I go about my normal morning routine: coffee, shower, clothes, hair, and finally makeup. Nothing seems unusual about this day, so far.
I get to work, I need to button-up a few things before I take off for a long weekend. My eye is irritated. Something is in it and it won’t move. Within a few hours it gets worse, and worse, and worse. I call the hubs on my way home from errands to tell him that I need to go to the clinic, “Something’s up with my eye. Can you come home?” I ask him. Shortly thereafter, he gets home and I go to the minute-clinic. Within an hour, I am being seen. She confirms, the thing that is in my eye is a (gulp) bacterial infection. Pink eye.
I’ve never had pink eye before, so I’m trying to figure out the source. I remember that in the last week or so I have been applying my mascara using a slightly different technique. Nothing too crazy, just a little closer to the lid and a little thicker but I also have no idea how old it is. A few months, 6, maybe? (Ok, I have no idea) I tell the nurse this and I ask “Can pinkeye develop that quickly?” (as in-from that morning) and she responds with an enthusiastic “Oh yeah!” Ok, so I have found the possible source and it’s the black lacquer of death. Super. As we finish up she tells me that the drops will sting but that’s totally normal, and she will be sending my prescription over to Target.
This gives me a tiny amount of joy. I have a totally legit excuse to go to Target. A small win for the giant sink-hole of a current situation.
I walk into Target feeling like I look like the optical version of Rudolf. I keep my head down and don’t make any eye contact that isn’t necessary. I get the goods. The pharmacist says to use the drops 6 times a day for 10 days. DUUUUDE! Come on! Who has that kind of commitment to anything? You seriously don’t have anything stronger? Ok fine! But only because it’s my eyes and they’re kind of one time deal!
Outwardly, I say “Okay, sounds good. Thank you.” and walk away.
I want to get a couple of things since I am there. I walk over to the soap section. I am fresh out of hand sanitizer in my vehicle. I grab the usual Purel and a foamy one. “Oh! Pear scented and foamy sanitizer?! Gotta have!”
As I head to the front of the store I’m reminded that I am dying of thirst. I grab a bottle of water from the cooler at the register. I pay for my stuff -all without eye contact with the cashier- and get into the car. I excitedly open the pear scented sanitizer (This is me now? I get excited about hand sanitizer and trips to Target? Ugh, my wild side has just died a little more. But I digress.) and dispense and rub it onto my hands. Smells great.
Wait a tick…it’s not drying. “Don’t tell me…” yep, it’s hand soap. Slightly panicked I spot, grab, and open my bottle of water with my slimy, soap-covered hands and proceed to wash it off in the Target parking lot. I find and use my husband’s abandoned shirt to dry my hands.
I kid you not.
I get home and I tell my hubby he’s gotta help me with the drops. I just can’t do it. The nurse said it would sting and I’ve never had to put drops in my eyes before. He obliges and to my pleasant surprise, it didn’t sting at all. He will still have to put the drops in for me going forward though. I’m a sissy and I can openly admit that.
I start to cry. It’s been a rough week before this day from hell. I sob to him that everything sucks and I must be cursed. He holds back his laughter. I can see it and I don’t blame him. I’m a hot mess inside and out at this point. It must have been quite the sight.
That night, he brought home my favorite soup and some new movies. He continued with the eye drops and I wrote a story. So you could say, things started to look up.
Tired Not Dead 