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2.05.02
I have a chalazion (kah-lay-zee-on) on my eye. I found this out yesterday at the doctor's office. It is like a sty, of the sty family (Hello, I'm Sty, and this is my exotic-sounding cousin Chalazion) but is not exactly a sty. I have to apply warm compresses four times a day and squeeze some gooey ointment containing antibiotics and steroids (this wrecks my chances for Olympic gold) into the eye. It may heal, and it may not, and then I go and they drain or cut it out, and this is where I start getting dizzy while typing and have to put my head down below my knees for a second.
I am sorry to say that the doctor was a bit of a jerk. It's interesting, really, where the line of competence and appropriate self-confidence is crossed, and one becomes an arrogant godlike person who treats people like annoying bugs. Although as long as he is a competent opthamologist, I guess I don't care what his personality is like.
I wish doctors would act like normal people instead of like they just stepped
off Mt. Olympus and are appalled to have to be dealing with us mortals, I tell my mom and dad and friend Henry.
"It makes one think that the sole reason they became doctors was to nurture the superiority complex," responds Henry. "So will Dr. Allthat be able to help you?"
"We are neither Zeus nor Hera," my dad reminds me soothingly.
Thank goodness for the real people in your life, who help you recover from the others.
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