Mud in Your Eye: A Love Story Between Me and Modern Medicine (A Cynical Field Report From the Ocular Trenches)

Once upon a time, humanity delighted in tossing around adorable little expressions like “Here’s looking at you!”, “Here’s mud in your eye!”, and the always–charming oath, “Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in my eye.” Wholesome. Folksy. Quaint.

Allow me to provide a reality check from someone who recently had a needle in their actual eye: It is not cute. It is not charming. It is not folksy. It is, however, a fantastic way to reevaluate every life choice you’ve ever made.

The Cleansing Ritual (Because Clearly I Live in Filth)

Monday was Needle Biopsy Day — a Hallmark occasion if Hallmark specialized in medical anxiety and bodily intrusion. My doctor, apparently convinced I spend my evenings rolling in coal dust or wrestling feral raccoons for sport, insisted I take two antiseptic showers within eight hours. With Dial soap.

Not antibacterial soap. Not a hospital-grade decontamination ritual. Dial. You know, the stuff they use in commercials starring people who have clearly never sweated in their entire lives.

Either she owns stock in the company or she truly believes cleanliness is a spiritual calling. Cleanliness, godliness — both spelled oddly, both policed by spellcheck, both suddenly my personal burden.

Release the Goats

Up before dawn — a time usually reserved for bakers, insomniacs, and people fleeing a crime scene — we fed the goats, fed the dogs, and started the pilgrimage to Austin.

Every hospital I’ve ever been to is under construction. I suspect hospitals are actually perpetual construction projects with occasional medicine practiced in the scaffolding gaps. The directions didn’t mention this crucial detail: you can’t actually get to the building if you follow them.

We ended up in a parking garage approximately four zip codes away. Fortunately, a scrubs-wearing angel appeared, looked at me with pity, and said, “I’m going to guide you. You’ll never find it on your own.” Reader, she was right.

The $612 Sit-and-Wait Extravaganza

We arrived, filled out enough paperwork to qualify for citizenship in a small nation, and were rewarded with a modest little co-pay: $612. A bargain, truly, for the privilege of sitting in a chair for two hours in a state of scenic medical anxiety.

Ah, medicine — that glamorous industry where punctuality is treated as a ceremonial gesture before segueing directly into indefinite stagnation. I’m getting good at waiting. I may add it to my résumé: Professional Sitter, Level 3.

But wait — things get better.

The moment the card reader beeped its approval, confirming my financial sacrifice had been accepted by the gods of healthcare, I was marched off to a holding cell. Fine, technically it was a prep room, but the vibe was very “minimum-security correctional facility.”

I was instructed to get naked and scrub all exposed body parts with special antiseptic wipes, in a specific order, as though I were participating in some sacred cleansing ritual. Then came the open-backed gown — a garment designed by people who believe dignity is an optional accessory.

Freshly sterilized and mooning the world, I waited.

Eventually, the surgeon swept in, all brisk confidence, and informed me she was running late and my procedure had been pushed back another 90 minutes.

So I did what I do best. I waited. And waited.

It’s a miracle no one offered me a loyalty card or punch-pass for the Waiting Experience™. At this point, I’d have earned a free coffee or at least a sticker.

Showtime: The Needle Approaches

Eventually, the staff wheeled me through the hospital maze — a labyrinth so complex that I’m convinced the Minotaur would get lost and die of dehydration before finding an exit.

They parked me center-stage. Hands came at me from every angle, adjusting pillows, tucking sheets, arranging tubes. A mask went over my face, and someone told me to “breathe normally.” Sure. Let me just breathe normally while preparing to have my eyeball frozen, pierced, and harvested like a microscopic smoothie ingredient.

The man in green leaned in and said, “I’m starting the anesthesia. You should…” —and that was the end of that sentence.

Reanimation and the Holy Water

I regained consciousness with all the grace of a disgruntled corpse and was immediately asked, “How do you feel?”

“I could use some water,” I croaked.

Sweet, sweet water. Nectar of the gods. Ambrosia of the desperate. After 12 hours of forbidden hydration — on top of my naturally arid mouth — it was bliss.

The Escape and the Barf Bag That Wasn't

Once dressed, I was chauffeured back to the forest compound. Note to future self: any post-hospital car ride requires a barf bag. I spent the entire trip contemplating whether the sacred water I’d just consumed was planning a dramatic reappearance.

I survived. Barely. Collapsed into a nap like a tragic Victorian heroine. And now, 18 hours after first opening my eyes, I offer this report — vision obscured, face bandaged, dignity questionable.

Final Thoughts

Needle in your eye? Just say no. In fact: HELL NO.

Based on the current throbbing sensation, I suspect the “procedure” was carried out using a combination of axes, shovels, and pure enthusiasm. Tomorrow, when the bandage comes off, I’ll know the truth.

Tune in for the before-and-after pictures. Assuming, of course, I still have an “after.”

Laissez Les Bons Temps Rouler