Contact with my lens

Girl likes to point at people’s facial features and name them. “Nose! Ears! Cheeks!” Her favourite is, “Eye!”

Last night, she walked up to me while I was lying on the couch, and like lightning, her little dagger of a finger snaked under the lens of my glasses and stabbed me right in the eyeball. “Eye!”

If you’re ever in a bar fight against someone bigger, I recommend striking them right in their eye. If I’d been standing, she’d have dropped me right onto the floor. As it was I jerked back and then writhed on the couch, hands clutched over my eye, screaming in (manly) pain.

Lisa tells me that Girl stared at me for a long time in silence. Then her lip began to tremble. Then her whole body started quivering. Then she, too, started screaming, and ran into Lisa’s arms. She didn’t know what had happened, but she knew she’d hurt me.

After ten or fifteen minutes, the incredible, (literally) blinding pain subsided, but not really. It continued to feel like I was being stabbed in the eye, at a point midway between my pupil and the bridge of my nose, every time my eyelid moved.

Which meant that this afternoon, I ended up at the doctor’s, to be diagnosed with a scratched cornea. It was actually feeling much better, though I was given an antibiotic eye ointment that makes it sting again pretty badly for an hour or so. I have to take that four times a day.

I’ve spent a lot of time today lying down with my eyes closed, basically for lack of anything else to do. I can’t read, and I can’t look at a screen, and I can’t go outside–the eye is damn sensitive to light. TCM’s Memorial Day marathon of twentieth-century war movies took on a whole new dimension (actually, I guess, lost a dimension) when watched with my eyes closed.

I excerpt here from the ointment’s application instructions:

Pull the lower eyelid away from your eye to form a pouch. Squeeze a thin strip of ointment into the pouch.

Yeah.

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