B-Day

Waiting room. There are such things as "botox buddies," sitting kitty-corner from me, discussing the workout sessions they attended yesterday. The nurse calls them back together. An overweight, lopsided woman enters, her clothes hang carelessly, looks me straight in the face with an understanding smile, sits down. I'm thinking that I don't look so bad to be in this cosmetic procedure/eye surgeon office--perhaps that's magical or wishful thinking though. I could pretend that I'm just getting a little touch-up because my kids and nightshift schedule are causing my face to age, since I don't smoke and I avoid the sun like it's poison. A few minutes later the fat lady is called as well. Get the saran wrap ready, she cheerfully commands.

Now it's my turn. Follow me please, right here, yes--the first room here on the left, where is the restroom?, sign consent (risk of blindness? and millions of women have this done electively??), aftercare instructions (no lying down for 4 hours, no exercise today--we don't want you to sweat), but could I go for a walk?, yes that's fine. Nurse draws up 3 TB syringes and leaves them on the counter. Wait in chair a long 60-minute version of 20 minutes, read book the same line and paragraph a couple of times over, think, think, read, stare at door, note noises in hall, unstick my elbow from armrest, adjust wedgie, look in mirror and smooth down flyaway hair wisps, apply lipstick (I might as well look good for this).

He enters wearing a suit, asks how I've been doing with this blepharospasm thing I've got going on somewhere inside my face and brain. Fine, it comes and goes, worse when I'm tired. Terrified of this. Why? Let's see, it's my first time, I'm a botox virgin. Are you sure you want to proceed then? Yes, yes, I'm not tired now, it hasn't been so bad lately, but who knows the future? Driving is still difficult in the morning. Staring into my eyes, yes, I'm still blinking a lot, just not now when you're looking at me so much. Did my eye doctor send you the memo that I am pretty much the worst patient ever?

Holds syringes up to light, checks for air bubbles, says I'm going to start with a relatively low dose if that's okay with you. Uh, yeah, that's perfectly okay. I have to work the next three nights, I was hoping my eyelids wouldn't be hanging over my mouth.

The needle comes near. I instinctively close my eyes. I only know I'm supposed to because a friend told me that's how it's done. Quick, cautious, seemingly inadequate wipe across my brow with alcohol. Prick, bee-sting burn, prick prick prick prick, ouch (my eyelid!), jump, grab around for arm of chair, prick prick prick. How many of those do you need to put in each eye? I don't count, he mumbles. A quick blot of dry gauze to indicate that he's through with the right side.

Can you give me a moment to compose myself? I need to breathe. I can't believe women have this done because they want it done. That's what they say, he says, the ones who need it don't like it and the ones who don't need it say it's not so bad.

Now to the left side with barely a warning. Close eyes, quick. Prick prick prick ouch, damn! the eyelid again. Will my aqueous humor (this is far from humorous) leak out from my eyeball after he accidentally punctures it? I remember that word from anatomy class--a distraction. Prick prick prick prick. We're done. Blot blot. Call me in 10 days. Come back in 3 months.

The skin around my eyes is red and white dappled with tiny blood spots at the injection sites. I'm embarrassed to walk out into public like this. The receptionist says it will go down in an hour. Beeline for the bathroom to wipe the blood off. First I have to make my way through a waiting room full of old people staring at my face, probably wondering if I had collagen injections out of vanity while still in my relative youth.

There's a numb sensation all around my eyes. I count the hours at home--1,2,3,4--naptime. I've been up half the night worrying about this. I really am tired. I lied earlier, I guess. Or it is that I live my life in a state of exhaustion, so I don't really notice it anymore.

When I wake-up, that little furrow by my right eyebrow is gone. I smile. No forehead wrinkles. I'm still blinking a lot though, the sun a bit irritating. 3 days to work medically, 4 hours to take 5 years off. Nice. My face feels pretty normal, but normal for me is always tense and tight around my eyes, with my eyebrows having a mind of their own. Wondering if I will wake up in the morning and its contrary personality will be muted, or if I will need to tape my eyelids shut for the next 3 months.

So my little curse may be a blessing--only time will tell.

tolerance

A great definition of the word by another blogger:

Being tolerant does not mean that I share another one's belief. But it does mean that I acknowledge another one's right to believe, or obey, his or her own conscience.

grandpa

Today I found a copy of the eulogy and poem I wrote for my Grandpa's funeral from June 13, 2005. He died when he was 94. I thought I would share it here.

"My life will never be the same since you have gone. It is like there is a new chapter unfolding, one that reads 'you are no longer a child, and all the childish things have passed away.' It is very humbling to have your direct line of relatives gone this early in life. It makes you feel older than you really are, and gives the message that it is imperative to continue to pursue your dreams. You were my link to the carefree, happier times in my life when I was very young.

I hope that my family can someday, in years to come, build their memories on the fun and loving holidays like my cousins and I could always look forward to.

Grandpa inadvertently gave me wisdom for life, even after his death. Knowing him has taught me to stop withholding love to avoid the pain of loss. To say meaningful words to people while they are alive, and not just in eulogies, where they may or may not be listening. How important it is to maintain good relationships among your children. That it is never too late and you are never too old to grow closer to God.

As I grow old, and if I am fortunate to do so as you have done (perhaps avoiding McDonald's might help), I hope that I will leave something for the generations after me that incorporates all of the lessons that I gained from my ancestors before me."



Reunion

I will not ponder his reasons
In dashing your soul towards the throne
For now you belong to the ages
And Jesus has carried you home.

The tread of your footsteps fell lightly
As weary, you followed the days
In patience, awaiting reunion
With the sight of your loved one's gaze.

When over that bright hill you travel
And our planet appears but a star
All the long years of toil and trial
So suddenly banished afar.

Remember us as you are walking
Amongst those with whom you now lie
And send us new hope in our meeting
As we send you our loving goodbye.