The Eye Doctor

I am a peculiar person. Like everyone else, I have my fears and while some may be odd and strange, I will not budge when it comes to facing these said fears. I don’t like spiders but it isn’t a phobia. I just hate those things. I am scared of ladders. Not just scared. I am deathly afraid of those things. It may be irrational but it is still a fear and there is no law saying that a fear has to make sense. I don’t like needles. I don’t like the sight of blood. I should be clearer on that note. I am okay with my blood. I can slice open my finger and as my blood pours out, I will stare at it and be in awe at its beauty. I am okay. I am not going to go and kill people cause I am okay with the sight of blood. I like my blood. It’s fine. It is your blood that makes me cringe. If you’re in danger of bleeding to death, I am sorry but I will not be there to save you from bleeding to death.

I don’t like doctors. Not a fear. I just detest them. I am sure it is my subconscious playing tricks on me because we all know that visit to the doctor is never a in and out kind of thing. Dr._Giggles_posterThey’ll find something wrong with you and if they don’t, they’ll make up a disease that you have because those people know damn well that you’re not going to go home and google what they claim you have. If you’re going to worry about what you have and what that red dot on your nose it, I suggest using WebMD. It’s the best place because visiting that site will always diagnose you with Lupus of something worse, like the black plague.

I made a visit to the doctor for my anxiety. I was medicated and now, being that I am out of the medication they prescribe, I live each day fighting for my life to not have another attack. Sure they still happen. I deal because I am not going back to see the doctor. I don’t like spending money on frivolous things, like medication to cure me from what is slowly killing me. I had to visit the eye doctor the other day for work. I had two choices. I could have went to the dentist or go see an eye doctor. The eye doctor was a wiser choice. I don’t like the dentist but no one does. No one wants some doctor who failed out of med school messing around with their teeth. I know I don’t have a dynamic smile and my overbite damn near resembles Sarah Jessica Parker’s smile but I live with it. Maybe when I grow a set of balls and grow out of this silly fear, I’ll have the dentist fix my teeth. Until then, I’ll mange with my overbite and my teeth, which looks much like a deforested jungle in the Amazon.

I made my appointment with the eye doctor. It is the easy choice and if this was high school, it would have been classified as a blow off class. I know my eye site is amazing and I have no need to worry about getting glasses, contacts, or laser eye surgery. I am a kid from a large family. I am gifted with great eye sight. My family has glasses, contacts, or have worn both at some point in their life. I have not. Maybe it’s because I am awesome. I don’t know the reason for having good eye sight when I am related to some of the blindest people in the world. I don’t worry about maybe having to wear glasses. I thank God each day that I am not some four-eyed freak who has to rely on the need of science to see. I was gifted with great eyes and an impeccable gift for punny jokes. It’s the cross I have to carry but if someone is going to do it, let that someone be me.

God Plans Woody AllenI was at work the day of the appointment. We had a lot going on and I was more concerned about work and all the orders we had than to actually worry about “what if” scenarios about the doctor informing me that I’ll be in need of glasses. I opted to cancel my appointment but my boss said not to. He seem adamant about me going, like he had some secret agenda to fulfill while I was out and away from the store. The eye doctor was just up the road. I planned on getting in and getting out. I arrived shortly after two. My appointment was scheduled at 2:30. I had plenty of time to fill out the unnecessary paper work and wait a few moments before my name was called. That is what I planned but we all know that you never make plans. If everything went as planned, life would be boring.

I walk in to the office. I am behind some dude who is just as confused as I am. I have never been here before and from the dumbfounded look on his mug, it’s clear that he too has never set foot inside this office. I am standing by the door. There are open seats around me but none of open enough to give me space from all the heathens and the almost dead elderly folks who are checking on the glaucoma medicine. I am a bit relieved that they are there before me because I do not want to imagine how these people drive, knowing that they are sporting those large, black sunglasses.

