I’m going to break down and go have my eyes checked. I’ve been putting it off for a year now, because I know I’m blind as a bat. I finally came to the point of knowing there was no alternative when I almost shot a chair cushion in the yard last night because I thought it was a coyote dragging a pillow around the yard. In my defense, it was dark, and the wind was blowing the cushion around in tall grass at the back of the yard, so there’s that.
Also, I’ve been alone out here on the farm for seventeen days, waiting for my boys to return from their rollicking trip cross-country. It’s decidedly not a good idea to leave me alone in the semi-wilderness, with evil cats who live to make me crazy, for 17 days. There will be a family meeting, no doubt. But I would have been really pissed if I’d ruined one of my new outdoor chair cushions, so I’m going to let them tell me how awful it really is.
I have a philosophy about my personal health that is diametrically opposed to my professional training as a nurse. I hesitate to have anything diagnosed, because as soon as you know you have it for sure, the disease or affliction becomes real. I’d much rather wonder if I have gout, and adjust my diet to see if the symptoms go away, than go to the doctor so they can tell me I’m an evil, salt-mongering beast with pee-crystal toes. It’s nicer that way, and I don’t end up wanting my toes amputated. This is absolutely not the correct way to approach health care, but pretty much anyone who has treated a nurse or doctor will tell you they are the worst patients to have. It’s definitely a “do as I say and not as I do” profession.
So. I’m heading to the eye doctor as soon as the Tyrannosaurus Rex clears out of the driveway. The damn thing shows up every Friday and eats my trash, it’s remarkable: