At the end of any relationship there are tears. Whether you are sad for the loss, angry for the time spent unhappy, or just plain tired and overwhelmed. I remember my third year of optometry school I broke up with a boy. As many small optometry schools would have it, there were about 60 students in it so it was near impossible to get over it without running into him. Luckily it was during finals and I hit the books hard and the breakup ended in all A's. So, I guess it was for the best. When it first happened I remember the Sunday afternoon I spent cooped up in my apartment. I sat on our couch (haha by couch I mean Futon- remember those poor days?) Anyways, I spent hours sitting in an oversized Tshirt, boxer shorts, and a giant bag of potato chips crying hysterically. I consider that my lowest point and when anything goes bad, I think about that day, give myself a minute (one minute only) to cry and then laugh about how ridiculous I was.
Well, like most break ups, they never break even. Thanks, The Script - you definitely summed it up. I listened to the song, and sang along naturally, on my way to work. The morning was fairly uneventful. After a lunch, I came back, donned my white coat and walked in to see my first patient of the afternoon. A young girl, the acuity girls couldn’t even get a measurement. Her right eye was swollen shut and tears were trickling slowly and she sat uncomfortably in my chair.
I cut the bullshit and threw her straight into the slit lamp. “You are already in pain, Im sure the light bothers you like no other, and you are most likely going to want to punch me in the face after this… but give me a few minutes, let me pry open this eye and see what is going on” After much struggle y mucho lagrimas, a 2.5mm epithelial defect in the inf/central portion of her cornea were discovered. More importantly I finally got out of her that a year prior her daughter, a baby at the time, scratched the front of her eye resulting in the original corneal abrasion.
The tears streamed down her face without a whimper as if there was a faucet back there that wasn’t quite shut tightly. After the first few days after breaking up, it’s just easiest to be sad. You think about all the good times and how they aren’t ever going to happen again. For a brief moment your life might be over. By over, not as sweet and silent as say death… but more horribly than that you picture your life growing old, alone, with pungent aroma of feline urine surrounding your entire home. There will be floral muumuus. In later life, maybe even an oxygen tank and a large brimmed hat.
Once that lovely picture has finally left your mind, there comes the email. ‘How are you? How was the move?’ I debated for a while whether I answer at all. But, my mother above all other things always stressed manners. Despite how rude I would most generally like to be in life, I usually don a fake smile and suck it up. After a round of prophylactic antibiotics, the epithelium healed over, although it would never be the same. I put her on artificial tears during the day and lacrilube at night.
Weeks pass and I run into his old roommate. We had a nice chat and I was generally excited to see him. I had met a lot of people through him. A lot of people Id have liked to have been friends with. Within an hour came the instant messaging. She forgot the ointment that night. The next morning after hours of blissful sleep, her eyes a little dry in the summer heat, that right eyelid opened with the sunlight creeping through her window and in an instant ripped whatever epithelium attempted to cover that now very old abrasion. Tears again.
I preluded this blog to say I know nothing of boys. And I don’t. But one thing I do know is they lay in wait until you’ve forgotten their existence and then they chime in and open up old wounds. My ipod on and Paulson’s playing (old school and jersey pride here) To quote a song since I get all my relationship advice from songs, heaven forbid I listen to Dr Phil… ‘relationships never end they’re just abandoned.’ I know nothing of men and nothing of how to keep them happy but what I do know in life is that sometimes things work and sometimes they don’t. And generally that’s just fine- it goes on. I just wish sometimes you could walk away completely and let that epithelium heal for good. Until then, artificial tears, a few glasses of wine, and hopefully new men might just be the best medicine.
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Friday, August 27, 2010
Beer goggles and reading specs
The faint buzzing of my blackberry as it skips across my bedside table is enough to wake me out of an already non-existent sleep. I attempt to go to bed by 10pm every night, but I am up every few hours staring at the ceiling bored to tears. I am exhausted every day, but every night it means nothing. I pick up my phone hit dismiss and note its 6:02. I crawl out of bed and stumble into the bathroom. I don’t know why I bother to condition my hair. It ends up in a ponytail the second I get into clinic. I hop out, dry off, and throw in my contacts which will drive me crazy by noon. I put on a plain pair of pants and different color cardigan then attempt to put on makeup (if I remember). I head to the kitchen to fill my travel mug with coffee and head out the door and into my car and start my hour and a half drive to work. By 7:30 my phone stands still, no light to be found. Apparently no one cares about me this morning. I bury it into my purse and as I walk into clinic I bury my heartache and prepare for another long week.
