...eye solution

…eye solution

To Me,

Now I’ve gone and done it! It is February, 2001 and I’m wondering, are anyone else’s resolutions trashed yet? I broke down and got eye surgery. I know, against my better judgment and everything I espouse about conforming to the world and the preconceptions of plastic surgery. Castigation, begin! Love T.

I’ve followed the trend of most comediennes and had my #1 self-deprecating feature surgically altered. The source of mirth for my children is gone. They can no longer wink behind my back, or laugh silently in front of my face. I’m freed from being the butt of their jokes, free from their cruel taunts and I’m no longer stuck in bed while the morning passes and finally the children seek me in the bedroom where I’m hoarse from yelling, “Help! I’ve dropped my glasses and I can’t get up!”

I’ve done it! I had my blindness fixed. No more thick glasses, no more blundering and sadly, no more excuses about misreading the ingredients on a recipe card. I can see!

It’s all they say it is and more! Instead of feeling as if I want to rip my eyes out in the evenings, it’s 100% of the time. Light of any kind is an irritant and the eye-drops taste bitter. (Trust me, the eyeball’s connected to the tastebud, and the tastebud’s connected to the…)

I’ve had no other side-effects, no pain, no burning, and no extra tears. If it weren’t for my trusty drug reaction, I would have nothing to write about.

I don’t remember much of that first night due to drugs. It happens every time. I warned the doctor that it would be better for everyone if I didn’t have the “relaxant.” I do “tense” so much better. The nurse reassured that five milligram tablets weren’t really anything to worry about. At least that’s what I think she said, by that time I was snoring softly into my chest. She asked the husband to tilt the chair back, hoping to stop the mouth gape and drool.

I vaguely remember meandering my way, with a double escort, to the operating table where I laid down with relief, but when they said skooch up to the top, I started giggling. I was pudding by that time and if they had told me to slosh on up, I might have attempted it. They tape your eyes open and the little machine sucks the eyeball up, which was a good thing because I couldn’t have managed that on my own. My memories end with me staring blankly at the blinking red light.

I slept like a baby from the office to the house and I don’t recall how I made it from the car. After about four hours of lying peacefully in a “lovely repose with hands crossed over the chest” (and obviously looking more at ease than the husband thought I deserved), I was forcibly awakened.

If I didn’t have to face people again, all would be well. It’s that drunk-at-the-company-party/morning-after that is mortifying. The next day, doctor and nurse were both very circumspect and only casually noted that I had been quite relaxed. The nurse remarked that it’s nice that I’m petite… Me?[44] I'm not short, I just look short.

I remember now why I don’t have drugs during childbirth. It’s because of my big mouth. I have no discretion under the influence. The husband said that just as I was leaving, I announced to all-and-sundry that the reason the husband didn’t have this kind of reaction to medication was “due to his extensive history with drugs.”

Reality Bite: Please shoot me! Or just shoot me up again, so I don’t remember.

[44] I’m also heavier than I look. That’s what the ski patrol said when he piggy-backed me to the bottom. Oops, another story for another time.

…an eyeful

…an eyeful

Hey, I’m tentatively revising my wholehearted recommendation for eye surgery. I’m thinking that there are downsides that are only just now becoming apparent.

It’s obvious that I have lost the sympathetic ear. “No, Mom, you can find your own keys. I know you can see them now,” and “Dad says it’s safe for you to drive us.” I can no longer use the missing contact lens excuse for my haphazard mowing, sweeping, mopping and paper chaos.

To me

Life is filthy and some things are best left unseen, i.e., television and the whole of every election campaign.I’m thinking it’s a shame my hearing is still good. T.

I was legally blind and loving it! Even corrected, I could never really see as far as the floor and though my eye-doctor doesn’t promise perfect vision, unfortunately mine is now good enough to notice dirt in the corners, the film on the mirrors, the dust on the pictures and the crust on the windows. I’ve decided that visually challenged is not necessarily a bad way to go through life.

