my kingdom for a well-behaved eye

written at 5:51 p.m. on 04.14.04

Today was quite the interesting day. I woke up with a terrible pain in my left eye. Being the eloquent child that I am, I immediately sat up in bed and yelled out, "What the crap? My eye!!"

Of course, I was immediately shushed, as the rest of my family was intent on sleeping past six o'clock. Unfortunately, I was in too much pain to go back to sleep, so I got up and mulled around. I'm actually supposed to wake up at 5:45am, but that's a rare occurrence. Anywho, I blindly maneuvered around my cluttered but beautiful bedroom, searching desperately for a way out. I finally managed to stumble out into the hallway and into the bathroom. I quickly flicked on the light switch, anxious to see what sort of knife was surely sticking out of my eye. However, as soon as my fingers moved the light switch to the upward position, my eye screamed in protest, and the frightened fingers quickly undid the action. With the lights off, I had no way of looking at my throbbing eyeball, so I reluctantly turned the light back on. Whoever thought it would be a grand idea to make bathroom counters shiny and reflective.. Well, that person should be shot.. in the eye.. twelve million times.

Moving right along, I was disappointed at what I found after my eyes finally adjusted to the light. I found nothing at all. My eye was making a scene about absolutely nothing. But then again, considering who the eye belongs to, that should come as no surprise. So, I proceeded to shower and such, trying my best to ignore the annoying little critter. It dawned on me at some point that driving probably wasn't going to be possible, considering my eyelids--joining the eyeball in a rebellious temper tantrum--refused to stay open.

I presented my dilemma to my mother. She didn't respond. I woke her up and tried again. This time she told me that she would be willing to drive my brother and I to school. "Sweet!" I thought. Then I thought some more, and I realized that things were not so sweet after all. If my mother drove me, I would be stuck without a car, which is always a scary position to be in, since it puts me at her mercy. I voiced my concerns, and she surprised me by offering to have my dad drive along as well, so that they could leave one car at school with me, assuming I would be better by the end of the day. I was elated.

I was elated, that is, until I looked at a nearby clock. To my horror, I realized that it was time to go. I had yet to put in my contacts, and I didn't have a speck of make-up on. Considering that my eye was still being an obnoxious little gremlin, putting in contacts was probably a dumb idea, but I often ignore logic for the sake of potentially looking pretty. This is especially true at this time of year, when Formal (prom) is just around the corner, and I'm still dateless.

My brother--whose morning regime consists entirely of waking up, brushing his teeth, and putting on some clothes--was getting more impatient with each passing second, so my father took my car and left with my brother. My mother, meanwhile, was running around like a chicken with its head cut off (ahh, the smell of a good, old-fashioned clich�). She was chattering nonstop at me, apparently intent on giving me a headache before seven o'clock. "Rachel, it's time to go! Didn't you say that there was construction or something? We're going to be late! I had plans for this morning! Hurry up!!"

Gag me.

Anyway, when I finally dragged my butt out the door, I was still completely wretched-looking. My eye was now a hideous shade of red, compliments of the ever-troublesome contact lens I had placed atop it. The makeup was not on my face; it was strewn all over the seat of my mom's minivan, as I attempted to paint prettiness on my face using a two-inch-by-two-inch mirror hidden in the dark caverns of the van's visor. Meanwhile, my hair, feeling completely neglected and unloved, decided to grab my attention by drying in the most unusual manner conceivable. I'm a fan of abstract art, but the image that was staring back at me from this little "mirror" was just gross. No, it was beyond gross, it was fricken wrong. Nothing that hideous should be allowed to live. If suicide wasn't against my religion� Just kidding.

Back to the story. My mom's doing the driving thing still. We're ten minutes down the road, and I haven't been able to open my eyes at all. Of course, I'm inwardly having a panic attack, not because of my eye, but because of the fact that I might show up at school as this grotesque-looking creature. Somebody might agree with me that I was to hideous to live, and that would be the end of me. Being that I wasn't in the mood to die, I figured I would try anything and everything to stall. Since I was in a panicky mood, I asked the most risky question first. "Mom, could we maybe go see an eye doctor about my eye? It really, really hurts."