Now I have gotten a lot of weird stories about how patients lose or break glasses. On more than one occasion someone has informed me their dog ate them. Mr. Angelo takes a seat in my chair. The first patient of the day is always the worst. It’s as though I never went to optometry school and I have absolutely no idea what any of the buttons or gadgets in my room do. I am constantly moving from one place to another picking up and putting down objects I don’t need. The key is to make every action appear intentional, so that the patient doesn’t catch on. “Fake it till you make it” is an excellent motto come Monday mornings at Tensely Eye.
“I lost my glasses,” Mr. A announces. Alright, were they for reading or distance? “They were for up close stuff,” he notes. Cover your left eye and… I try to start the exam. “But I lost them,” he cuts me off, giggling uncontrollably. I stop, waiting for him to continue.
I am a hairdresser, he starts. Sometimes... I help out the local funeral home by doing ladies hair for their funerals. (I am trying not to giggle at this point) So, one day I was there and I happened to place my glasses down next to the coffin as I was working. When I was finished, I gathered my things and headed home. When I realized I had left my glasses there I returned the next day. Unfortunately, the funeral director thought they were the ladie's glasses. Now they are six feet under,” he lets out with a whooping laugh.
I sit in my chair staring at him trying not to cry and/or pee in my pants. This is by far the best lost pair of glasses story I have ever heard. When you become a doctor there is some semblance of authority that comes with it. I’m not saying I don’t know how to handle ocular disease, no matter how tricky or serious it is. I am good at the doctor part. It’s the maintaining order and not appearing as person with loss of her faculties that is difficult. In this case, it is inappropriate to spray spit across your patients face as you let out a belly laugh that everyone in the waiting room can hear. People respect me. Not that this happened, wink. Mr. A left my chair with a new pair of glasses ordered and the suggestion of an eyeglass leash, so as to never lose another pair to the depths below.
The day goes by fast which is quite a surprise. My last patient is on time and with a spring in his step enters the exam room. After going through his chief complaint and medical history we hit a snag on medications. Yes, he is taking lisinopril for hypertension and simvastatin for cholesterol. Any other meds? "Yes," he answers. It comes in a box with colors on it. What is it for? "I dont know," he answers. Is it a pill? No. Is it a drop? No. Is it an ointment? No. Is it an inhaler? No. Do you recieve it in injection? Nope. Exasperated I ask, do you put it in your mouth?! " I dont know!" he exclaimes. He decides to call his daughter. She picks up the phone and answers the question with a bit of a laugh, "He is taking Donazepil". I giggle to myself and thank her. The rest of the exam goes smoothly, a really nice patient.
I pack up and peace out as soon as my notes were finished and my room is cleaned up. I have to return everything to its rightful place, so that Tuesday morning goes a little more smoothly. Im home with the sun still shining so I change into running gear and head out the door. My Ipod is charged and my guilty pleasure rings clear in my ears "Cheated by the opposite of love, held on high from up up up above..." The Yeah Yeah Yeahs are my workout buddies. They feel my pain. That is a joke, becasue I am walking, not running. It still counts as exercise. I get home, shower again and hear my phone ring. Thinking its my mother bugging me about my day I slowly make my way back to my room. "Matt from the bar that I can't remember" appears on the screen. I am instantly proud of being so specific when including this boy in my phone. I pick up, "hello?"
After a brief and all too random conversation I hang up. I check my computer and he has facebook friended me. Excellent! Online stalking is one of my favorite pasttimes. I accept and head into his photos. Up until now I was picturing a blonde curly haired beau with blue eyes, slightly emo, after all he lives in Brooklyn. I couldnt be further off. Bright blue eyes are about all I got correct. He has dark brown hair, amazing deep dimples and is hotter than I could have even imagined. Up until now I believe my beer goggles have worked the exact opposite way. Why is he talking to me? He was sober I recall. Probably needs a refraction. I smile anyway and wonder, should I be taking an alzheimer med myself?
Now I have gotten a lot of weird stories about how patients lose or break glasses. On more than one occasion someone has informed me their dog ate them. Mr. Angelo takes a seat in my chair. The first patient of the day is always the worst. It’s as though I never went to optometry school and I have absolutely no idea what any of the buttons or gadgets in my room do. I am constantly moving from one place to another picking up and putting down objects I don’t need. The key is to make every action appear intentional, so that the patient doesn’t catch on. “Fake it till you make it” is an excellent motto come Monday mornings at Tensely Eye.
