Last weekend, I had a simply awesome time helping my youngest sister pick out a gorgeous wedding dress with friends, my other two sisters, and my Mom. But this post is not about that.
Jasper took his very first flight as well, and was a model citizen of the sky. This post is not about that, either.
I extended my trip for some much-needed chill time with my Dad and Mom; the former because he needed a high-five from me before embarking on another round of chemo, and the latter because everyone needs a dose of someone (like me) napping on her couch. But nope and nope here as well.
This post, friends, is about how bizarre danger is all around us, and how it’s medically and physically improbable that I made it to the ripe o’ age of 34 at ALL.
Last Saturday night, after the first round of wedding dress tryin’ on (and before the first round of gorging ourselves on Bertucci’s pizza), my big sis Kate and I entered a store and I immediately felt a sharp pain in my eye.
It was a liquor store, if you must know.
“I think I have something in my eye.”
“Oh, sorry. You’ll be fine,” she said in that way that big sisters have spoken since the beginning of time.
But I wasn’t. As the night continued, I felt my eye getting itchier and sharp-ier and swollen like whoa. Amid choruses of “Stop rubbing it” and “Oh my God, make sure to wash the tablecloth she touched” and more than a few instances of “Look at this hilarious picture I just took of Keely’s face/no, we’re not laughing AT you,” I could feel it getting worse. (I saw one of those pictures. I looked not entirely unlike Sloth from The Goonies.)
Early the next morning- around 4am- I woke up and felt that something was really, really amiss. So I walked into the bathroom at my sister’s house, turned on the light, and made an embarrassingly high-pitched sound at my reflection which may have alarmed dogs in nearby counties.
My right eye was completely swollen shut, completely beet red, and completely the size of half my face. Like, picture a cartoonish boxer. Then make it scarier-looking. Then picture my face behind it, crying freaky-outy tears. Let’s go try on wedding dresses, family!
I went back to bed, because- 4am, right? However, the damage had already been done. Sleep was not happening for me now. You know how the mind plays mean tricks in the early hours? Mine had me Googling things like “eye Ebola.” (Good news! It was quickly apparent that I did not, in fact, have “eye Ebola.” Bad news! Do you know what the hell comes up when you Google “eye Ebola?”)
So, around 7:30am I begged my big sister to drive me to an urgent care clinic. (Upon seeing my face, her normally calm demeanor made way for a tense “Uh- Get in the car.”) I left Jasper with my brother in-law and folks, left my Mom in charge of all of the brunch dishes Kate and I had planned to make for our youngest sister, and drove off with Kate- but not before seriously frightening her four young boys.
“You’re a mess, Mom.”
Kate helped me into the clinic, helped me sign my name, helped me find my insurance card, and helped me not fall onto the floor while feeling for a seat.
More good news! The RN decided that I did not have anything terrifying like pinkeye (or eye Ebola). Bad news! She was super thorough in this investigation, which included shoving tall cotton swabs up and under both eyelids, holding my eyeball steady and open like some weird A Clockwork Orange scenario, painting my eye neon, and scanning my eye socket with a blue light. (Side note: If my eye weren’t currently experiencing off-the-charts pain, IT SURE WAS NOW!)
And keep in mind: I’ve recovered quite nicely from three c-sections, as well as been the proud owner of four ovarian cysts without having noticed when they had burst. I’m usually pretty cool with pain. This was paaaaaaaain.
It was determined that, while not contagious, my eye was scraped (whether from events prior to or during this clinic) and needed antibiotic ointment. Because, as it turns out, whatever had scratched me was something to which I was severely allergic. Hence, Sloth.
Me.
I was duly dosed, duly whiny, and duly prepped for a fun day of brunching and dress-viewing with the sibs.
Poor Emma. My youngest sister’s special dress trips were marred by a girl wearing dark shades inside of an Anthropologie, like a hungover Trixie (wearing a baby). Poor Kate. Her morning with our Dad was cut ridiculously short due to- yet again- her sister’s predilection for hurting herself and then being allergic to whatever she tripped over. And poor Rachel. Because she would hate to be left out of this story.
By the next morning, the swelling had gone down by half. The morning after that showed a fortuitous lack of Swollen Face (although some telltale red eyeball action was still around). Which was good-ish. Because I was about to board a flight home, and really wasn’t feeling the pointed questions of “Do you have pinkeye?” “Are you sure it’s not eyeball Ebola [not a thing]?”
That said, God bless Southwest Airlines and their ability to pick n’ choose seats. Because my one-two punch of a scary face and the wearing of a baby pretty much guaranteed me some pretty sweet elbow room.
Silver linings, you guys.
Even if they’re still kinda blurry at this point.
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