Air Guard Memoirs of An Old Sailor

Because I don’t really ever do anything the conventional way.


Last Sunday, June 25 marked the 20th anniversary that I enlisted into the Navy to become a Navy Aircrewman aboard P-3s. Today, 20 years and 5 days later, I reenlisted into the Air National Guard with plans of becoming a military flight attendant aboard C-40s. Because, well, it's flying.


And so, because I already have many new stories to this part 2, I will reopen this blog with a new spin on things.  Re-joining the military (Air National Guard) as a wife, mom, and old Navy sailor.

And the Story Continues Here...

As my memoir has officially been released in paper/hardcover and e-books, I will wrap up this blog with a link to the book behind the blog as well as pictures from the release party.  I cannot thank everyone enough for all of the great support.  Get your copy of the story here: 

 http://amzn.com/1943226083

     I grew up in Deer River, MN - a one-stoplight town of 903 people. Two weeks after I graduated high school way back in the old days (1997) when everything was in black and white, I enlisted in the Navy in a combat aircrew position that had just been opened up to women. At first we were mistaken by tiny hairless men. Quite a few people told me I was crazy and I would be back home before I knew it. Some of the old WWII veterans patted my shoulder, and nodded, wishing me luck. My dad, fearing my safety, begged me not to go. Honestly, I had no idea what I was getting myself into - which probably was best that way. I just knew I didn’t want to fail.

     Spoiler alert - I didn’t go off and become a war hero. I didn’t save the world. I didn’t win the Noble Peace Prize or even receive the perfect attendance award (I was runner-up); however, I did serve my country, met some lifelong friends, flew over 1300 hours in a war-fighting machine, kicked some submarine ass, and learned a few lessons (the hard way). This book is a compilation of short stories and those lessons learned.

     If you are looking for Steinbeck or Dickens, you probably should put this book back on the shelf and keep looking. However, if you are looking for random entertaining stories that begin with conjunctions, contain cheesy metaphors, and improper sentence structure- well this, my friend, may be the book for you. You may laugh. You may cry. You may want to dance on a barstool next time the opportunity arises. I’m not a writer, I’m a story teller. And this is my story.

I will continue keep my site updated at www.juliamaki.com and will be available to answer questions/comments to the best of my abilities here:  capturingthestory@gmail.com

I hope it inspires, informs, and entertains you.  Always remember- there isn't anything you cannot do!  Dreams come true every day.  Who's not to say today is YOUR day?!

I have the most amazing friends!

My Mom

With Anna, my BFF

The VP-8 guys

My old SS-1 "Rugged"

With friend and fellow military blogger, Dog Tags And Heels

And don't forget- I have books for the little readers out there. 

No, not this book.

These ones:

All my best. ~J.

The Photo Shoot.

There are three things in life that really bring out my awkward side. 

1.      Silence. I feel the need to fill it. 

2.      Elevator rides- usually because of the silence. 

3.      Having my picture taken.  I was not blessed with the photogenic attribute.  Not even a little.  

 

I write because I love to tell stories and I’m not a good public speaker.  I write because I’m not photogenic.  So it really threw me for a loop when I was “strongly recommend” to provide a picture and bio for my book and the publishing website.  Ugggh. 

 

I begged my sister to help me out, as she is building her photography company.  (Studio 308) We both knew it wasn’t going to be easy.  One does not simply sit for a picture, and not get awkward.  I felt the need to talk back to the camera, hoping it would project a ‘friendlier’ face.  “Hello!  Oh, I would love to have lunch with you!  Chipotle?  How did you know?  I agree, hormone-free range chicken is the way to go!”  Talking to the camera did not end up helping.  In the end, I just ended up with more awkward pictures.

 

You can imagine my relief when the idea for my book cover photo shoot this past Saturday was to be ‘shot’ from behind.  Oh thank god, we don’t have to work with my face.  Anna, my other photographer and best friend was also relieved- as she knows all too well that I am “photo-challenged.” http://annaliseriley.zenfolio.com/

 

So this past Saturday, four of my good friends that I served with in the Navy and I lined up in flight suits at parade rest.  We looked on as if we were gazing out into space at the great unknown- imagining this secret aircraft to be photo-shopped in the future as flying by.  As we stood there, it was silent.  And we were being photographed.  Naturally, I could not just stay silent.

