The glaucoma test? Pretty much a device of Satan. Pull out all my teeth, drill the molar 'til it resembles a microscopic statue of David. But don't put my chin in that cup. The only way that'll be going down is if you Clockwork Orange my eyeballs. I dare you.
So, Octavia the optical technician walks into my little screening room and casually asks me to rest my chin in The Machine. Our conversation goes something like this:
Her: Hel-lo! (sing-song voice.) I am Octavia, your optical technician. Just put your chin right in there for me and we're going to do a few...
Me: What is it? What does it do? Does it shoot me in the eye with something? Light? Air? Laser beams?
Her: Noooo. Nothing will shoot you. I'm going to explain. (She explains.)
Me: But no shooting?
Her: No.
Me: Not even like, a little bit?
Her: No. Not at all.
And the next fifteen minutes continues on like this. She practically has to dismantle each piece of equipment so I can be reassured that there are no hidden chambers through which something might be speared into my eyeballs.
Then she takes me into THE ACTUAL room with the glaucoma test. I see it, and like a dog terrified of turtles, I pin my ears back, expose my teeth, and start to growl as I slink backwards. She has to cover it up with a cloth.
Her: See? We're not going to use it today. I'm putting it to bed now. It's sleeping.
Me: ...whimpering...
We move to another area of the room, an area without the device of Satan. Eventually, with The Machines behind me, I relax for the rest of my examination - only to meet up with Octavia at the frames counter. Now I'm all jolly and proud of myself. She doesn't recognize me. Literally.
Her: Oh! You! You were so scared, I didn't recognize you just now. You have color in your face! (She's practically cooing at me as she strokes my hand for comfort and I'm all thinking, "Yes please. I'll take my cookie now.")
She looks at Kevin and then re-enacts my flailings of distress and panic. I apologize for being such a wuss. No. Not a wuss. A giant baby. She laughs and tells me that she's seen worse. And what could be worse than me? According to Octavia, on the scale of panicked patients, I rated aobut a 6. (Really?! A six? That's like a D.) The worst patients are the grown men who cry uncontrollably. She assured me that nobody likes The Machines.
So I'm thinking that maybe my little phobia is nothing but a cute quirk; something that makes me a joy for optical technicians everywhere who find me much more pleasant than man-criers. And I take comfort in that scenario because it makes me feel like a winner.
