This afternoon, the eye doctor dyed my eyes yellow. She turned to me with a soaked cotton swab, bright orange at the tip, and said, "I'm going to put some vegetable dye in your eyes now to check for glaucoma," and when I said "Vegetable dye?" she answered with "Oh, don't worry, it's not going to do anything but color your tears." (It was at this point the soundtrack started, someone with shoulder pads and big hair singing about the color of your tears.) She then stepped close and did something to my face. It burned low in my bottom eyelid until she told me to blink. And then blink again. It was at this point she said, "Hmmmm," which, I maintain, is never something you want to hear a doctor say. "Hmmmm. Well. Some people have that reaction." The doctor handed me a mirror and there were my eyes, only what is usually white was now yellow. Not neon yellow, but distinctly more pineapple than usual, and I think I surprised her when I started laughing.
But really, what else is there to do?
Walking back to the bus stop, I looked people in the eyes with a directness usually not there, waiting for them to look back at me and flinch a bit when they noticed my yellow eyes. I felt a little like a super hero, as though I were shooting beams of something at them, as though my $15 copay had provided me with a little more fabulousness than is normally allowed.
It's fading, now. They're still a little discolored, but not enough to really notice. I imagine that in a few more hours, I'll be back to the same old me.
Dear Douglas Coupland,
Thanks for helping me to believe in the possibility of the fitting together of puzzle pieces.
love,
samantha
No comments:
Post a Comment