Ranting Blindly

I am in a mood. And it's not good.

I'm blindly typing this, and I mean that literally. My eyes have been numbed and dilated in the last couple of hours. But that's nothing compared to how I feel I've been raked over the coals by my kids and our latest attempt at finding a new family optometrist.



Bruce and I have been due our annual eye check-up for a couple months now. Our appointments fell in February, but shortly beforehand our former optometrist's office called to say that our new insurance was not one they accepted. That stunk enough, because we all loved our previous eye doctor that we'd had for the last seven years.

Searching for a new doctor stunk pretty badly, too. Ultimately we decided to go to the same optometrist my father-in-law recently switched to. When I made the appointments for Bruce and myself, I specifically said, "Do you work with our insurance company?" She did not know. So I said, "Before my appointment, I want that verified, because I do not want to pay out of pocket for this. I'll need to cancel the appointment if you do not work with our insurance." She assured me that they always check before they make their appointment reminder calls to ensure they accept a certain insurance.

I had planned to either have my father-in-law or a babysitter watch Spencer and Allison, because today's appointment was where I finally planned to discuss LASIK surgery... with every intention of following through on the discussion. But I forgot to get babysitting lined up, so I took them along.

They went with me last week to two doctor's appointments in a row and then on to the DMV to update the tags on the van, and they were great. I mean, like, incredible. I checked to see if they were pod kids slipped in place of my children by aliens, but after much scientific study they indeed proved to still be my offspring.

Evidently I can't count on exceptional behavior to happen even just twice in a row. They were Children of the Corn today. And I felt like a woman with a severe case of OCD the whole two hours we were there.

"Don't touch that."

"Move away from behind the door so you don't get whacked when the doctor comes in."

"Put all those brochures back, in their proper places, with no new creases on them."

"Quit pulling out the contact lens boxes."

"Give me my glasses back." This last one was said as I flailed my arms about hoping to connect with something solid that would help me verify my surroundings. I heard my kids shuffling around to avoid me.

Every time the doctor or nurse's backs were turned I shot every threatening look I have in the direction of my kids. At least I think it was in their direction. It could have just been in the direction of the giant eyeball poster in the room. I'm really not sure.



Even if the looks went straight into the fields of vision of my children, it achieved the same results as if I had stared down the eyeball poster.

I am not good at eye appointments. I have a phobia about my eyes. Fainting has occurred at prior eye appointments. I can't stand the thought of something resting on my eyeball, whether I feel it or not, while it checks the strength of my cornea or for glaucoma issues. Freaks me out.

And I take it as a bad sign that a nurse who does not know that about me felt it necessary to remind me to "breathe normally" before she dosed my eyes with the numbing liquid drops. Well, even if I had planned to breathe normally all along, that little admonition took care of all chances of that happening.

After she left the darkened office, I spent a few minutes with my head between my knees. Forget it. That wasn't accomplishing anything. I crawled down to the floor to sit criss-cross applesauce (I didn't want to be politically incorrect and say Indian style because someone might be offended. Someone with 5 percent of Chickasaw blood passed down from their great-great-grandmother's aunt's side of the family. Being courteous about these sensitive things is important to me.).

My kids asked me what I was doing on the floor. I said the air was fresher down there. But it wasn't. I think the eye doctor needs to have his carpet steam cleaned. The sooner, the better.

I might have been embarrassed when the nurse walked in while I was sitting on the floor, but I couldn't see her face, so her expression didn't register. I rather enjoy living in the state of ignorant bliss.

After asking the nurse if patients who have LASIK ever receive drugs to calm them, I assured her that I'm not an addict. I'm just a basket case. And not even a certifiable one, at that. I'm not sure she believed a word I said. I'm certain I saw her glance at the bruise on my inner arm that is there because I had a couple of vials of blood drawn at last week's appointments.

To shorten this story a bit (I do try!), my kids lost all hope of earning a meal at the Pal's drive through. They did get a spanking and are now in their rooms alone. I haven't made up my mind about whether I'm feeding them lunch or not. It was THAT bad.

And it was made OH-SO-MUCH worse, when I went to the counter to pay the co-pay only to hear the magic words: "We don't accept your insurance."

I did not bark... or bite... but I did cancel Bruce's appointment for later this week. And I said, "When I made this appointment, I was assured that I would be told before this appointment if you did not accept our insurance. I could have then cancelled this appointment and gone to a doctor that does work with our plan."

Poor girl was new. And the girl who usually works there wasn't there today. Figures!

On the inside, I was seething. Thinking about how much money Wal-mart had sucked out of me at last night's grocery shopping trip. Remembering that the stinkin' gas light had come on this morning when I drove Clay to school. Knowing that I had planned to buy a slew of strawberries to make jam today. Recalling that I still have a birthday present to purchase for Clay during this pay period.

So this concludes my session. And thanks to blogging, I saved money somewhere today, instead of visiting a shrink like I probably need to do. Perhaps I just need to hit up a doctor for some of those drugs they give before a LASIK surgery.

Nah, that would just cost more money.

Lucky me! I know where there's a stash of chocolate in this house. That's where I plan to be for the next little bit. Maybe until the dilation of my eyes wears off. The doctor said that could take up to four hours. Sounds about right!

And if you see me sitting on the floor with sticky fingers and a chocolate moustache, it's just because the air is fresher down there.