 

“Thank you so much for coming today," I began chatting as Anna clicked on.  "I really appreciate your help on an early Saturday morning.  So how’s everything?  How are the kids?  Any plans for Halloween?  You must be retiring soon!  What are your plans after retirement?  I can’t believe it’s been that long…”  This went on and on- for as long as the photo shoot did.  Then we would move to another place to find better lighting, and the mostly one-way conversation began all over again. 

 

Finally, when it was all done, I believe everyone breathed a collective sigh of relief.  It was over.  We got the shot.  And I could finally stop talking. 

 

“Happy Halloween!!”  I called out and waved as the grown men drove away.  Yes, I’m so awkward.  But in the end, thanks to an amazing photographer, we nailed the shot.  So awkward or not, my cover for my novel is done!  Whoo-hoo!  We are so close to the final printing phase I can taste it.  And I could not be more excited and/or in disbelief that this moment is so near. 

 

I cannot release the book cover just yet, as it is not quite complete.  However I'll post my not-as-awkward photo that we ended up using for the bio.  (found at https://tactical16.com/)  I labeled it in the "Not Horrible" folder.  And thank you Liz and Anna for putting up with me always.

 

 

Photo Credits Studio 308
https://www.facebook.com/studio308photo/?fref=ts

 

The Mistake.

Just in case anyone hadn't noticed, I took a "leave of absence" the past year.  During this time, I backpacked across Europe, staying with friendly strangers and eating local cuisine.  Only kidding. I spent any spare moment away I had from 'day job' and raising a crazy family to work on my memoir. 

I am so excited to announce that it will actually be complete with the publishing process at the beginning of the New Year- 2016!  That is when you will really get a taste of "What They Don't Teach You in Deer River."  Occasionally, I throw out a few stories from the book on my blog.  Below is one of my favorites- -now, that is.  At the time, not so much.  This was when I was 19, and brand-spanking new to the squadron.  Oh and just to warn you- there is naughty language involved.  But rare is a Navy story told without a few colorful words...

********

Not too long after I arrived in Iceland, we were scheduled for a long ten-hour burner (flight).  After my pre-flight was complete, I realized that I didn’t have much to snack on for the long flight that was ahead of me.  After checking with the crew how much time we had left, I gaily sauntered to the gee-dunk (food store) in the cold darkness of pre-dawn light. 

I have a fear of being stuck somewhere for any amount of time without food- so I always overcompensate how much food I have with me at all times.  I not sure why- perhaps I starved to death in a past life, or  perhaps it has something to do with going hungry on a mountain top for a week.  My helmet bag, purse, or anything that I carry always has a pocket or two containing food of some sort.  I hoard food like a squirrel hoards nuts. 

After gathering my treasured food items I had just bought from the gee-dunk, I began my trek across the icy ramp to where our fine mode of transportation lingered.  As I began to approach the plane, I was suddenly blinded by the severe glow that was cast from the taxi-lights above the forward landing gear.  Now, for any experienced operator, this should have been an obvious warning sign not to come any closer and to turn back.  Still, despite the hours upon hours of classroom training about aircraft safety, the thought had not yet crossed my mind.  I had only read the warnings in a book.  It had never been demonstrated to me.  Most likely, I was thinking about my food.  Instead, it was due to this illumination that I did not see the second key warning device of the top and bottom strobe lights flashing, signaling that the RADAR was in use. 

As I began to get closer to the aircraft, I realized the complacency of my actions.  Complacency/stupidity.  Potato/Pa-tatto.  I began to casually back up, hoping like mad that I hadn’t been spotted.  All at once the lights snapped off and the ramp was instantly black.  The door flung open hard and fast.  At the top of the ladder stood Stanley, the RADAR operator (Sensor operator-3), with one hand on his hip, and the other waving his finger toward him.  My head dropped, and I proceeded forward like a dog with his tail between his legs- knowing that this could not possibly be good. 

