Sheesh, I wish I'd realized better at the beginning of the day - I'd have just officially called it a duvet day and got it over with.

(Oh, I just realized this is mostly about eyes, and some up-close-and-personal treatment. Scroll if you have to, I won't mind. But if you can stand it, I am fishing for some sympathy...)

Saturday night, we went to a fire-works display. It was a lovely one, but we were standing pretty-much beneath the display - what happens when you leave your face turned up toward the sky, while spent fire-works crud gently (or not so gently) rains down?

I wear glasses, but still managed to get something damn awful in one eye. Damn-damn-DAMN! The only blessing was that it was towards the end of the display: okay, I still missed most of the "climax", but I enjoyed the bits I did see.

But that left me with the task of getting home (luckily, not too difficult) then trying to flush out the eye. I managed sort of - Mr Sweetie is darn-near perfect, but the poor bunny was left weakly saying, "Ask me to do the insurance papers; I'm good with that" after I tried to enlist his help to peer up underneath my eyelid.

I thought I'd gotten out all the grit, but my eye still kept bugging me and bugging me. Yesterday, we consulted the nearest pharmacy, to learn which even-smaller-town we'd have to go to for the Sunday-open service. I liked the new adventure somewhat less than I would have normally - by this time, I'd lost enough study-and-prep time to be seriously fretting. At least Mr Sweetie was along to hold my hand. So, we paid somewhat inflated prices for a few items to do an eyewash - verdict: slightly helpful, but not really.

By this morning, it was a trip to the doctor. Luckily, also not a huge production, and the open surgery hour was lightly attended. Still, each waiting person is a 15 minute slot, more or less - I discovered that there was also a steady stream of phone calls coming into my gp's office, effectively lengthening the time she needed for the warm body in front of her. (And, I'm sorry to say, a lot of utterances like, "I said for you to do it that way," or "I wrote that prescription and left it there; I simply don't know what you did with it after." Ay, ay, ay: I wished the poor woman strength as I left the consulting room.)

However, the visit was effective, and not for any prescription or potion - nope, this was old-fashioned saw-bones medicine. We spent a fruitless 5 minutes trying to get the upper lid to flip up, until I offered to lay down (less movement for the doctor to contend with, less distraction for me trying to stay upright and not sway in a reflexive avoidance): then she got the eyelid to flip up so she could get a good look and even a swab or two with a moistened cotton bud. Good thing she did that, too; because when we looked, we saw a tiny black speck on the cotton bud. "You wouldn't believe such a tiny thing would cause so much," she said. "Oh, yes I would!" I replied, already feeling the mighty relief of no more juddering itchiness.

Just in case the relief was going to be only temporary, I waited for the eye to settle. When it did, there was no return of the tell-tale scratchiness, and we had a general moment of "hooray" between us. (I think my gp is generally pretty good, but - although she'll never actually say such a thing, I think eyes kind of squick her. It was just some of the ways she spoke when we were struggling with the eyelid-flip thing...)

And... I thought after a moment or two of general rest and recovery, I'd return to fixing my week and study - I'd already bagged a day full of classes to attend the surgery, and while that was clearly for A Good Cause, I was anxious to get back in the saddle.

Except... I slept. And slept. And slept. Oh, sheesh, I even dreamed, and in the afternoon that is once-in-a-blue-moon rare for me. I hadn't thought I'd suffered that badly from sleep deprivation, given that I thought most of the intervening two nights I'd actually been asleep. But apparently not.

Here's to the rest of my duvet day, and gently treating the body so that it'll be a bit more ready for tomorrow and the coming weeks. (Man, I am so looking forward to the Easter vacation, though.)

ETA: why didn't we go to the emergency room? Hmm, hard to say. I didn't think it was an emergency. That sounds kind of lame, but I have to admit I would have felt lamer going there on a Saturday night amidst the cases of rather more direly needing folks. Still, if I go through this again, I may have to seriously rethink that. I might still say, "But it's not an emergency"; but then, Mr Sweetie - knowing this of me - might push a bit harder. Anything, I think, to save him having to try and peer himself beneath the eyelid. (Poor bunny.)