Eye didn't have a clue

Childbirth is no divine mystery.

What happens afterward is a different story.

“I need to push!” I cried out as the contractions pressed more fiercely. Thirty minutes later, my beautiful baby boy was born at lunchtime on a Thursday. Despite his cramped exit, his head was perfectly shaped, his dimpled chin reflecting his father’s – a trait I’d prayed for every night Michael rubbed lotion on my blossoming belly.

The labor and delivery were textbook, no, Lamaze instructor-hopeful, and I was pleased with the experience, proud of my accomplishment. Little did I know the most awkward medical experiences of my 30th year would not be delivering a child in the company of strangers, but something much more trying.

“Let’s get out of the house,” my mother suggested. She’d been with us for a few days since we brought Nicholas home, and I thought I was ready for a journey to the mall. My favorite purchase was the 25-cent report from the Sears restroom scale that told me I’d shed 23 pounds in my first week. It made lunch at the smorgasbord that much more appealing. But, as I sank my teeth into corn casserole and broiled tilapia, my left eye began to water.

Dabbing it with a Kleenex, I thought nothing of it. But, I thought a lot of it when I was still dabbing a week-and-a-half later.

My ever-tearing duct was wearing on me. So, I made an appointment with an optometrist who promptly prescribed me an antibiotic for the infection. Of course, the drug was not breastfeeding friendly, he admitted nonchalantly at my query. No big deal, my fragile psyche can take it.

Fast forwarding through another week with no progress, I returned to the medical professional and asked for a referral to an ophthalmologist in town. I soon found myself sitting in a waiting room with a friendly, geriatric assembly as I awaited my visit. This Christmas Eve, atopic conjunctivitis and epiphora excess gave way to nasal-lacrimal duct obstruction that was only treatable by a four-inch-long needle probed into the corner of my tearing eye.

“You’ll need to have surgery to correct this,” said the doctor, as if I would consider a hole drilled in the side of my nose four weeks postpartum an option. “The infection was probably acquired in the hospital and now, it’s done permanent damage.”

I slumped out of the office, rang my husband on my cell phone, and considered ramming my beloved and paid-off forest green Saturn into a 50-foot sand pine on the way to my in-laws’ house.

Thankfully, surgery wasn’t necessary, at least, not on my eye. The needle probe did the trick. The tearing stopped, aside from the usual hormonal crying spells I can’t solely take credit for. My eye had been cured.

Not long after the blessed December holiday with our new son, my big toes began to ache. My drug-doling (thankfully) Obstetrician had prescribed some Percocet after delivery, and I gladly swallowed a couple at bedtime to ease the pain. Socks hurt. Shoes send me reeling. So, I made yet another medical visit – this time, to the across-town podiatrist.

Snip, Snip went the short-nosed clippers. I wrenched my fists and mustered enough courage not to scream out in the presence of my infant son snuggled in the carrier beside me. “Looks like you have ingrown toenails,” he said, showing me the spears removed from my flesh.

“What the hell?” I said, or something equally unrefined. “I’ve never had these before – what gives?”

“Most likely, since being pregnant and losing the weight, your gait has changed, and that’s changed the way your body puts pressure on your feet,” said the friendly doc. “They may not recur. Keep an eye on them and make another appointment with us if you find yourself uncomfortable again.”

Well, that didn’t take long. After having slivers of nail permanently removed from both victimized toes, I limped out of the office on a Friday morning in flip-flops and disbelief. I found myself thankful for nail polish that could effectively hide my hideous digits from this day forward.

In the span of a typical maternity leave, I had seen doctors for dacryocystitis (that faithfully tearing duct), onychocryptosis (those silly nail spears), and even had to ask a friend to purcha

se me a hemorrhoid pillow so I could sit on a cushioned sofa when we got home from the hospital.

Get pregnant, and 10 months later, swallow your pride and expect the unexpected: that’s what it’s sometimes about. It may not be glamorous, but it’s part of my real story nonetheless.

What’s yours?