I hate having my pupils dilated. I hate the involuntary contraction and the acrid sawdust feeling. Eye exams on the whole are one big nagging bite on the ass. I’m sitting here in the waiting room feeling like the ‘special’ child everyone speaks to slowly and then whispers about. I can’t see and the sunlight streaming through these windows is like murder. My poor pupils are trying their hardest to constrict, I can feel this battle, but I have to sit here like an idiot with a blank stare because I cannot see anything clearly and lovely greenish yellow liquid is pooling in the corner of my eyes. I can barely make out an elderly man with those cool huge sunglasses with the sideshields and I wish I had a pair to hide behind.

The doctor finally takes pity on me (either that or I’m fully dilated) and calls me back to the exam room to poke and prod my poor eyeballs some more. All I want to do is get out of here but I dread the ride back to work. In a civilized world I wouldn’t have to go back to work but it seems for the entire calendar year, they only have appointments available in the middle of the day. I think banks and doctors have the most convenient hours, don’t you?

Finally. He’s done. Now I get to pay for the torture and I’m out the door. This is almost as much fun as the “better, worse?” part of the eye exam where they flip those lenses in front of each eye and you have to squint to read the tiny little letters. I always try to do really well on that part of the test, not realizing it’s not a test and I screw myself in the end by not getting a strong enough prescription. What can I say, I’m competitive like that.

I think that’s my car. I’m pretty sure this is where I parked but I have to squint so hard and I’m out of sorts so I’m not positive. If the key works and no one in the office comes out screaming at me I’ll take that as a good sign. Do people realize how dangerous this whole deal is? My pupils are forcibly dilated, the sun is making them scream, I can’t put contacts in yet, sunglasses makes it darker so I really can’t see, and I have to maneuver a how many thousand pound vehicle through traffic and not damage anyone or anything. I think the world is absolutely unstable and we will all at one point end up in one huge pile up on some universal interstate. I’ll be the first to admit I can’t drive for shit and I really shouldn’t have a license. Suckers.

The key worked and I’m in. I left my pager in here and of course it’s vibrating its little tail off. You’d think the office would leave me alone for a minute but nooo. I’m blind and apparently culpable for all dealings in my absence. I could ignore it and reasonably get away with not responding (being blind and all) but I really should call because it’s near review slash raise time and ‘Dependable’ is always good for that five percent increase. I hope my cell phone battery isn’t dead.

Oh wait. That’s my home number and 911 is not good. Shit, where is my cell phone? Damn purses should not be so big for me to fit all this crap inside so I inevitably have to dump everything on my passenger seat to find my cell phone at the bottom. Shit. Shit. 5 missed messages.

Beep.

“Lisa, call home.”

Beep.

“Lisa. Call as soon as you get this. Your grandmother’s in the hospital.”

Beep. Ok screw this, I can’t listen to three more of these. Let me call and see what the hell is going on.

“Hello?”

“Hey, who’s in the hospital?”

“Why do you even have a cell phone? You never answer it. I paged you like, 5 times."

I need this. Bad news, blindness, driving and a lecture go hand-in-hand-in-hand.

“Which grandmother? What’s wrong?”

“Your Grandma Dorothy. Your aunt called and said they admitted her a few days ago. They opened her up and cancer has spread throughout her body. They don’t expect her to make it through the night.”

I put the car in drive. I know how bad this sounds but thank God it’s my father’s mother and not my mom’s mother. The entire framework of my skeleton would dissolve and I would become a bloody puddle if my Grandmother Caroline was dying. I’m still intact, so I might as well drive. I’m not entirely close with that side of my family due to the fact that none of us really knew how to bridge the gap of the undisputable truth that my father was never a dad. You’ll have to ask him why because I’ve blocked it out in a way that will keep some therapist busy on my routine case.

I am sad though, with a removed sort of sadness thinking of the grandmother who used to let me drink a little coffee in my mug of milk and sugar when I was little. The one who didn’t give up drinking and smoking because it was politically correct. The one who always pulled me aside and said, “He does love you, you know.”

