Ocular Anxiety
Two weeks ago, the baby, his father and I were headed for brunch in Harlem. I unscrewed one of the caps on my contact lens case, poured what I thought was saline solution in the lens, and then the course of my day changed.
"This happened 12 hours ago?" scolded the emergency room nurse. "Why didn't you come in immediately? This is serious." She pried my weeping eye open and poured saline solution in it, for about ten minutes straight. It was uncomfortable yet soothing.
Clear Care is the kind of stuff I never use because I wear disposable lenses. Sitting right next to rows of different brands of saline solution, I assumed Clear Care was too. Same size box, same “no rub,” promises on the cover. And it was on sale. What's not to love? Contact lenses are shaped like little ice cream bowls. So on that fine Sunday morning, I cracked open the box, filled my left lens with pure hydrogen peroxide and lowered my eye into it.
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I screamed. I jumped, high. Really high. I remember seeing my knees at eye level.
"What? What?" Chris asked. He rushed into the bathroom. I was screaming, trying to open my blazing eye to pull the lens out. My eyelids fought back and sealed themselves, like a bank vault slammed shut. We were in a stalemate, my eye and me. I couldn't even explain what happened. I could only gasp.
After about a minute of hopping, I got it.
"I put the wrong stuff in my eye," I explained, blinking back tears. "I'm ok, let's go to brunch."
I figured I'd tear up for a few hours. It would be an inconvenience, I'd have to wear my old, uneven glasses. At the end of brunch, the pain had worsened. My eye was on fire, and on the way home, the sun's shine felt like gas being thrown on it. I ran up to the apartment and shut the blinds. Chris went to Duane Reade and bought lots of eye products. One thing came with a little shot glass that you fill with saline solution and press against your eye, with your head leaned back. It's like a bath. I could do that for about twenty seconds at a time.
The first thing the pre-recorded message says on Clear Care's customer service 800 number is, "Go to the hospital." I went to the ER at Columbia-Presbyterian, up in the 160s. My eye was bright red and my other eye was turning red in sympathy. The waiting room was full. A nurse approached a coughing Latino, "You need to wear a mask, just in case you have the flu." This comment was translated into Spanish, and she was fitted with a SARS-y type of face mask. After an hour, I left, unexamined.
At about 3 PM, I began canceling spots. I was so sensitive to light that I couldn't imagine keeping my eyes open onstage. I explained my situation to Allie at the Comic Strip, she told me about the Ears and Eyes ER downtown. Like the stores that sell "Just Bulbs," this NYU ER does ears and eyes and that's it. We kept our comedy sitter for KilBaby and used it to go to the hospital instead.
"They should take you in the order you come in," said an older woman in the waiting room. "I've been here for an hour and people keep rushing by me. It's not fair."
I assumed this comment was directed at me. I hadn't been taken yet, but clearly I was about to bump her. So this is what it's like to be Dave Chappelle, stopping by the Comic Strip on a Tuesday night. I empathized with the woman, because I had been her many times. But business is business, and in the eye-injury trade, my eye had its own series while hers had some basic cable credits. Go home lady, it's gonna be a long night.
"Laurie? Come here please." said the nurse.
"When is anyone going to see me," the woman asked.
"This lady has a chemical burn, it's very serious." said the nurse.
The woman kept complaining, but her words faded to grey and the nurse's grew bold, black. 24 point. Chemical burn. My eye. “This lady” was me. The nurse sprayed the saline hose directly on my eye, with a firefighter’s grim resolve.
"Oooh, I've done this before," said the opthamologist, who peeked in to check my progress. “Just a few more minutes and we'll look at the damage."
Turns out, it wasn't irreparable. I was given a few prescriptions and sent on my way. On Tuesday, I flew to the Bay Area to work at week at the Punchline. In scratched, uneven glasses. By Saturday, I was back in my lenses. Today, my eye feels ok. Sorry for the mildly happy ending. Something shitty will happen next week, I promise.