One look at my bubbling and oozing eye, and my mom agreed in a heartbeat. Anyone who knows my mom knows that this is a miracle. My mom does not let her children stay home from school unless death itself comes knocking. Something about the Grim Reaper intimidates even the toughest of the tough.

Anyway, by this point, I had ripped my contacts out of my eyes and had given up on makeup. I was content to close my eyes and deal with the pain for the rest of the ride. At some point, it clicked in my head that we were still driving, and that we had never turned around. I pryed open the well-behaved eye and found that my mother was pulling into Panera's parking lot. Finally, things were starting to shape up!

My mom bought breakfast and coffee for both of us, and then we headed back home to wait for the optometrist's office to open up. I basically slept the whole time. I could explain in great detail how many times I turned over on the couch, how annoying it was to have the TV on in the background, and how much I came to hate the ditzy, blonde hostess on QVC (a home shopping network thing) after hearing her voice prattle on for two hours. Instead, I'll leave some of these important details up to your imagination.

Skipping ahead to the actual visit to the eye doctor...

Actually, skipping ahead to the diagnosis...

I have "iritis." Basically, the iris (the colored part of the eye) is inflamed. Most of us learned in elementary school about how the pupil (the black part.. Ha, I love insulting your intelligence) changes size in relation to the amount of light it needs to let in and amazing stuff like that. Anyway, when the pupil dilates and contracts in an eye infected with iritis, much pain is caused, as the pupil starts bumping into the iris as well as bumping into the white blood cells that start gathering around the iris. Exciting stuff, eh? So, the nice optometrist lady looked into my eye with a microscope and found three or four white blood cells, which means that we caught this very early, which is good news. Catching it later, when there are hundreds of white blood cells, can mean longer treatment periods and a lot of pain in the meantime.

Iritis occurs for no real reason at all. If it happens once, no big deal. If it happens more than once, then people start freaking out and they start running tests on you. Apparently if you get iritis more than once, it's a possible sign of immune system deficiencies or disorders like arthritis. This is the extent of my knowledge on iritis, cuz here I started zoning out.

Anyway, I now have one dilated eye, two sets of eyedrops to use on the rebellious eyeball. One eyedrop keeps the eye dilated, so I only have to use it once tonight and once in the morning. The other eyedrop thing needs to be used once every two hours today and tomorrow. It's the nastiest eyedrop ever! It's a milky white anti-inflammatory steroid, which isn't gross in and of itself. The gross part is that you can taste it in the back of your throat. I know, who thinks of eyedrops going down your throat? Not I, said the little red hen. It's true, though. It tastes nasty. Fortunately, I have enough Easter candy around to chow down on that it is easy to override the bad taste.

Unfortunately, my Formal dress fit the pre-Easter-candy Rachel. I believe I ranted about this last year, too. Formal should not be right after Easter. All events occurring two weeks after any major food-gobbling holiday should employ this dress code: oversized sweatshirts and pajama pants. No form-fitting dresses allowed.

Oh well. If only I was president� Sigh.

That'd be great, wouldn't it? Rachel, the first female president of the United States of America. "Country In Better Shape Than Ever Before Thanks to President Cookie." Ahh..

So, I was watching the TV Guide Channel. I saw that Elimidate was on. No, I did not watch it. However, when I was flipping through my dictionary a few hours ago, I was struck with an idea. I saw the word "dilapidate," and I think they should have a new dating show by that name. All the dates would involve at least one "dilapidated" person. They could have a third nose (well, I guess a second nose would be weird enough..), they could have an obsession with belly-button lint, they could have a paranoia of elbows. Who knows, who cares?!! The point is, I would be amused watching such a show. Now, remember, you heard it here first. If and when this becomes a real show, I reserve bragging rights as well as the right to say "THAT WAS MY IDEA!!!" every time I see the title scroll by on the TV Guide Channel.

Wow. I'd have to say that I've entertained you long enough. My fingers are getting cranky, and believe me, one rebellious body part a day is more than I can handle. So, for the sake of my sanity, I'm ending this nonsense. The end.