She’s going to die.

I keep my sunglasses on when I get to work. My eyes still hurt and I don’t really want to talk to anyone, anyway. I get the call; she’s passed away. I replace the phone in the receiver and a montage plays in my head across the screen of my eyelids. I see a little girl in a bandanna print halter top and jean cutoffs wearing metal clamp-on rollerskates, unsteady and falling on the sidewalk. Same girl with her young aunt, running around the dining room and blowing bubbles through a straw in her chocolate milk; waking up to baskets full of candy on Easter morning; getting her pigtails parted and pulled, and finally, the little me saying goodbye to my grandmother when the weekend was over. This is what I conjure up, memories from 20-odd years ago. My eyes water up a bit and it hurts because they are still under the influence of the mad doctor. I have a headache. I’m going home.

I drop everything at the side of my bed: purse, keys, shoes, sunglasses and clothes (save for my underwear). I crawl under sheets and blankets ready for the nap of life, lulled to sleep by the gentle whir of the ceiling fan. I dream of fish and water, of misplaced keys, and of Madonna rocking me to sleep in a cradle. I then sleep soundly, motionless and solid. When I awaken I have no idea what day or time it is. The clock shows 7:00, but is that AM or PM? Am I late for work? I lie still for a few more moments in the dark before I pull back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed.

I ease my butt up off the edge of the mattress and as I shift my weight to my feet, I hear and feel a definite ‘crunch’.

I really, really liked those sunglasses.

I pull my bathrobe on and flick the light switch. Pain shoots through my eyes to my brain, and the entire day comes flooding back.

Eye doctor.

Grandmother.

Dead.

I sit back down on the bed and slump forward with my head in my hands. I feel an intrinsic longing for the removed part of my flesh and blood now gone from the world. I hope she wasn’t in pain.

I don’t cry. I go out to the kitchen and rummage through the comfort food section of the pantry until I find some microwave popcorn. I set the timer for 2 minutes 30 seconds, and after a few pop-pop-pops the aroma permeates my entire apartment. I melt some butter in a small glass bowl and I pour that on top of the already extra buttered popcorn. I shake on some salt and little parmesan, crack a diet coke and park it in front of the TV. I don’t have the capacity for laughter tonight. I scroll through the cable channels and Pretty in Pink is on, which is fine, so I watch it and gorge myself on popcorn and artificial sweetener. I wonder if this stuff really causes cancer. Maybe if I drink enough diet coke I‘ll find myself on an operating table in a sterile OR in some random hospital somewhere with doctors slicing me open, finding cancer like a rust spread from cranium to metatarsal. They’ll cluck their tongues and wag their heads and say aloud how people should pay more attention to the phenyl-whatever warning on the side of the can.

I don’t stop drinking, though. I like the way the bubbles burn my throat.

I think I should look for a funeral outfit. I lick my buttery fingers and wipe them off on my robe and head back to my closet. I’ve always wanted to wear one of those fancy black hats with the face net to a funeral but the closest thing I have is a brown newsboy cap.

Maybe…

Nah. I put it on my head and check my reflection, because I’m sure it sets off my robe really well. If I could see I would confirm this. I look back at the row of clothes on hangers and notice a few black outfits and figure I’ll just grab one when the day comes. I’m sure I have 2 matching black shoes so funeral outfit – check. I put the cap back up on the top shelf of the closet and I notice my big photo album. I pull it down and lug it over to the bed, dropping a few stray pictures along the way. I like the crackle of the spine and old transparencies when I open the cover. This album probably covers my entire life, heavy on the ‘70s and ‘80s. I look through birthdays, holidays, summers and old bathing suits, pets, boyfriends and best friends, prom and homecomings, graduation and my favorite – baby pictures. There’s me in my christening dress, me with ice cream all over my face from the time my grandfather made us sundaes that we had to eat with big wooden spoons, me propped up next to the big stuffed teddy bear, me asleep on the cat, and… me in my grandmother’s arms.