I stand in line. The dude, the other clueless guy, is in front of me. We are both standing and staring at the sign that hangs from the ceiling. It clearly says, “check-in”. I am ready to check in. I am ready to see the doctor and leave. I am a busy person and I have things to do. I have said it many times before and I will say it again.

I am the kind of person who would be too busy to attend his own funeral.

Noah, (the other clueless dude) shows me a form I need to sign. We both sign it. It just asks for your name and the time. I guess it is my duty to check in and not wait for the lady at the desk to wave me forward or to even mention to me about the procedures they have when checking in to this horrible, horrible place. Noah and I sign the slips and hand them to the receptionist who is sitting at the desk. I stand again, my back to the wall. I check my phone. Nothing important. No tweeting and no text messages. I just keep checking my phone because if I don’t do something to occupy my time, I will be subjected to the onslaught of having to communicate with people who I don’t and don’t care to know.

My name is called. Good. I can get this thing over with. Instead of seeing the doctor, I go to another receptionist. She hands me about forty sheets of paper to fill out. I am fibbing when I say 40 sheets. It was four, maybe three, sheets of paper that wants me to list health issues and family related illnesses. I scan it. I sign my name. I sign the date and a few other personal information they need. However, all the illness questions and family related sickness issues, I left blank. I come from a mildly healthy family, aside from Bart. If I could talk about how sick that girl is, I could write a book that would make the entire, Lord of the Rings feel like a quick read. The lady even commented on how quick I filled it out.

She looks at my name. Oh! That’s your last name!? Well….we have it completely wrong on our records. I wonder how it was spelled. I asked but I guess those documents are for their eyes only and my medical and personal information is none of my damn business. I pay them for the visit first. I don’t pay after, which seems like the more logical thing to do but I pay for my services before I receive them. With all the documents filled out and the money paid, I am hoping to see the doctor. I am eager to get out of this place and get back to work because I would rather be at work than to have some doctor do funky crap to my eyes. She smiles and tells me to wait some more. They’ll call my name soon.

Soon. my. f**king. ass. I waited and I waited. I drank their cold coffee that made me choke. I choked and caused a scene that all eyes were on me. Even Noah looked and had this look of, “you dumb s**t can’t even drink coffee correctly” I can drink coffee right. I have no problem bringing cup to mouth. I was not expecting the coffee to be the same temperature as it was outside. I tossed the cup and grumbled to myself about the wait and the coffee that was awful. I looked at the clock. It was passed 2:30 and I was still waiting to see the doctor. I don’t know how things work around here but in my line of work, if you promise a certain time and both parties agree on that time, then you must uphold the agreement. Even my new friend, Noah, was waiting for a while. We didn’t talk to each other or make any means to communicate but from how antsy I was getting, it would only lead me to believe that Noah was getting restless as well. He did approach the receptionist a few times. I am sure he made it clear that if he were the real Noah, he could have loaded three arks by now. He had been waiting just as long as me and there is no telling when he made his appointment.


Noah, finally gets in to see the doctor. I am still waiting and still gawking at the clock. It is just a bit past three now. I am late. I have work. I was promised 2:30 and that promise came and wait thirty minutes ago. I am growing impatient and I sure the gals and even the other patients inside this office can feel my anger coming off me. I am just an impatient person. I get this way when I go out to eat and if my steak hasn’t arrived in five minutes, I get mad and want to start gnawing on the arm of the person sitting just across from me. I know well enough that it won’t take five minutes to cook a meal. I am just that way. Certain things take time but waiting on a lady to look at my pupils shouldn’t take all day, especially when I and you agreed on a set time of 2:30 and not whenever you feel like. Uphold your end of the deal and get me in to see the doctor. I have things to do. I am not like your other patients who have all day. I am not nearing 90. I am a young (to me at least) and I have a job, a job I left because I was sure I would have been back at work well before now. irate and ready to walk out, I took to twitter to vent. It was the most I could do. I couldn’t scream and walking out would be a poor move. I just jumped on twitter and vented. I let off some steam and calmly exclaimed,

I vented and after I posted that, the lady behind the counter assured me to not worry and that I was next. Oh, shit! Did she read my tweet!? I was sure she did. I worried that maybe she read my tweet and was not happy that I criticized them for poor service and my long waiting time. Shortly after I ranted on twitter, my name is called and I head back to see the doctor. Finally, I am getting somewhere, even though it is past three and I promised my boss I’d be back about this time. No worries. I’ll just explain to my boss that he will have to change his plans because these people lack the concept on time.

