I just brought Matilda home from the vet’s after yesterday’s spaying procedure. She’s currently confined to the bathroom/bedroom in an attempt to limit her usual acrobatics and reduce the risk of her ripping out her stitches. Because just the thought of that makes my skin crawl and my stomach turn.
In fact, as we speak, I really need to use the bathroom, but I’ve talked myself into thinking that Matilda has chewed through the stitches and has who-knows-what vital organs hanging out of her belly. So instead, my full bladder and I are sitting in the living room contemplating a run to the pet store to pick up an Elizabethan collar.
I haven’t always been this squeamish. But the older I get, the more pathetic I seem to get when it comes to medical procedures. In the past few years I’ve almost passed out :
- after receiving my third and final Gardasil shot,
- after my dermatologist froze a wart off the tip of my pinky finger,
- while Nick was draining the blister that developed on my pinky finger after said wart removal (he really is a wonderful husband),
- after donating blood in the narrowest trailer ever built,
And the best one…
- after a routine visit to the eye doctor.
Yeah. The doctor did not explain that he was giving me drops to numb my eyes and while he left me alone in the room letting the drops kick in, I became convinced that I could not move my eyes, and that this was because they had swollen to twice their size. I started to get super-anxious, so by the time my fully-dilated pupils blindly led me into a crowded elevator, I was primed for a panic attack.
Even with my normally almost-perfect vision, I get claustrophobic. But with impaired eyesight and an over-active sympathetic nervous system, I felt even more trapped and unable to escape. I seriously could not get out of that elevator soon enough. I’m just really, really happy I didn’t collapse and become that girl who fainted on her way out of the eye doctor’s office. It’s bad enough when you’re guided to the waiting room with your bandaged pinky finger and the receptionist offers you water and insists that you sit for a while.
I suppose I’ve procrastinated long enough. I should go check on Matilda like a good cat mother should.
Or maybe I’ll make Nick do it….