Bad Week Alert

I've had a bad week. For the third time in eight months, I had to have a large cyst cut out of my eyelid. It's called a chalazion and it sound a lot prettier than it looks. This process (I hope you're eating breakfast) consists of numbing the eyelid repeatedly with a large needle, then flipping the eyelid inside out, draining the lesion with a sharp instrument and then cutting the tissue away. ALL WHILE THE VICTIM IS AWAKE AND STONE COLD SOBER. I mean, give a girl a little Vicodin if you're going to torture her in the manner of the ancient Mayan civilization.

So upon suffering this indiginity and fruitlessly begging them to stop mid-procedure, my eye patch and I returned home and starting researching why this condition keeps recurring. It's then, thanks to Google, I was able to diagnose myself with a very rare cancer called sebaceous cell carcinoma, which "often masquerades as chronic chalazia." Boy, would those ophthalmologists at Northwestern feel stupid when I pointed out they clearly missed that I was dying! I thought of the huge lawsuit my husband would bring against them once I was gone. At least the girls would be taken care of for life, I comforted myself as I laid awake pondering how I would spend my last few months on Earth. (At the Sesame Street Beaches resort on Turks and Caicos).

I bullied my way into an appointment with the attending physician (residents were clearly not up to the task of diagnosing this rare disease, I reasoned) and calmly explained that I was dying and could she please verify that I in fact have this sebaceous cell carcinoma, which by the way I'm not sure how to pronounce so I had to spell it for her.

The good news: I'm not dying! (I bet doctors hate the advent of Google...) You'd think the knowledge one is not dying would put one in a celebratory mood and one would be thankful one is alive and well. You'd be wrong. Because the bad news is I have this chronic condition and may have to face this procedure in the future and frankly death looks like the better option. I hinted that I may need an itsy bitsy something in the realm of a narcotic if I have to go through it again and she said we'd "worry about that bridge when we have to cross it." Clearly she never crossed the bridge of having a snotty-nosed resident half her age digging enthusiastically into eyelid with all her wits about her.

In other bad news: The gal who waxes my eyebrows decided to wax them all off. I only have half an eyebrow over my left eye. Perhaps she was drunk? Mad at me? Went blind and the salon owner felt bad laying her off? I've been going to her for over a year so not sure what that was about. Of course I didn't say anything except, "Oh, looks great! Thanks!" because I'm rather nonconfrontational in those situations and find it more productive to come home and yell at my husband for something completely unrelated.

There is also a slight chance one of the girls has a broken toe, my car seems to be on the fritz and Reid was voted off The Bachelorette. You can bring ME coffee, Honey Bear! Good thing I'm not a recovering crack addict because I'm pretty sure if I was I'd be headed to the nearest dealer asap.