“I lost my glasses,” Mr. A announces. Alright, were they for reading or distance? “They were for up close stuff,” he notes. Cover your left eye and… I try to start the exam. “But I lost them,” he cuts me off, giggling uncontrollably. I stop, waiting for him to continue.
I am a hairdresser, he starts. Sometimes... I help out the local funeral home by doing ladies hair for their funerals. (I am trying not to giggle at this point) So, one day I was there and I happened to place my glasses down next to the coffin as I was working. When I was finished, I gathered my things and headed home. When I realized I had left my glasses there I returned the next day. Unfortunately, the funeral director thought they were the ladie's glasses. Now they are six feet under,” he lets out with a whooping laugh.
I sit in my chair staring at him trying not to cry and/or pee in my pants. This is by far the best lost pair of glasses story I have ever heard. When you become a doctor there is some semblance of authority that comes with it. I’m not saying I don’t know how to handle ocular disease, no matter how tricky or serious it is. I am good at the doctor part. It’s the maintaining order and not appearing as person with loss of her faculties that is difficult. In this case, it is inappropriate to spray spit across your patients face as you let out a belly laugh that everyone in the waiting room can hear. People respect me. Not that this happened, wink. Mr. A left my chair with a new pair of glasses ordered and the suggestion of an eyeglass leash, so as to never lose another pair to the depths below.
The day goes by fast which is quite a surprise. My last patient is on time and with a spring in his step enters the exam room. After going through his chief complaint and medical history we hit a snag on medications. Yes, he is taking lisinopril for hypertension and simvastatin for cholesterol. Any other meds? "Yes," he answers. It comes in a box with colors on it. What is it for? "I dont know," he answers. Is it a pill? No. Is it a drop? No. Is it an ointment? No. Is it an inhaler? No. Do you recieve it in injection? Nope. Exasperated I ask, do you put it in your mouth?! " I dont know!" he exclaimes. He decides to call his daughter. She picks up the phone and answers the question with a bit of a laugh, "He is taking Donazepil". I giggle to myself and thank her. The rest of the exam goes smoothly, a really nice patient.
I pack up and peace out as soon as my notes were finished and my room is cleaned up. I have to return everything to its rightful place, so that Tuesday morning goes a little more smoothly. Im home with the sun still shining so I change into running gear and head out the door. My Ipod is charged and my guilty pleasure rings clear in my ears "Cheated by the opposite of love, held on high from up up up above..." The Yeah Yeah Yeahs are my workout buddies. They feel my pain. That is a joke, becasue I am walking, not running. It still counts as exercise. I get home, shower again and hear my phone ring. Thinking its my mother bugging me about my day I slowly make my way back to my room. "Matt from the bar that I can't remember" appears on the screen. I am instantly proud of being so specific when including this boy in my phone. I pick up, "hello?"
After a brief and all too random conversation I hang up. I check my computer and he has facebook friended me. Excellent! Online stalking is one of my favorite pasttimes. I accept and head into his photos. Up until now I was picturing a blonde curly haired beau with blue eyes, slightly emo, after all he lives in Brooklyn. I couldnt be further off. Bright blue eyes are about all I got correct. He has dark brown hair, amazing deep dimples and is hotter than I could have even imagined. Up until now I believe my beer goggles have worked the exact opposite way. Why is he talking to me? He was sober I recall. Probably needs a refraction. I smile anyway and wonder, should I be taking an alzheimer med myself?
Rock Bottom
So... out of laziness, here is the first installment. It is from that so called book I was going to write... funny, nonetheless.
The older gentleman, smelling of cigarettes and Old spice, enters the exam room and with little trouble sat slowly back into the pink leather automated chair. “I’ve been seeing these little lightnin’ bolts for the last couple of days,” he explained. These words strike minute panic in the mind of any optometry. The differential diagnosis processes through my head, retinal tear or detachment coming to the top of that list. “I keep seeing this little bug too, except it’s not a bug, ‘ cause I can’t catch it,” he continues. A momentary sigh of relief, more likely a partial or new vitreous detachment, I think. I continue my exam pick out glasses and put dilating drops in both eyes. With a little help of an outstretched hand, I pull him out of his chair and send him on his way to the waiting room where he attempt to read Men’s Health or highlights to bide his time before I blast the back of his eyes with light.