It was then that he yelled over the auxiliary power unit (APU) the words I feared more than anything.  “Chief wants to talk to you.”  My body was instantly weighted down with dread.  I knew it was all over.  My head was flooded with a million excuses that were up for grabs.  Sadly, I knew none of them would work against Chief.  He would not be bothered with such incompetence.  All I could do now was to beg for mercy.

I climbed the ladder, looking at Stanley with pleading eyes that screamed “Help me!”  He just looked away with the unspoken words that left me to understand that I was on my own.  As I reached the top of the ladder, I slowly turned my head to the right, towards the galley where I knew Chief was.

His face wore no emotion but I could feel in my stomach the penetration of the daggers his black eyes shot through me.  He simply pointed his fingers to the seat across the galley table from him.  Quietly, I obeyed and sat, trying to appear as innocent as possible.  Terror rose through me.  How is it possible that one man could make so many Airmen so terrified?  How is it that I would have rather shot my own foot off than face his wrath or worse yet, disappointment him? Maybe I could play dumb- pretend I just didn’t know.  I thought to myself.  No, that would probably be worse...

He looked up at me and then down at the table, squeezing his fists together, as if he was trying to control himself.  He looked back up and then came the words that I will never forget.  “DO YOU WANT TO FUCKING FRY YOUR OVARIES!?” 

Was this a trick question?  “Um, No?”  I stated, more asking if that was the right answer.  He smiled, which confused me even more.  We sat in silence.  I think he knew I hated silence. 

“You’re goddamn lucky Stanley shut it off before you got to close.”  Oh that was nice of him, I thought, slightly relieved.  I can still have children.

“What is the stand-off on the APS-137 RADAR?”

Okay, this was one of the easiest questions out there.  I learned this in VP-30.  Don’t blow this answer. Was that the big RADAR or the little one?  I took a stab at it.  “Ahh…250 feet?”  I replied.  At least that used to be the answer.  I think.  I wasn’t sure of anything in this moment.  Chief had the ability to do that to me.

He didn’t say anything for what seemed like forever.  I wasn’t sure if that was a good sign or a bad.  “Go finish your preflight,” he said, releasing me.  I turned to go, when he stopped me.  “Hey,” His voice echoed.  I turned back towards him.  “That’s one.”  He stated simply, and held up his index finger. 

Crap.  One strike already!  I just got on this crew, and I only had one more freebie to go.  Somehow I knew I was going to need it.

Crime and Punishment in the 21st Century

(CC's actual paper)



My youngest daughter came home last night and declared she had to write ‘I will not write bad words on the bus window’ five times.  My stomach sunk as I took a deep breath, and asked her what she wrote- cringing at what I might hear.

“Poopy.”

“Poopy?  You wrote ‘poopy’ on the bus window?”  Relief instantly flooded through me and I actually held back a chuckle.  Okay.  I could handle poopy.  However I must not let on my relief.

“CC you know better than to write words like poopy.  I expect better out of you.” And l sent her to bed without dinner.  Just kidding.  I’m not THAT mean.  Instead I made her scrub out the garbage disposal until 2 a.m.

The thing is, I’m pretty sure I wrote much, much worse on the bus window.  I found myself trying to recall if I was just never caught, or my old Deer River bus driver, Dale, just didn’t really care too much if I wrote ‘poopy’ on the bus window.  He had better things to worry about.  Or maybe he was just a realist.

I recall the day I was in kindergarten and sitting in the first seat.  A gross, mean first-grade boy (kid terminology) was sitting next to me going on and on with his annoying self.  Finally my blood was boiling and I couldn’t take it any longer.  I wound up like they did in the movies and with full forced punched him in his face.  I remember being instantly shocked because it made a ‘smacking’ sound- just like it did in the movies.  Yes, that was my first thought.  Did anyone else hear how cool that sounded?  My second was, Holy poopy.  What did I just do?

“Julia!  What did you do that for!?!” Dale yelled at me from the driver seat.  I could see just his eyes in the mirror- staring at me, waiting for an answer.  Mr. Mean Boy just stood there in shock with his hand on his puffy cheek.

