Seventy-two Hours
I recently acquired health insurance after a two and a half year hiatus. During the uninsured years I didn't often think about my inability to see a doctor. I am healthy, I take care of myself, and though I can be a little bit of klutz, the most drastic result is usually a pint spilled in a friend's lap.
I didn't often think about it until a year ago at work, when I pushed an industrial paper-cutter blade down on my left thumb. I had somehow circumvented the safety guard in an attempt to reduce the number of fingers on my left hand. It was such a deep cut that I didn't initially feel any pain. A few gasps from students in the room and my first response was "I don't have health insurance." Followed by—at a higher octave—"Will they be able to sew it back on?"
At the St. Vincent's emergency room they removed the majority of my nail, which I had cut through, and drilled holes in the remaining nail sliver to reattach my thumb tip in only five stitches. I left looking like a cartoon version of myself with an enormous white bandage wrapped around and around and ballooning from my left hand. My boss gave me the afternoon off.
Eventually, after a number of months, sensation returned to my thumb and I sorted through the workman's compensation papers. In the end this is a lucky story of studio stupidity. I did not have to eulogize a piece of myself and I was able to renew respect for the motto Safety First.
Since I was reinvited to the health insurance party I've tried to make the most of my stay. I am paying a bit out of pocket for the priveledge, so I've got to make it worthwhile and I'm not sure how long I'll be able to stay. Last week, I went to the eye doctor for the first time in five years. My vision is fine but I've been wearing hard lenses for over a decade and after losing my glasses two summers ago, placing molded plastic in my eyes for 16 hours a day has become a bit painful. Not to mention the pricetag of $50 per lens, which in the recent past has caused me to demand my brother to deconstruct his bathroom sink at 2 a.m., the night before a grad school interview in search of a quarter inch clear disc. I decided to check in on the scientific advances in eyewear and was informed that yes! I may wear soft disposable lenses.
My eye doctor then explained that hard lenses change the shape of your cornea, so before she could give me an accurate prescription I would have to abstain from wearing them for atleast 72 hours. Without glasses, my waiting period introduced a new blurred version of my day-to-day. I immediately noticed that eavesdropping on the subway was more interesting. Without the ability to size up my fellow New Yorkers due to their fashion sense or book titles, my mind ran wild with the relevance of overheard conversations. I went into work and was able to tune out—or legitimately ignore—the general chaos of the studio. Even when I saw a blurred version of a friend from the length of the hallway I was usually able to ascertain their identity due to the way their shape moved. It's amazing how our minds record posture and step.
On Sunday night of my unfocused quarantine I went to "see" Jenny Lewis at Irving Plaza. From what I could make out, the opening band was a group of long haired seated men who wanted to their spoken word style to work. When Jenny came on stage I asked Matt to describe her outfit, which he did eloquently and then because it wasn't a rowdy rock-and-roll show the quietness of her songs became so comfortable and full of space. I felt calm and happy.
I returned to my eye doctor and she checked my newly shaped corneas. She handed me two tiny foil-wrapped packets with my new sight enclosed. I walked out of the office with the cool comfort of bendable lenses floating above my irises. Everything was in focus again, but I had been reaquainted with an introspective blurry existence. It made me think that like a meditation routine, maybe I'll retreat to it more often.
I didn't often think about it until a year ago at work, when I pushed an industrial paper-cutter blade down on my left thumb. I had somehow circumvented the safety guard in an attempt to reduce the number of fingers on my left hand. It was such a deep cut that I didn't initially feel any pain. A few gasps from students in the room and my first response was "I don't have health insurance." Followed by—at a higher octave—"Will they be able to sew it back on?"
At the St. Vincent's emergency room they removed the majority of my nail, which I had cut through, and drilled holes in the remaining nail sliver to reattach my thumb tip in only five stitches. I left looking like a cartoon version of myself with an enormous white bandage wrapped around and around and ballooning from my left hand. My boss gave me the afternoon off.
Eventually, after a number of months, sensation returned to my thumb and I sorted through the workman's compensation papers. In the end this is a lucky story of studio stupidity. I did not have to eulogize a piece of myself and I was able to renew respect for the motto Safety First.
Since I was reinvited to the health insurance party I've tried to make the most of my stay. I am paying a bit out of pocket for the priveledge, so I've got to make it worthwhile and I'm not sure how long I'll be able to stay. Last week, I went to the eye doctor for the first time in five years. My vision is fine but I've been wearing hard lenses for over a decade and after losing my glasses two summers ago, placing molded plastic in my eyes for 16 hours a day has become a bit painful. Not to mention the pricetag of $50 per lens, which in the recent past has caused me to demand my brother to deconstruct his bathroom sink at 2 a.m., the night before a grad school interview in search of a quarter inch clear disc. I decided to check in on the scientific advances in eyewear and was informed that yes! I may wear soft disposable lenses.
My eye doctor then explained that hard lenses change the shape of your cornea, so before she could give me an accurate prescription I would have to abstain from wearing them for atleast 72 hours. Without glasses, my waiting period introduced a new blurred version of my day-to-day. I immediately noticed that eavesdropping on the subway was more interesting. Without the ability to size up my fellow New Yorkers due to their fashion sense or book titles, my mind ran wild with the relevance of overheard conversations. I went into work and was able to tune out—or legitimately ignore—the general chaos of the studio. Even when I saw a blurred version of a friend from the length of the hallway I was usually able to ascertain their identity due to the way their shape moved. It's amazing how our minds record posture and step.
On Sunday night of my unfocused quarantine I went to "see" Jenny Lewis at Irving Plaza. From what I could make out, the opening band was a group of long haired seated men who wanted to their spoken word style to work. When Jenny came on stage I asked Matt to describe her outfit, which he did eloquently and then because it wasn't a rowdy rock-and-roll show the quietness of her songs became so comfortable and full of space. I felt calm and happy.
I returned to my eye doctor and she checked my newly shaped corneas. She handed me two tiny foil-wrapped packets with my new sight enclosed. I walked out of the office with the cool comfort of bendable lenses floating above my irises. Everything was in focus again, but I had been reaquainted with an introspective blurry existence. It made me think that like a meditation routine, maybe I'll retreat to it more often.
posted by Rebecca at 2:56 PM
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