t exactly roll off the tongue like Greek and Basque surnames do – for me). My present eye doctor is funnier, and so I keep him.
Why is he funny, you ask?
Well, let me tell you about today’s visit. Doctor’s wife collected tears from my eyes and tested them for saline and asked me a bunch of frightening questions to which I replied “yes”. She’s the yang to his yin or yin to his yang. Calm, for one thing. She’s also rather new at being his full time assistant since their long-time right hand girl Friday up and married some guy and moved to Texas. Pam was my favorite, but Betty is quickly taking her place. That’s what Pam gets for falling in love and running off to create a life.
Doctor then had to look closely at my eyelashes through his eye microscope (you know the one? He uses it to check the pressure in your eyeball? Well, maybe not. I’m very familiar with it). Bright lights and the feeling of having your eyes under, well, a microscope. I briefly wondered if he could see the mites that live in my eyelashes. He ran off a bunch of numbers and observations to his wife.
Then came explanation time. First, he explained about tear ducts, oil glands, and eyes drying out too quickly (hence the misnomer, “dry eye syndrome”). He explained that my eyes exhibit the signs: drying out before 20 seconds (7 seconds in one eye & 12 in the other), diluted saline in the tears due to increased water production because my eyes feel dry (resulting in tears running down my face, uninvited). Got that. Check.
He moved otn the next subject, “Now, this is just a fact of life, nothing to get alarmed about, but…” he paused, trying to formulate a tactful way to say it, “we have mites living in our eyes…”
“OH! I wondered if you could see them! Did you see them?”
He stopped and looked at me, completely thrown off-guard. “You know about eye lash mites? How?”
“Uh. The cartoon, Rose-is-Rose! She has a phobia of dust mites. And National Geographic. What? Are there people who don’t know this?” Now I am incredulous. How can someone not know about the infinite possibilities of life as proven by science? Heck, there could be mites living on the mites in my eyes! It’s awesome! It’s magical! And to me, it’s proof of the infinite wisdom of God Who creates universes and things smaller than atoms.
My eyelash mites have not started a rebellion, but they are forming armies. Game of Thrones is on, and I have the resources to win. Water-based eye shadow is my friend. The fact that I refuse to use mascara is on my side. Win-win-win.
He still didn’t get it.
He then began a lengthy explanation of eye lid massage that would make Mary Kay Ash roll over in her grave. I sort of zoned on him, as I could hear Mary Kay, Estee Lauder, and a million other beauty experts explain that “there are only certain ways you should ever rub the skin around your eyes to avoid wrinkles and… yadadada…”
He paused and I looked at him and stated, “You know you just destroyed every beauty expert ever?” His wife cracked up in the background because SHE’S HEARD ALL THOSE MAKE UP LECTURES. He just stared at me. HUH?
Mary Kay died a second death.
Then he asked if I had pets. And *if* those pets ever got onto my bed. And if they ever snuggled into or onto the pillows.
I’m pretty sure he was thinking cute little Yorkshire Terriers. But I pictured Nesting Dog. And I laughed Out.Loud. Seriously?
I have an 80+ pound dog that nests. In pillows.
“Can you lock the bedroom door?”
“Sure, but the OTHER dog knows how to open it.”
His wife was nearly doubled in half. He was slowly waking up to this. I now have to wash my pillows every week. And ban Harvey from them.
After he left the room and his wife began to explain to me the new eye cleansing regimen I will have to undergo to correct the OSD, I thought it prudent to explain to her that I love making jokes that floor him.
When he first diagnosed me with glaucoma (confirmed the former eye doctor’s dx), I asked him, straight-faced, “So – this means you’ll prescribe me Medical Marijuana?”
“So – how long did it take him to recover and say ‘no’,” she asked, after wiping the tears from her eyes.
“I don’t know. I burst out laughing before he could formulate his thoughts on the matter. It was hysterical.”
(I am not opposed to medical marijuana, but I am also not interested in that therapy. And my eye doctor is entirely opposed.)
He’s also slow to get a dry joke, which is why he’s funny.
I’m afraid to tell Harvey he can’t nest in the pillows anymore. He loves pillows…
Jaci Dawn 
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