“He was being mean to me,” I replied in a very tiny girl voice.  It was the truth.  He was being poopy and I just couldn’t handle it any longer.  So I stood up for myself.  I did something that I’m sure would be immediate school suspension for violence these days- the age in which a child is suspended for chewing a poptart into the shape of a gun.  (Sad, but true story:  http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/boy-suspended-gun-shaped-pop-tart-lifetime-nra-membership-article-1.1359918) 

Back in 1984, Dale saw it for what it was: A victorious moment for a kindergarten girl who just learned that she didn’t have to stand there and take a bunch of poop from a first grade boy.  Violent?  Perhaps.  But a pretty fabulous lesson if you ask me.  Thank you Dale, for teaching me to always stand up to poop-head people.  A lesson that later followed me around in life as I earned the call-sign “Knuckles” in the military.  But that’s another story.

And Mr. Mean Pants never bothered me again. 

Now, if only I knew what to do about my poopy-mouthed little daughter...

What the #%&! is a terrapin?

My not-so-native-Marylander-moment.

“Now remember class, because of the snow days this year, we didn’t get as far into our science chapter about the terrapins as far as we had planned.  So today when we go on our field trip, we are really going to learn about the lifecycle of the terrapin and their impact on our local environment,” the young, hip third grade teacher declared as we all anxiously awaited to bus up for our field trip to the Flag Ponds Nature Park.

My son sat in the desk in front of me, randomly twisting some wire he randomly pulled out of his pocket.  He still was excited that I was chaperoning and I knew my days of doing so for him were numbered.  Soon I would no longer be ‘cool’ enough.  Funny boy.  It’s like he doesn’t realize how cool I really am.

Although I was quite cool, I was from Deer River.  And in Deer River, we did not have terrapins.  Honestly, I had no idea what the #%&! a terrapin was.  But I was going to find out today.  And so of course, I would not let on that I did not know.  Not even to Joey.

 

******

The scenery at the beach was beautiful- right out of a magazine.  The Chesapeake Bay was in all of its glory on that fine April morning.  The sun sparkled down upon the waves and the breeze blew a chilled freshness over the sand.  The shorelines were long and slender with a path of darkness stained by the outgoing tide. 

We (the chaperones) were all assigned a station.  Mr. Fred (a park volunteer) went through our instructions explicitly as we were to check the Bay’s salinity, measure the beach for areas conducive for laying eggs, and stream a net through the water for the fun of watching the children wear waders and fall down in the water.  (I’m sure that was the reason)  And of course, they loved it!  We all did.   What a glorious way to spend the morning- even if we had to discipline the 3^rd grade boys to leave the large chunks of driftwood on the ground.  Okay, I guess it was mostly just Joey I was disciplining (no surprise there). 

The children were learning about their native environment- how to respect it and take care of it.  And just as I had once learned about respectful logging, making maple syrup, canoes from birch trees, wolves, bears, and freshwater lakes, my children were learning about the Chesapeake Bay and its riches.  They were taught about the tradition of oyster drudging, preserving the beaches and pines, the crabs and…terrapins.  And yes, I still could not figure out what the #@$# a terrapin was.

The park volunteer began instructing the children- adding together the results of our day’s discoveries.   And that’s when she made the mistake that would cost her.  It wasn’t her fault.  Someone should have warned her.  She couldn’t have known what would happen when she used the ‘algorithm’ method of math.  But when she carried that number into the tens place- it was too late.  She damn near was stoned on the spot by those innocent looking kids.  All of the third graders did common core math now.  It was crazy math that changed everything about math as we knew it.  I knew then and there I wouldn’t be raising any more waves today by asking silly questions.

So I began my own logic:  deductive reasoning.

I knew Maryland had some amazing stingrays and skates that were really a neat part of the environment but then when they spoke of laying eggs on the beach, I determined that it could not, in fact, be a stingray.  Perhaps a crab?

Then they spoke about the Bycatch Reduction Device (BRD) on crab pots- how the crabs would swim into them, but the terrapins could swim out.  So nope, it was not a crab.

