I hadn’t intended to publish another Bunny Waffles post – this was perhaps something to do with the several category titles I could never seem to acquire the mental capacity to sort out properly, or the way the bunny’s eyes just stare into my very being – but nonetheless, after becoming aware that this would be post 100 (100! What the hell have I written 99 posts about?!) it seemed a fitting electrifying finale to round off an otherwise dour existence. So here it is.
I thought I might share something about my life, of late. A relative recently said to me “Leanne, I love you, but I don’t know what you do”. I still don’t quite see how the two are connected. I later stole all the jam from her fridge and left. However, it might be that you share a similar sentiment, or perhaps you subscribed to this blog in October 2012 (Sanity vs. Insanity – inexplicably the height of popularity) and are now wondering what a bunny waffle is, and why the unsubscribe link on the email wasn’t much more obvious.
“I’m a Process Consultant at a University”, I responded to my relative, and watched as her eyes slowly glazed over. I let the sea take what was left of her body. Between you and me, I am more specifically seconded into the position of Process Consultant; a fact which causes greater confusion amongst relatives, and which is currently impacting my current pursuit of obtaining a mortgage – what with my current salary not being my forever salary, and my forever salary proving to be not quite enough to secure anything beyond the value of a caravan.
“I don’t know,” my Dad had said, scratching his head for inspiration, “some caravans are actually pretty expensive.”
As I write this I am actually waiting for another mortgage appointment, which is at 14:30. I am currently sat in a Costa in Derby and the time is 13:56. I’m wearing a selection of clothes from my work wardrobe to cerebrally convey that I might be a productive human being. I have a cheese and ham toastie, and a decaf latte with vanilla syrup, and a notepad and pen to pass the time. I’m handwriting, devolving into shorthand. I’ve learned some lessons since my last appointment: don’t answer questions they don’t ask you, prepare figures they didn’t ask you to prepare because they will ask for them anyway, and living in a bin is apparently an option I am willing to consider- as long as I can scratch my name into the side of it. I am extremely concerned I’m going to reach retirement (cue distant, haunting laughter) and not have anywhere for my frail, gross body to live. I’ll be 27 on Sunday. It might all be okay though- this provider might offer me more than the last one, afterall. The only problem might be when I come to sign the contract and I can’t read it. Now it’s 14:02.
The coffee needs to be decaf or I will poop myself to death.
That’s another thing I should tell you about- my eyeballs are bleeding. Following a rapid improvement in blood glucose control due to going on the insulin pump last year, my retinas are growing new (fragile) blood vessels to compensate for the changes… which would be very nice of them if I wasn’t going blind as a consequence. The condition is called retinopathy and I’ve so far had laser eye surgery and eye injections as treatment. My most recent injection was on Tuesday into my right eye, and it went much better than the first one, perhaps because I knew what to expect (“now we’re going to use the hook” is surprisingly a nice thing to hear after having no warning about said hook before).
There’s a patient at the injection clinic who I like to call Ey-Ey. I know his real name because he is always called in before I am, but the first time I saw him he had one “Ey” drawn on his forehead above each eye to mark the type of injections he was getting, and so naturally Ey-Ey became canon. I did so desperately want him to think of me as Lu-Lu (Lucentis injections in each eye) but as my boyfriend pointed out, I only ever get the injection in my right eye – so disappointingly I could only ever be Lu- which is a TERRIBLE nickname, and thus ended my web series spin-off The Adventures of Ey-Ey and Lu-Lu before it even began.
I’ll never speak to him though. Waiting room banter is a dangerous affair, you know. I overheard an elderly woman on Tuesday commenting how precious eyesight is, and I might have become inwardly hysterical. Yeah, thanks for that, I hadn’t realised this before. Your input is both insightful and appreciated. Now I’m just going to go over into this room and let them push a metal implement into my eye. Cheers.
Anyway, the sight in my right eye is still slightly blurred and wavy, but this should wear off. My left eye however is a complete disaster zone- it’s all “retinal traction” and “excessive bleeding” and “OH GOD I’m pretty sure your face used to have, like… facial features or something”. The doctor has explained they can’t do the injection in my left eye as the fluid is in a different area and they’d have to get funding to apply for a special license, whereby we’re getting into the area of private fees. So, we’re going to leave it for a bit to see if my body can reabsorb the blood, otherwise we might have to cut into it… which is obviously fine and not terrifying in the slightest, and it’s not as though potentially being partially sighted makes me concerned about my work, or ability to live, or indeed whether taking on a mortgage is the best thing to be doing right now. And of course, I must remember that eyesight is precious.
It’s 14:20. I need to leave for my appointment.
Tuesday and Thursday