“What’s that noise?” I asked. There was a sound like metal springs released somewhere behind the wall. The nurse said it was just the music. Not the music, I said, something else. Didn’t she hear it? No, she didn’t. She left the room for several minutes. When she came back she stepped toward me and – without a word – made a mark on the left side of my forehead with a black felt-tip pen. I hadn’t expected that. I didn’t know what to say.
The mark, I gathered, was intended to show the doctor which eye required surgery. Apparently, the nearly marble-sized cyst in my eyelid wasn’t enough to give it away. My confidence suffered a minor blow. One wants to believe in the skills of someone shortly to wield sharp instruments near one’s eyes. When the young ophthalmologist came into the room I asked if this was a procedure he performed frequently. “It’s a fairly common complaint,” was all he would say.
The anesthetic injection to the eyelid hurt. I worried for a moment that he had skewered my eyeball with the needle. Then he applied the clamp to my upper lid, tightened it, and turned the lid inside out. I realized with a start that the music piped into the room was a Beethoven piano sonata. At least, I thought, it’s not the Ninth. I observed from millimeters away as the doctor made an incision with his scalpel. “It’s draining now,” he announced.
From my reclined position in the examination chair, the doctor was standing at my left. A comical rumbling sound came from the direction of his stomach. “Doctor L?” I said. Yes? “Haven’t you eaten lunch?” He apologized and explained that he’d just finished a mocha. Mochas always did that to him. Then he used a miniature melon-scoop to scrape out the inside of the exploded oil gland in my eyelid. Finally, he cauterized the wound. I smelt myself at the stake.
The bleeding began when the clamp was removed. Ten minutes of pressure on the lid stanched it, but I would have to exit through the Pediatrics waiting room and was afraid my bloodied orb might frighten the children. There came the weird sound of springs again. When I opened the door to leave and turned to my right I saw a boy of three or four riding a spring-legged toy donkey. “Merry Christmas,” he said. Then he pointed to my forehead: “Someone wrote on you.”