Seeing Is Believing

It all began Sunday night at dinner.  Just a nice Sunday evening dinner out.  It was humid out, and so I thought that little irritation in my eye was just due in part to the weather.  A few itches and dabs of a kleenex to the eye seemed to be sufficient enough to last through dinner.  Surely my contacts just needed to take a soak in their case all night.  The problem was that darn left eye kept itching right up until I tried to shut them both for the night.  The itching though grew worse.  As in it became a pain.  Full blown pain.  Enough to cause a complete lack of sleep for the night.  Even after failed attempts of frozen ice pack compressions.  When 5:00 A.M. rolled around I actually jumped at the chance to take a shower.  Albeit a little more fresh, the pain was still at a full force throb.  Frustration had set in.  So I did what had been reinforced to me time and again in times of distress:  call Mom.  The first thought, knowing my history of hypochondria, was pink eye.  As was mine actually, as I also took into account my past track record.  After few genuine shrieks of pain though the thought loomed that it could be something a tad more serious.  Possibly.  Never one to waste time or money to go to a doctor if not necessary...

...I actually leapt into a cab to the nearest urgent care (well second closest, as the Northwestern University Clinic was nothing but absolutely rude and inefficient upon calling).  So off I went with my damp hair pulled back, in all black sweats, my glasses, and a wet hot pink washcloth pinned under the left lens of my glasses.  In the midst of Chicago Monday morning rush hour on North Michigan Avenue.  Just waltzing right into a professional building up 16 floors to the urgent care.  Well waltz wouldn't quite accurately describe what was actually frantically barreling through the doors all the way to the receptionist's desk.  Out of pity or shear fear of the wreck that was my appearance, I got right in, though had to wait in a pitch black room without any windows for the doctor.  My spasmodic movements at every flicker of light had everyone on edge.  A small check of $50 later it was determined that the care center wasn't well equipped to diagnose me.  So they sent me up three floors into an even more well groomed office of an opthamologist.  One look at my eye and I was final given the diagnosis:  corneal ulcer.  In other words, absolutely disgusting and excruciatingly painful.  But treatable if caught quickly enough.  Which is fortunately what happened.  So while a few hundred in medical bills (much of which will be thankfully reimbursed to me after a lack of communication from my father about a new insurance plan was discovered), much is left to be grateful for after these traumatic events, such as:

• Sympathy and approximately three minutes of peace were given to me at work
• A new appreciation for a lovely accessory has been cultivated
• My expenses on contacts will go down
• I have a valid excuse to milk for at least three weeks
• I was able to play make believe pirate for a night while wearing my eye patch
• My vision is still mostly in tact or can be restored.  A gift some aren't as lucky to claim all the time.

{Image Credit: BerkleyIllustration}