Following eye surgery, I was “sentenced” to two weeks of lying face down. But five days in I know without a doubt that something has gone horribly wrong.
So I’m staring at the floor of my surgeon’s waiting room, waiting my turn for him to pronounce my fate. I’m miserable and I’m angry and I’m positive I can’t do this One. More. Second. My pity party is rocking!
I can’t see her, but I can hear her chatting on her phone. She speaks with the most delightful southern twang, so unusual to hear in the very center of Illinois. “Oh honey, I’m real worried about him. They took him back already, and I’m waiting out front. I don’t know what they’ll decide. They already told us he has masculine degeneration.”
I smile for the first time since the anesthesia wore off.