Flying about blind as a bat had other heretofore unrealized benefits, and the best was that I never knew my shower was filthy. The bathroom is a whole new world now that I’m not walking around with scratched glasses, peering into a foggy mirror. The worst of these seem to be connected to my being unclothed. I've lived in my own little fogbank and sometimes life is simply better that way.

Reality Bite: There is an upside. When I put in the milky antibiotic and life returns to a haze, everything can again be beautiful.

---

…a new life

Dear Diary 1998,

It's the first day of school in the new city and we've all walked up to catch the bus on the corner. I put the children on and ask the driver how the kids will know where to get off. He said not to worry, he would tell them.

That afternoon when bus stopped and the door opened, the driver sat there and looked at me. It was a video moment. Too bad I only had the still camera. He finally sighed and said, “They aren’t on here. Call the school.”

“Well, let’s see, I don’t have the school’s number, we moved here yesterday.”

“Don’t worry, the kids will call you.”

"How?" They don’t know the phone number. It was only connected today!

“They’ll bring them home.”

Really? “Who is they?" and "How will they know where home is.” We didn’t have time for a crash course in orienteering last night after we drove into town.

“I’m sure there is nothing to worry about.” Would that be because they have memorized their city, state and zip?

I go nuttier by the minute, Help me, Terina

Dear Diary 1998 and Anyone Else Who Cares,

I found a calendar! It's August 17, and my breakdown was scheduled for the 14th. So, I'm taking it today.

Flight of the Bumbles

I love flying, all kinds, except the kind that involves planes. I hate airplanes... not the plane itself, but the side effects of TSA on flight. I don't think that I fly often enough to become a TSA identified persons target for writing this, but even with that heightened risk, I can no longer hold myself back.

So, I'm taking flight into my own hands and I'm writing about it. Hopefully the writing therapy will work it's magic and cure all, as it has before.

As it is, in order to fly across this country with my husband, I am subjected to a myriad of restrictions. These seem to tighten each time I fly. First yellow alert, then orange, and these levels limit what I can pack, what I can wear, and now it seems we have moved to high alert, RED and it's all about what I can and cannot say.

The last time we flew, it came down to this: My latest look.
Oh and with the new restriction is an extra five minutes. Our flight preparations now have to include an extra five minutes-- to grant the husband a head start through security.

Flight of the Bumbles II

The treatment for phobia is immersion, so I'm headed out to fly--cause I'm totally afraid of airport security.

I'm at the airport hearing a faux voice over the loud speaker... "We are at an extra high security level," and despite it's monotone calm, my guts begin to unravel.

In my extra high state of insecurity, I perch at the edge of my seat and listen for the next announcement. My nerves are at a matching extra high level, and my reaction is knife sharp. I clutch at my husband, "Did you hear that? Did you? Extra high!"

He mumbles something from under the newspaper that he customarily settles over his face as soon as we alight in any of the world's waiting areas.

"We are currently at orange."

"Orange?" "Orange," my nervous twinge morphs to an outrage that is noticeable to other passengers, except to the husband who is still under his paper. I'm off on a tirade.

"Orange?" I repeat the comment giving it the correct emphasis, "Orange?" "It's apparent that TSA has never raised children! Do they not understand the fine art of threats?" And the monologue begins.

My verbal soliloquy to the newspaper covered lump continues, "Do they not know that you have to hold back. When you issuing threats, you must reserve something for "RED". The human psyche becomes inured to the constancy of empty threats."

"What are they going to say when it's red? Explain that? Does the lack of government vision extend even to the airlines?" I continue with rhetorical queries, but it works whenever government is involved.

"Has no one thought ahead? What are they going to say next?" I muse aloud. By this time, other potential flyers are overhearing, but I have my earbuds in, so they assume that I am accidentally speaking too loudly over my sound reducing earphones. They are wrong.

"What comes after extra high level? What can they say next? We are currently experiencing "PEE YOUR PANTS" security levels?" and finally I ease into my ending.

