I tried. I really did try. God forbid I should be one of those paranoid, hypochondriac people running off to the doctor for every little thing – you know, taxing our health care system and all. I mean, my immediate reaction to things might be “oh no, I have the dreaded forehead cancer!” But I certainly don’t go to the doctor for that – sometimes these things just clear up on their own.
But this. The blurry eye. I figured it would work itself out somehow, but given that it’s been 2 weeks and seems to be getting worse, I figured I should get it checked out, so as to not be one of those dumbasses who then gets told “But why didn’t you go sooner?? Why’d you wait so long?” Umm, dunno, tired of being Calamity Tasha? Maybe?
So I have my appointment this afternoon, and I figure I’ll go in there, the doctor will roll his eyes and proclaim my eye beschmutzified or something like that, and he’ll give me eye drops as a placebo to shut me up. No harm, no foul.
Dr. B.: This just happened one day? No trauma to the eye? No change in diet or any other changes?
Me: Nope, nothing. It just started one day out of the blue.
Dr. B: Okay, just look straight ahead. Hmm. Hmm. Okay, now read this eye chart.
Me: 3, 5, 6, 4, 2, 3.......4, 7, something, a blur, 5?
Dr. B.: That’s fine.
(I’m waiting patiently to hear about the dreaded schmutz-in-the-eye, or perhaps an infection)
Dr. B.: Okay, I’m going to send you to see a specialist.
Me: What? You mean you didn’t see what was wrong?
Dr. B.: No, I didn’t. But it could be anything. A nerve, some kind of degeneration...
Me: A brain tumor?
Dr. B.: Well.......probably not...
Me: Because I get a lot of headaches too, and I seem to be rather stumbly.
Dr. B.: Probably not...brain tumors usually cause much worse vision problems.
Me: Oh. I guess that’s comforting then. Kind of.
Now, before anyone gets all up in my kitchen (this is my new “go to” phrase) about being melodramatic and shit, let me just say that I do NOT truly believe that I have a brain tumor. I mean really. At that point even I’d think I’m making all this up, that I don't actually exist as Miss Tasha but rather that I’m really some schlumpy 58-year-old guy living in his parents’ basement, pecking away at a computer all day.
No, this is just another What The Fuck moment brought to you by Miss Tasha, aka Job. You know, a small part of me almost has to feel sorry for BCBS. Here they’re thinking I’m a sure money-making bet for them, and instead, I turn out to be like that woman in France who lived to be 110, after some guy had bought the rights to her apartment after she croaked. You see, they have this practice there called “viager”, whereby you can buy an elderly person’s abode based on the age of the seller, but they get to live there the rest of their lives and you pay them a monthly sum. But if the elderly person happens to defy the odds, well, you lose. I am that elderly woman. Sucks to be you, BCBS.