I sit in the chair and I get those giant contraption placed over my face. I am asked to read a line of letters, which I am happy to say, I had no problem reading. I mentioned already, I have great eye site, unlike the other people in my family. The letters get smaller and smaller and it did become a bit of a hassle to read. I read the ones I could and as the images became unreadable, I just told her, that I don’t know and we moved on to the next test. I don’t know why she kept making me take these silly tests. Take my word, ma’am. I have great vision. I eat carrots and all those orange veggies made my eyes super powerful.

More tests. She has me pick between two sets of images. Is image one better or is image two better? Is two better or is three better? So on and so on. All I could think of is Brain Regan and his stand up bit about seeing the eye doctor. More pointless tests that will prove nothing but that I have 20/20 vision and have no need to be suited with glasses, contacts, or have a deadly laser pointed into my retinas. The lady and I chat about my eyes and such. I tell her how I dislike doctors and seeing dentists and even going to the eye doctor.

HER:  When’s the last time you saw an eye doctor?

ME: When Bush was in office.

HER: ….

ME: The first Bush.

It’s been 20 plus years since I have been to the eye doctor. It’s been about the same amount of time that I have visited the dentist. I just don’t see them. Some of it is because I dislike doctors and the other half is because I feel sure of myself that I am okay without seeing them. Last time I went to the dentist, I had 1 cavity.  This cavity was a wisdom tooth that I was already getting pulled. No worries. Cavity free, since 2003. I should go back but I want to emphasize on the fact that I should. I won’t though. I am content with my mess of a mouth than to have someone jam metal utensils down it to straighten them out.

We are about done and the lady suggests getting my eyes dilated. She warns me that the first liquid being dropped in my eyes will sting. I cringe. I am treating this liquid like it’s a needle. I don’t want it near my eye and I am shaking in my chair and beating myself over my decision to let her drop it into two vital organs I need more than anything. Man, oh man! Did it burn. I wanted to cry. I wanted to pout and act like a little baby. The next drops were fine. No pain but they did f**k up my vision. I was unable to see anything.

I tried reading my phone but it was all a blur. Nothing was coming in clear. Just a jumbled mess of colors and icons. Sitting in a chair, waiting to finally see the “real” doctor, I toy with my phone. I know I can’t read anything but it is better to be keeping myself occupied than to sit there and do nothing. I am called into the office to see the final doctor. I am waiting in the room. My boss sends me a text. With dilated eyes and straining to read what he sent me, I make it out. He is asking where I am. He wants to know what it is taking so long. I try to explain to him what is going on but with no real idea what I am typing it is hard to send a message when you’re basically playing  a game of Russian Roulette with texting. Without any idea of what I wrote, I got a gold star in sending a message without any typos or looking like a bunch of garbled gibberish.

I finish my exam. I aced it. I am suited with a gold star and given the go ahead to walk out of the office to demean the other patients whose eyes are utter crap compared to my super vision. I have great eye sight and according to the doctor, I have no need to see her again till I am 40. I guess when you’re 4o, that is when you’re vision goes to shit and everything else on your body starts to fall apart. I am not worried about it at all. I am confident that when I hit 40, I will still have the vision of a 34-year-old man with anxiety attacks. I guess I shouldn’t complain. I could have went to the dentist and I am sure that if I do go see him, his news would have been far worse. I am okay with being stricken with constant and terrible panic attacks but I don’t think I can live with having a mouth full of metal to straighten my teeth.



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I like food. I like the smell of cinnamon.

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