Duncan Soup – A Dish of Duncan Discourse

Friday was one of the most painful days of my life.  It was supposed to be a day of celebration (Ella’s birthday), but descended into hell when my eyes exploded in spontaneous combustion.

I was out of town most of the week and returned Thursday evening.  That night, instead of rummaging through my suitcase to find my contact cleaner and case (and risk waking the kids), I used a spare set that I had in the cabinet.  I lifted contact 1, then contact 2, rinsed, stored and crawled into bed; No problem.

The issue started the next day around lunch when my eyes began to itch.  I assumed that my allergies were bothering me (Lyon is infamous for its pollen levels) and went to remove my contacts.  When I did:

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

My eyes burst into flames.  I rinsed with a saline solution, which provided a short-term solution, but the pain returned with greater intensity.  It was as if someone was slowly pouring the Justin Bieber discology into my eyes:  a pulsating ache that brought more agony as the rhythm increased.

The sting’s tempo fluctuated throughout the afternoon, but stepped into a faster cadence for the evening.  Enough was enough.   Half blind and full of pain, my wife guided me to the local pharmacy.  The pharmacists huddled together after giving me the once-over; “You need to go to the emergency room” was their professional consensus.

Now I am a male and live in a large metropolitan area.  This means 1) I do not like to go to the doctor, let alone the emergency room 2) Especially an emergency room that serves a million-plus population on a Friday night.  But pain won over pride.

After leaving the kids at the neighbors, I was towed to the closest hospital by my wife.  We went to the waiting area after completing the necessary paperwork and sat.  At least Anne-Laure sat.  I couldn’t; being stationary hurt more than walking in circles.  I would stop, bend over in pain and shout French & English expletives every three minutes.   At this point, my pupils had turned from stoner-red to Barney-purple.  The swelling increased, too, as my eyes altered colors like a demented game of Twister.

By the time I was called by the doctor an hour later, my face resembled what Rocky would look like if pistol-whipped by his pimp.  A cute doctor in blue scrubs sat me down at the eye-examine machine (at least I think she was cute.  All I saw was a blurry Smurf).  Several scans later, she determined that I had a toxic reaction to something in my spare contact kit.  She applied the necessary treatment, wrote me a prescription and sent me on my way.

I was tugged back to our apartment, before Anne-Laure ran to the 24-hour pharmacy.  The next 45 minutes were sheer hell as eyes my erupted in the most pain that I had all day.  My face actually became numb it was so intense.  I laid on the floor in the fetal and wished for someone to shoot me.

Anne-Laure finally returned with the kids and the medication.  After applying the treatment, the agony subsided enough where I could actually sleep.  Hallelujah.

I woke up on Saturday to a lot less pain and puffiness.  There was still a hint of purple, but I could see well enough to move around.  I threw away all questionable contact solutions and cases, before walking to the market to buy my wife a much-deserved bouquet of flowers.

Whether friend or foe, I wouldn’t wish this experience on anyone.  Nothing can compare to the living inferno of having your eyes on fire.