Dear Kid,

An eyelash has taken up residence in my eye.

This is not good.

It’s not that I don’t like eyelashes. Some of my best ocular accessories are eyelashes. It’s just that I prefer them in their normal location doused with tons of mascara.

Floating around my eyeball is not the prefered (or even acceptable) location for any foreign debris, eyelashes included.

It is truly amazing how something so small and seemingly insignificant can cause such crazy annoyance discomfort pain.

Pebbles in shoes are the same sort of thing. Little tiny object, big huge problem.

The difference is that taking a pebble out of a shoe is generally a relatively straightforward process. Trying to dig out an eyelash generally requires 6 people, 2 mirrors, a bright light, and a lot of frustration. It’s surgery without the equipment or skills.

Eyelashes are stubborn things. I’m convinced that when they fall into your eye they excrete a glue-like substance that keeps them attached to the cornea. Or that guides them into a corner of your eye from which they absolutely, positively cannot be extracted.

Which is frustrating.

And annoying uncomfortable painful.

I’m going to go find some mirrors and bright light.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

Sons of many b*****es.

I had Quite A Day yesterday.

It started out harmlessly enough.

I made coffee without spilling a drop.

I backed down the driveway without hitting any native wildlife.

I drove to PT without causing any breaks in the time-space continuum.

All good signs, right?

Then Kyle the Physical Therapist set to work. As I believe I have mentioned, Kyle is part sadist. A large part. Most physical therapists are. As in

Me: That hurts!
Kyle: Yep. I don’t believe anything we’re going to do for the next half hour is going to be particularly comfortable.

It’s the grin as his says this that gets me.

Once Kyle decided he’d inflicted sufficient torture (and by “inflicted sufficient torture” I mean our hour was up), I headed off to work.

The car in front of me took the Last Reasonable Spot in the parking lot, leaving me to hike from a spot 2½ miles away. Partway through my trek to the building, Dad called.

Having been ignored all morning, my cell phone got 3 kinds of excited at the incoming call and literally leapt out of my fingers.

In all the years (4,873 to be exact) I’ve owned a cell phone, I’ve never (as in not ever) broken a screen.

Streak over as of yesterday morning.

Wait. It gets better (and by “better” we all know I mean much worse).

Around 1:30 or so, I got a small cramp in my foot. NBD, right? Wrong. I walked down the hall to a meeting, a little annoyed at how uncomfortable the cramp was and a lot annoyed that it wasn’t un-cramping.

During the meeting, it got worse. So I took off my shoe and peeked. (OK, I had taken off my shoes the minute I sat down. Habit.)

My lovely narrow foot was no longer either. It was swollen, disfigured, and painful. Really painful.

Following the (blessedly short) meeting, I walked to the car (and by “walked” I mean somehow managed the 4½ mile reverse journey while putting minimal pressure on my foot) and drove to Urgent Care.

Where I learned that “Urgent” means “please enjoy our lovely waiting room for a really long time.” A really, really long time.

Hours.
Days.
Months.
Long time.

Eventually I saw a doctor who decided to list a whole bunch of scary options and take an X-ray.

Even without a trip to medical school I knew we needed an X-ray. I’m pretty sure I could have done without the list of scary options.

Post X-ray, we agreed that nothing was broken, my foot hurts like (censored), crutches might be an idea for a day or two, and a handful of meds might be in order.

Apparently the “Care” part of Urgent Care means “I dunno but I’ll try to make the pain stop and you should follow up with your Primary Care Physican.”

It’s possible that the morning’s PT caused the problem. It’s possible that dropping my cell phone caused the problem. It’s possible that I was bitten by a hungry walrus.

It’s even possible that someday I’ll be able to put shoes on again.

For the record, it’s 6.78 miles from the parking lot to the soccer stadium seats.

Love, Mom

Dear Kid,

It was a difficult weekend for Pi. Over the course of two soccer games she got the general complement of bangs and bruises and a very messed up shoulder.

We went to Children’s Hospital on Saturday to have someone look at her shoulder. [Remind me to explain to her that it is not a goal of mine to visit every outpost of Children’s.] They didn’t see much on the x-rays, but said we should see an orthopedist.

Mom, I already got the medical report. I know. Hang on. We’re getting to the point of the story.

On Monday, we went to a closer location of Children’s to get copies of her x-rays to take with us to the orthopedist appointment. As we were waiting for the CD, we noticed two young girls (they looked like twins to me) waiting for what we guessed was a round of chemotherapy. The two girls were bald, ultra-thin, and seemed quite happy.

As we left the hospital, Pi told me that it put things in perspective seeing those two girls. “I almost feel bad that I am only here about my shoulder,” she said, “when there are people with cancer.”

I said I thought it was a good reminder that no matter how bad things get, there are always people who are in worse situations. And that it was good to remember that the two little girls seemed very cheerful. Because, just like us, there are people in the world who don’t have it as good as they do.

So as the end of the semester approaches, and professors seem to feel the need to load on the work and raise up the expectations, remember that there are people who don’t have the luxury of being in college at all. There are those who would love the opportunity for higher education, who would relish every moment of stress and studying and writing papers.

Even when it seems “eh,” you’ve got it pretty good.

Love, Mom