As he steps out the door I open my drawer just enough to catch the top half of my blackberry. This is a daily, almost semi-hourly ritual. Flash! A red blink of a light catches my eye. Now these are the flashes I wait for. That faint red light blinking is key to any happiness. Someone wants to talk to me! Click, and scroll. ‘I feel like a liar… I am kinda in a relationship right now. So if you don’t want to talk to the old man anymore, I totally understand….’ Excuse me?
Only recently on a night out, those of which come few and far between, I donned a black long-sleeved shirt, skinny jeans and large gold earrings (my only semblance of dressing up). I headed out to dinner with Sarah, a friend from college. Dinner turned into drinks, then into shots and enough beer to stock a frat house for a weekend. “Can you get into the bar?” He said. I pushed aside a girl in leggings and heels and large 1920s horn rimmed specs and asked for 4four Stellas. I handed one to him, his friend, my friend and then took a sip of my own. I tried to walk away. He seems cute though. So I struck up a conversation. After about fifteen minutes I realized Sarah had left so I kindly giggled, handed him my card and walked away. On my way home at 3am I get a text. Not to meet up, just a hello.
I kept this up for the next week, and eventually turned into blackberry messenging. In a conference that Friday I get the very oh so unfamiliar ‘ by the way I have a daughter… did I tell you that?’ Shock me, shock me, shock me with that deviant behavior. He sent a picture. She is adorable. Over the course of the weekend he couldn’t hang out (Yes, I still wanted to hang out with him) because he had his daughter. He was taking her to the latest Pixar movie and the arcade. He is a little older, so it’s not completely irrational for him to have a kid, I thought. He is being a pretty standup guy - and talks about her like she is the greatest thing since sliced bread. That has to count for something right? 7am Monday morning, I miss his first BBM that says good morning. Wow, this guy is up early and first thing he thinks of is me? I feel important. I feel dare I say it? Liked! I smile, answer back swaying in between lanes as the rain pelts my windshield. Oprah would be very disappointed in me for texting while driving. Im a product of the times, Im sorry Oprah. I go about my day, first few patients pleasent enough. Chatting here and there between dilations. and I smile to see the blinking light after my last patient. A new patient to the clinic who walked in with escalated eye pressure, on maximum glaucoma meds, post surgery and a pale cupped out nerve just left my chair. So, you are in a relationship. Fuck my life. I close the app, tuck my blackberry in the drawer holding back tears that should never be shed in the first place. I put on a smile, call in my next patient who inevitably smells like poop and will call me sweetheart throughout the exam despite introducing myself as Dr. Catanio
The older gentleman, smelling of cigarettes and Old spice, enters the exam room and with little trouble sat slowly back into the pink leather automated chair. “I’ve been seeing these little lightnin’ bolts for the last couple of days,” he explained. These words strike minute panic in the mind of any optometry. The differential diagnosis processes through my head, retinal tear or detachment coming to the top of that list. “I keep seeing this little bug too, except it’s not a bug, ‘ cause I can’t catch it,” he continues. A momentary sigh of relief, more likely a partial or new vitreous detachment, I think. I continue my exam pick out glasses and put dilating drops in both eyes. With a little help of an outstretched hand, I pull him out of his chair and send him on his way to the waiting room where he attempt to read Men’s Health or highlights to bide his time before I blast the back of his eyes with light.
As he steps out the door I open my drawer just enough to catch the top half of my blackberry. This is a daily, almost semi-hourly ritual. Flash! A red blink of a light catches my eye. Now these are the flashes I wait for. That faint red light blinking is key to any happiness. Someone wants to talk to me! Click, and scroll. ‘I feel like a liar… I am kinda in a relationship right now. So if you don’t want to talk to the old man anymore, I totally understand….’ Excuse me?
Only recently on a night out, those of which come few and far between, I donned a black long-sleeved shirt, skinny jeans and large gold earrings (my only semblance of dressing up). I headed out to dinner with Sarah, a friend from college. Dinner turned into drinks, then into shots and enough beer to stock a frat house for a weekend. “Can you get into the bar?” He said. I pushed aside a girl in leggings and heels and large 1920s horn rimmed specs and asked for 4four Stellas. I handed one to him, his friend, my friend and then took a sip of my own. I tried to walk away. He seems cute though. So I struck up a conversation. After about fifteen minutes I realized Sarah had left so I kindly giggled, handed him my card and walked away. On my way home at 3am I get a text. Not to meet up, just a hello.
