Stuck on you.

My contact is stuck in my eye.

I know, this is a ridiculous situation and I feel stupid. Who gets a contact stuck? Where can it go? And, most importantly, how the hell do you get it out?

I have been wearing contacts for around eight years now and, on occasion, I’ve experienced the awfulness that is having the contact fold up under my upper lash and get stuck. But a few blinks or a good panic-induced rub later and it usually pops back out.

This time, that didn’t happen. In fact, I think it made it worse.

I have no idea how it got lodged back there, but I am freaking out. I’m already paranoid about having things in my eye, I do not need this. It’s already been two days, so I arranged to go to a doctor to have a professional try their luck. Unfortunately, now I’m having visions of anonymous men in white lab coats and surgical masks holding my eye open with scary spider-like steel clamps coming at me with giant tweezers.

In this scenario, I — necessarily — am strapped to the chair. In real life, that may be necessary.

** update **

Ok, so it wasn’t my entire contact. In fact, the doctor may or may not have characterized whatever was stuck back there as “miniscule”. Miniscule. I don’t know if he ever had anything stuck in his eye but even miniscule things hurt like a bitch. And cause, apparently, a gigantic overreaction.

But I did learn something today: when things are lost in translation at the doctor’s office, it’s terrifying.

I went to an open consultation hour at a local doctor’s office, so before going to see the doctor a technician screens you. This included a test where they blow a puff of air into your eye. But when the technician was talking to me, she described it as “pressure” and not a “puff of air” (though, let’s be honest, I wasn’t too thrilled about the “puff” either). So here I am, chin and forehead pressed up against some scary-looking, complicated device expecting something to apply pressure to my eyeball. I panicked, a bit.

Granted, there was no running out of the room screaming, or crying, but I did close my eyes at least the first three times she tried to puff the air into my eyeball and, even after I knew it was just a puff of air, at least two or three times afterwards. After all, for me “pressure” means that something is touching your eyeball. I kept thinking (even after the puff of air) that something was going to protrude out of the machine and poke me in the eye.

I know, I’m ridiculous.

Also, did I mention I made my wonderful boyfriend come home from work early just to escort me to the doctor? And hold my hand?

As my sister put it, “I have no idea how he puts up with you.”

I responded that it doesn’t happen often, to which she said, “said the girl who cut off part of her finger a little while ago.”

Touché, touché.

In my defense, it was almost a year ago. A girl can have a freakout (or two) a year.