Eventually the buses came and went.  School ended and everyone went home.  Had dinner.  Kids did their homework.  It wasn’t until I was out sipping a beautiful well-earned glass of wine (it was just that kind of day) out on the porch, telling my dear friend about the day when it dawned on me.  I still didn’t know.

It was in that moment that I turned to her, looked her square in the eye, and asked with the utmost of importance, “Please, can you tell me what the #$%@ a terrapin is?!?”

“A turtle, Julia.  It’s a turtle.”

Awkward Moments- Help requested.

So, elevators.
 
Recently, my company moved from the second floor onto the fourth in the building.  It was in that moment I realized just how out of shape I really was.  There is a substantial difference from walking two flights of stairs up to four flights that somehow makes one realize what a complete couch potato they really are.  I decided to swear off carbs then and there.

(I later had spaghetti and garlic bread for dinner that night and realized just how absurd and unnatural it would be it swear off carbs.)

And though the journey to the fourth floor presents its challenges, as I begin to train for the stairs there is a challenge that sits even higher on this scale:  the elevator.

One would think it a simple solution.  Take the elevator, man! 

And one would think that would be a simple solution for a simple person.  However, there is just this one problem...  I have a little thing called elevator social anxiety.  Oh yes, it's a thing.  Only- it's not a thing.  I even looked it up.  For some reason according to The Phobia List (http://phobialist.com/) there is a fear of mirrors, a fear of chopsticks, a fear of vegetables, a fear of wooden objects, and even a fear of the French culture, however there is not a fear of Elevators.  The closest they come is claustrophobia (fear of small spaces) or cleithrophobia (fear of being trapped).

http://phobias.about.com/od/phobiasatoh/f/What-Is-The-Fear-Of-Elevators.htm

So perhaps it's not so much the elevator as the social anxiety- which my friend, IS a real thing.
Though I consider myself quite outgoing and always eager to meet a new face, there is something extremely inhibiting about being in an elevator with a complete stranger.  It brings me to an all new level of awkward. 

If you recall, I cannot  CANNOT stand silence.  I find it my greatest obstacle in life to fill every silence I know of with noise and/or conversation.  So when I am alone in an elevator with someone my brain is going somewhat in overdrive.  It may sound something like this:

Say something, man. [I call myself man.  It's short for The Man or Spider Man.  Whatever I'm feeling at the time.]  Just say something.  Anything.  Oh wow.  There has been silence for even longer. You really should say something.

Me:  Hi.

Stranger:  Hi

Me:  Ugh.  I sound so ridiculous.  Maybe I could talk about the weather.
So how about that weather?

Stranger:  Um, yeah.  Pretty cold.

Me:  Right?!?  Uh, I HATE weather.  [Well, that was a way to end the conversation.  Quick, think of something new.  Food?  It's almost lunchtime!  No, they realize that.  Did I brush my teeth?  Try not to breathe too hard.  My sicknesses and ailments?  No, too personal and annoying.  Animals?  Too random.  Sports?  Oh yes, sports!  
How about football, right?

Stranger:  Excuse me? 

Me:  You know, how about football?

Stranger:  Er, football was good...  Last season.

[Note to self- pay attention to what sport is current.]

[We stand in silence again as the floors SLOWLY tick by... 2... 3....]  It's been quiet for so long now.  It's making it even weirder.  I must say something!
Me:  So do you come here often?
Really?  Ugh.

Stranger: Well, I do work here. 

[awkward silence and finally the doors open]

Stranger:  I have to go now, bye!

Me:  Bye!  Have a great day!!  Ugh...

Really, it's my own personal disaster.  As soon as I see someone headed for the elevator I will veer off into the opposite direction and head for the stairs.  It's all I can do.

I'd like to tell you that this has only happened to me once.  Or twice even.  But the horrible truth is that it is me EVERY TIME I am in an elevator.

So please, help!  I am taking a general consensus.  What do you do in an elevator?  Are elevators awkward for anyone else?  Do you make small talk?  What do you say?  Can anyone recommend some good one-liners?  Or should I just stay silent and remain awkward internally?