I take the picture out and study it. She looks so young, I guess late 30s. She has big, perfectly set brown hair and pink lipstick and a floral dress. I’m all of a month old. She has a soft look about her, reflecting the precious bundle in her grasp who is meeting her gaze. It is a captured moment, a moment that millions of babies and grandmothers share, but this is our moment and the grown up me starts to cry.

And I really cry, with the cry that drains and exhausts and dehydrates, the cry that makes me gulp air between sobs, the cry that makes my face pale and my eyes red and my eyelids puffy. The cry that rinses away any residue of earlier chemicals and glib false pretense.

The cry that brings back my sight.







03/04/2004

Jennifer Hopkins

Wrong forum!

Joking.

I'm far too drunk to read that now, but I promise I'll do it when I sober up.

I LOVE THIS!

doctormcmeekle said:

Thanks, good doctor.

"Keep in mind that I'm an artist, and I'm sensitive about my shit." - Erykah Badu


But be honest.

Sweeny79 said:

Really?

(I guess you wouldn't post otherwise!)

Thank you, that means a lot.

you know what? it's not bad! it's actually a really enjoyable, smart commentary. forget for a minute that we're on a prince site...have you ever read any of dorothy parker's stories? a few times i was really reminded of her style...the cynicism and jaded attitude. i like that this woman is so jaded and she literally has no vision...so smart. if you've not read any of ms. parker, check out one of the compilation books put out by penguin books. good stuff.

thanks for the read.

i liked how it ended. very good.

SassyBritches said:

Thank you. I've read some of her poetry but none of her stories, I'll give it a look-see.

Thanks for reading.

JasmineFire said:

Thanks Jas. I remember yours - the home shopping girl. Did you expound on that?

Great premise, sk!

But I thought you weren't allowed to drive home on your own when you have your pupils dilated. Don't they make sure you have a driver?

2the9s said:

I've done it. This is based on a very true story.

starkitty said:

sort of. still not much in the way of a plot, it's all been character descriptions and silly situations.
[This message was edited Wed May 5 18:59:03 2004 by JasmineFire]

2the9s said:

usually for liability purposes they make you wait in the office for a half hour or so. i guess some places don't do that.

where are the pictures?

Milty said:

didn't they teach you to read in bermuda?

JasmineFire said:

no they only taught us how to fish with fishing line and hooks.

Milty said:

well at least you learned a trade.

wanna catch me some fish? i'll try and cook it... on second thought, my cooking skills aren't that great. nevermind.

JasmineFire said:

yeah i heard they sucked.

Milty said:

they don't suck, they're just under construction!

Right on Starkitty, I love it.
EXCELLENT!!!

crazyhorse said:

Thank you so much, I really dig your stuff too so that means a lot.

A friend of mine read that and asked why I tried so hard to move with my words, like it was almost palpable.

I told him that was the point. That's what I like. I like to be moved, so I aspire to do the same.

Good job, Starkitty. I really enjoyed this.

OdysseyMiles said:

Thank you, Miles.

And I know you guys aren't ass-kissing because you all don't even know me that well.

So thanks.

I really dig this.
So happy we broadened the forum up for this sort of material.

Great read youg lady!

yamomma said:

Rock on, momma! Thanks.

I love it! It was a long read with no pictures, but it was good!

althom said:

You really do care.

Thanks allie.

Ok, when you started talking about crying I started tearing up. I'm a sucker.

I'm not for reading much, because I tend to get bored or distracted, which is why I took so long to give this a try. I really dig your writing style! Kept my attention.

Great job! Good story.

Check out my boyfriend's website: www.sunwolfpress.com
He's a writer/self-publisher and he takes submissions for the site from time to time. If you click on articles and scroll down you'll see a poem by me. *wink*

im crying

Beautifully written in so many ways... o my goodness.