Yesterday morning Glasgow Girl and Mousey drove me to the surgeon’s office, the local one two municipalities over, not downtown. GG drives like a Formula One driver, aggressive, fast. Mousey also likes speed, I suspect, she sings out her baby babble, quite happy to be moving fast, but descends into complaining tones whenever the car slows down. I clung onto the small hand-grab on the roof of the car, kept my lip zipped and merely hoped for a safe arrival. GG knows some interesting short cuts, and we arrived in record time, much to my surprise.
We parked at a mall underground parkade once arrived, and strapped Mousey into her new collapsible stroller. GG said ” You can push” not quite understanding that my depth perception is severely off kilter. It was a good chore to be given; I concentrated on not banging the stroller into stanchions, telephone poles on the street, going forward at a cautious and sedate pace. The elevator at the surgeon’s office building has a strange tendency to try to cut loading passengers into half, so GG had the job of grasping back the voracious door until we all boarded.
Inside the waiting room, GG and Mousey take their seat while the assistant whips me into the second examining room to put the drops into the eye and test out if there is any vision. Yep, I saw the light against dark, but no details. The tech is impressed and encouraging as she leads me to phase two, the surgeon’s examining room. “Hi sweetheart” says the surgeon, “let’s see how things are!” He takes my glasses off my face and puts them onto his desk. He puts a card with varying size rows of letters into my hand and pushes it close to my nose. Covering the right eye with a black occluder, he says “Read the top row!” Wow! I can see two large letters. “Can you read the next row down?” Dr. S. asks. Yep! sure enough, 4 fuzzy letters, much smaller, are evident. Dr. S. is impressed and makes satisfied noises, and asks if I can make out the third row down. There is no faking it possible, that row is a greyish blur. Dr. S. then peels back my eyelid and looks at the fine quilting job he has done on my eyeball, checking for signs of infection (he reports none) and expresses his satisfaction with how the healing is proceeding. “You are good to go” he says, “come back in three weeks. Remember to use cold compresses fow whenever pain arrives.” Having said this he walks out to his office assistant’s station and calls the next patient. I grope around trying to find my glasses, retrieve my purse and feel my way out of his examining room. I have been summarily dismissed.
The receptionist slips an appointment card into my hand as the next patient eases around me trying to get into Dr. S.’s office. GG and Mousey have been amusing people in the waiting room. GG collects her purse and lead with the stroller out of the office and back to the elevator. “That was done in record time. He sure made short work of seeing you! But I could hear every word and grunt he said to you. That is very unprofessional of him. What about patient privacy?” she expressed, once we were in the privacy of the elevator. I am just so glad that there has been no new directive to go back for yet another operation; very grateful to be considered as on the way to healing!
To celebrate, we went ot White Spot for lunch. There Mousey polished off half of my potato soup, doing her charming imitation of a baby bird waiting to be fed. An oblong of sunlight fell on the table between us. GG ate her quesadilla in mostly silence – she is a woman of few words. It was a peaceful and companionate silence, very comfortable.
Driving on the way home, GG did the expected manic car rally driving, impatient with dawdlers on the road. “You hate me driving you anywhere, don’t you? How come?” I question GG, teasing. “Well,” says GG, ” you drive like an old lady, it makes me crazy and impatient!” I cling onto the handhold, for dear life, and chuckle to myself. ( If the shoe fits, and all that) Mousey sings from her perch in her car seat. I am most content.