"Please. Anyone with children knows that you must reserve your hyperbole. Hold something back for heaven sakes! That's why my best threats start at one and count to ten. Heaven help the child that doesn't move by five or six. Even a teen knows that to get to eight is life threatening--because by then, Mom has to get up and enforce--and you'd better duck if you make Momma move."

And I settle back into my waiting seat, noticing out of the corner of my eye each head that nods, and eyes that glint. I have made even more converts to the paranoia that accompanies flight.

Another important part of fear therapy is rational thought. I need to admit that our flight security levels are never--not ever-- going lower than orange. Just admit to myself that flying "extra high security, orange level, ' is forever. 'Cause even if Bin Laden is assassinated, we're stuck with TSA because no government worker is ever laid off.

And there I go. Off on another rant. Hey, it's therapy!

Flight of the Bumbled III

I have a total phobia of flying. And part of my therapy is to do it--immersion. It's not working thus far, but, here I go again. Another flight.

An important part of therapy is self-mind manipulation and role playing, so with this flight, I'm trying what the terrorists do, I play "Try to outwit TSA." Thank goodness, it's not that difficult because TSA is always playing catchup. Whatever new crime terrorists have tried, that is the punishment that the rest of us suffer for this week.

Today I'm a stripper. I remove my coat, shoes, my belt, my jewelry, hat, hairclip, purse, and just when I feel totally denuded, I'm stopped. The guy watching just through the X-Ray portal points and excercises that flicking gesture with that commanding forefinger, "You'll have to take that off."

I look around "What?" I'm truly stumped, not just pretending this time.

I glance down at what I have left on. Last I heard, it was illegal to fly naked. (I'm thinking of the girl that nearly tried it and was kicked off a flight by the airline..."Hey, but I skated through security.")

So, I'm nearly naked, and I guess that the TSA guy is flicking at my wrap. Okay, it's not even a wrap, it's a crocheted poncho--not even a poncho, it's see through accessory that couldn't even possibly in the wildest stretch of my imagination be knitted with fiber nitroglycerine or piano wires, but his pointer is insistent, "Off."

Never mind the lady going through ahead of me has on a denim overshirt that looks like it is concealing a suicide bomber belt. (My apologies to persons with the perpetual bomber belt look) but, get real.

"This?" I again query. Hoping against hope that he is joking because I really want to continue with my delusion that TSA is smarter than it lets on, but he nods and with his next word, my thin shield of sanity shatters.

"That."

Flight of the Bumbled IV

Another flight--another battle with the TSA agent. Todays therapy is visualization. Sit, calm, breathe deep, imagine a happy auspicious outcome to a delightful flight.

But, it's not going to happen. I'm a celiac and that requires a specialized diet that is 80% more expensive than normal food and it's not reimburseable by the government and I can't even take it off on taxes... but that tirade is for another time.

Anyway,

Anyway, when I fly across country I take the opportunity to purchase foodstuff from specialty stores that have heard of flours that are gluten-free, unlike Oklahoma.

Anyway,

Anyway, I am packing this stuff cross country. And it is going to be a problem because I have two entire suitcases packed with four gallon sized bags of white powder and eight little pouches of more white powder.

The powder is innocuous flours, potato and tapioca starch, sorghum and amaranth flour, and the pouches are guar gum. They really are what they are labeled, but TSA can't know that.

And that's going to cause a problem--a big problem--I'll probably be jailed, or at least waylayed for an hour, or a half hour, or even a minute while they check it all for explosive chemicals...

But no. I glide through security. Without a comment, no bag check, no chem test, not even a backward glance, or a flicking finger.

Although I did have to remove the ring that could potentially be a dangerous lazer.

So this round--to my mental chagrin--I again win the TSA game. My ziplocks of white powder moved through airport security without a hitch. The husband remarked, "The hard thing is to get it into the country from Colombia. But once it's here, it seems you can move it around with impunity."

And that makes all of us feel so secure.