I really should only
have one eye by now.
By now, you’ve heard about my peach issues, aerator incident, and the tiller. As problematic as those were, nothing
could be as jarring as these next stories in my mind. As a rule, I do not cry
often. I didn’t cry when I left for college, and I didn’t even cry when I got a
needle stuck in my eye. Hold onto your horses, ladies and gentlemen, that story
is yet to come.
At the age of eight years old, I was
learning to sew. I had a plastic Christmas tree frame that I was weaving yarn
through with a thick metal needle. My mom had been in and out supervising me
because she had known my track record. Speaking of, I was not even allowed to
have adult scissors until the eleventh grade due to my infamously bad luck. As
I was on an up-stitch, the needle slipped and became lodged in my right eye.
No, I didn’t cry. No, I didn’t scream. No, I didn’t even make a groan of pain.
Instead, I just said “Mom? Can you please come here for a second?”
Every time I moved my eyes, the needle would move to, as if pointing to show everyone what I was looking at at all times. It pretty much flopped out after a second or two, (I didn’t know at the time that you were supposed to leave objects in you until you saw the doctors but the needle decided to be a rebel and jump ship.) The needle was not deep at all, but just enough to stick in there, so tender mercy and a half right there.
Once again, we were off to the doctor. When we got there, the doctor had to remove stray layers of the whites of my eye. That actually did make me cry. When he got done, he remarked that the needle had left a mark in the shape of ‘z’. I took this as a sign because I had ben obsessed with Zorro from an early age. I even had an exclusive Zorro-themed club in my room. In fact, it was so exclusive, I was the only member. But that’s been the pattern for all clubs in my life. All of them are too specific to bear any significance to anyone else. One of my other clubs was the “Fuzzy Tube Scarf and Newsboy Hat” club. That one was wildly unsuccessful as well.
Back to the eye, for several years after, I was lacking the lower peripheral vision in my right eye. I blame that fact for my next story.
Every time I moved my eyes, the needle would move to, as if pointing to show everyone what I was looking at at all times. It pretty much flopped out after a second or two, (I didn’t know at the time that you were supposed to leave objects in you until you saw the doctors but the needle decided to be a rebel and jump ship.) The needle was not deep at all, but just enough to stick in there, so tender mercy and a half right there.
Once again, we were off to the doctor. When we got there, the doctor had to remove stray layers of the whites of my eye. That actually did make me cry. When he got done, he remarked that the needle had left a mark in the shape of ‘z’. I took this as a sign because I had ben obsessed with Zorro from an early age. I even had an exclusive Zorro-themed club in my room. In fact, it was so exclusive, I was the only member. But that’s been the pattern for all clubs in my life. All of them are too specific to bear any significance to anyone else. One of my other clubs was the “Fuzzy Tube Scarf and Newsboy Hat” club. That one was wildly unsuccessful as well.
Back to the eye, for several years after, I was lacking the lower peripheral vision in my right eye. I blame that fact for my next story.
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