I kept this up for the next week, and eventually turned into blackberry messenging. In a conference that Friday I get the very oh so unfamiliar ‘ by the way I have a daughter… did I tell you that?’ Shock me, shock me, shock me with that deviant behavior. He sent a picture. She is adorable. Over the course of the weekend he couldn’t hang out (Yes, I still wanted to hang out with him) because he had his daughter. He was taking her to the latest Pixar movie and the arcade. He is a little older, so it’s not completely irrational for him to have a kid, I thought. He is being a pretty standup guy - and talks about her like she is the greatest thing since sliced bread. That has to count for something right? 7am Monday morning, I miss his first BBM that says good morning. Wow, this guy is up early and first thing he thinks of is me? I feel important. I feel dare I say it? Liked! I smile, answer back swaying in between lanes as the rain pelts my windshield. Oprah would be very disappointed in me for texting while driving. Im a product of the times, Im sorry Oprah. I go about my day, first few patients pleasent enough. Chatting here and there between dilations. and I smile to see the blinking light after my last patient. A new patient to the clinic who walked in with escalated eye pressure, on maximum glaucoma meds, post surgery and a pale cupped out nerve just left my chair. So, you are in a relationship. Fuck my life. I close the app, tuck my blackberry in the drawer holding back tears that should never be shed in the first place. I put on a smile, call in my next patient who inevitably smells like poop and will call me sweetheart throughout the exam despite introducing myself as Dr. Catanio
So much to do, so little time! Strike that, reverse it!
Unfortunately, as the summer weather fades away and the appeal of a beach vacation dwindles, I've found my free time ample and visitors to be none. After nine years of extensive schooling I am now in the position to only have to work three and a half days a week. This leaves far too much time to be left on my own. Stieg Larsson has currently kept me busy. However, his books though grotesque are so interesting I am halfway through the last one and I only started Girl with a Dragon Tattoo last Friday. Far too many cups of coffee drank (or drunk? drunken?) and far too many fears of rapists, molotov cocktails and dreamy journalists have brought me to this.
I should take this time to fully disclose that I have no grasp whatsoever on grammar, let alone the english language as a whole. I started out with the notion to write a book. For those of you who know me, you know my likelihood of completing anything is slim to none. However, Im generally overly enthusiastic about any new endeavor - for at least the first couple weeks. So with big grins, Im going try this blogging thing out.
Eyes and guys? So, for the most of you who will read this, it'll hopefully give you chuckles about the various funny patients Ive had so far. If you are an optometrist, that is. After the last four years of school and one year of residency, I dont claim to be an expert, but I know eyes. In my past 27 years Ive attempted almost every sport, tried to play multiple instruments, and taken many courses. It is safe to say, Im pretty bad at a lot of things. Eyeballs, I kinda just get. And more importantly, I kinda love. I love my job, and I dont think many people can say that.
After the many bruises accrued from trying to play tennis, yes tennis... or the blank stares from my parents while attempting to play Logins and Messina (not my choice, hated my instructor!) on the guitar... nothing probably compares to my lack of ability with boys. I know nothing, I don't really get them, but like most of my life, Ive gotten some pretty funny stories out of it.
So, lets hope you enjoy my silly tales of boys, joys, whoas, and eyeballs! Sometimes Im funny and sometimes, like in that last sentence, well, Im not.
I should take this time to fully disclose that I have no grasp whatsoever on grammar, let alone the english language as a whole. I started out with the notion to write a book. For those of you who know me, you know my likelihood of completing anything is slim to none. However, Im generally overly enthusiastic about any new endeavor - for at least the first couple weeks. So with big grins, Im going try this blogging thing out.
Eyes and guys? So, for the most of you who will read this, it'll hopefully give you chuckles about the various funny patients Ive had so far. If you are an optometrist, that is. After the last four years of school and one year of residency, I dont claim to be an expert, but I know eyes. In my past 27 years Ive attempted almost every sport, tried to play multiple instruments, and taken many courses. It is safe to say, Im pretty bad at a lot of things. Eyeballs, I kinda just get. And more importantly, I kinda love. I love my job, and I dont think many people can say that.
After the many bruises accrued from trying to play tennis, yes tennis... or the blank stares from my parents while attempting to play Logins and Messina (not my choice, hated my instructor!) on the guitar... nothing probably compares to my lack of ability with boys. I know nothing, I don't really get them, but like most of my life, Ive gotten some pretty funny stories out of it.
So, lets hope you enjoy my silly tales of boys, joys, whoas, and eyeballs! Sometimes Im funny and sometimes, like in that last sentence, well, Im not.
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