When you have the 'Beetus you've got to keep an eye on your, uh, eyes. For most of my adult life I've gone to my optometrist once a year for regular checkups, but once I learned of the 'Beetus, those visits got a little more involved.
I think it would be worse to go blind than to loose my feet, so I make sure to get the whole nine yards looked at. And I've been going here since I was a kid (I think because that's where Harry Caray got his glasses). When I was in third grade I got my first pair of glasses there. The ones with the Smurfs on the arms.
Yet when I went yesterday it was like I was a new patient because they had a brand new system, and guess who their first patient was. Oh yeah.
I hate filling out forms. I hate filling out forms online. Worst of all, I hate filling out forms on my phone, which is what I had to do. My aversion to this is because I'm terrible at remembering medical details, and I rely on the fact that I'm already in their system so I don't have to remember them. So guess who fumbled through all these questions I was unprepared for.
The first part of the exam was business as usual. I hate it when they numb your eyes and then tap on them to test pressure. At least it's better than the spray of air, though. And I can't stand eye drops in my eyes, so it was the usual struggle to get them in there, although this guy was gentler than most. Then I was sent out for more paperwork while I waited for my eyes to dilate.
Usually when this happens I take care of other stuff that doesn't involve reading, so I had a few tasks lined up specifically for this time. But did I mention there was a new system? And no one was really quite familiar with it yet? They weren't even done puzzling through this paperwork before the doc wanted to look at the insides of my eyes.
Congrats to me, nothing foul is afoot. My eyes are getting worse merely because I'm getting older. No 'Beetus interference on that score. I was able to successfully put off the bifocal conversation another year.
So I had to finish the paperwork, and holy shit, I was there so long that my eyes were almost back to normal by the time I left. I had a bunch of non-reading and -writing stuff lined up to do during this time, but since I was OK I just did some reading and writing. All's well that ends well, I suppose, but getting there was a hell of a hassle. At least I didn't have to get new glasses. That's always a pain in the ass.
On that note I'm taking another hiatus from Goodnight, Fuckers. From all writing, in fact. I go in for my hand surgery next Friday, and I've been instructed to not use that hand at all. For anything. Including typing. It's also the hand I write with, so nothing longhand, either. I've gotten it to where I post these GFs in five intervals, perfectly matching weekdays, and I'd like to keep it that way.
I'll still be writing until Friday, and then I shall stop until I'm healed enough to resume. This is assuming, of course, that everything goes well. With my luck they'll discover something that necessitates the amputation of my right hand. If *that* fucking happens, I'm going to start drinking again. I take solace in the fact that the guy cutting on me is one of Chicago's best surgeons, so he's not likely to sneeze at an inopportune moment.
Oh! Printers Row starts tomorrow. I'll be doing a live reading at the S&M Salon of a story that will be published soon. This all means that Sunday's newsletter will be a short one because I have to get back to the city by nine or ten, I forget which. This, along with the surgery, also means that the following newsletter will not happen at all. Just to give you all a heads up.
OK, try to behave yourselves while I'm gone. I'm especially looking at you . . . (casts my gaze around at you fuckers) . . . ALL OF YOU.
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