Be a Daffodil.

Photo Credits: Forest Wander

Spring is in the air!  Well, at least I’d like to believe it is- that is- if you can look past the snow on the ground.  Yes, here in Maryland we had a beautiful 70-degree day on Saturday and then fell into a downward evil weather spiral to an ugly 28 degrees and snow on Monday.  Wha?

I’d like to say everyone is accepting this fine, with grace and dignity, but that would be a lie. People are starting to get crazy.  And not just your typical crazy (like my sister), but an edgy, snappy, YES I WILL WEAR FLIP FLOPS IN SNOW IF I WANT crazy.  They are booking spontaneous, unplanned weekend trips to Florida.  They are wearing tank tops under turtlenecks.  It is as though if we wear them, summer will come.  We keep convincing ourselves- making empty promises of suntan lotions and beach bags- as the tips of our toes become frostbitten in the snow.  Oh we are going to make this 40-degree day a TSHIRT day- because if we believe it- it will be TRUE!

Even the plants are going crazy.  Above is a picture of them all snug inside at a flat 72 degrees.  You would think they would be content, happy and appreciating just how good they have it.  Not these little guys.  They have their little faces pressed so hard up against the sliding glass; they are nearly freezing to the window pane.  As they peer longingly into the great outdoors, thinking the grass is so much greener- though they cannot see far enough to realize it is, in fact, still brown.  Dry and brittle, crumbling to the touch. 

They are foolish little plants. So unaware of their quickened death should they boldly venture into the treacherous weather.  For alas, they are just mere seedlings, but a few weeks old.  They have not the intelligence or the stamina that the fearless daffodils do. 

Daffodils, on the other hand, have their own little internal clock.  They stubbornly think that despite what the thermometer reports, by god it is March and they are damn well going to make their appearance if they please.  BACK OFF.  For no one is as brave or determined as the daffodils.  Bless their crazy little hearts. 

Oh sure, everyone else stealthily keeps a watchful eye on the daffodils.  The primroses, forsythias, and even tulips like to pretend that they were there, broken through the frozen soil the entire time.  Meanwhile, they will not step foot above ground until they see that the daffodils have successfully emerged without sudden death or maiming.

It is true, the daffodils are crazy.  I call them this every time I see them.  On the sides of the roads.  In vases.  However, I admire their just-go-for-it attitude.  They throw caution to the wind and are intimidated by no one or nothing.  They are born leaders.  They are assertive and fearless.  They truly believe that you only live once.  Or for a few weeks every year at least- so they just don’t have time to waste and ponder.  They make a plan and take action. 

I cannot help but think that we all would be a little better off to think like a daffodil some of the time.  This spring, I challenge you to be a daffodil.  Crazy but fearless. Time is not promised.  Take action. 

What would you do if failure was not an option?

Doctor Crazy

Photo courtesy of Colourbox

This one time, I got gross eye.  Not pink eye or goopy eye.   It was just gross eye.  It was leaky all the time and itched like a sailor leaving Thailand.  Yeah, you know the kind of itch I’m talking about.  It’s the kind that makes grown conscious adults permanently maim and attempt to tear off their skin in any attempt to relieve the atrocious sensation.   I spent most of the day trying to scratch this godforsaken irritation on the teensy part of my lower eyelid with my big monkey thumbs, all the while, attempting to not disturb my make-up.  By the end of the day I looked like I had been sucker punched in the left eye, meanwhile my right was big, bushy and beautiful.  Well, it looked normal anyway.

So the next morning, I woke with my left eye crusted together with spittles of nastiness stained on my pillow.  My eye was literally bonded to my pillow.  And so, I did the one thing I hate doing more than anything. 

I showered (I hate showering- I like the results- just hate that I have to do it everyday) and then called to make an apt to see a doctor.  Any doctor.  I could not wait any longer.  My compulsiveness will be the death of me someday, I just know it. 

Scene from Someday: 

Me:  Let’s jump off this cliff NOW!

Loving Friend:  No, I’m not sure that’s a good idea.  Maybe we should think about it.

Me:  There’s no time for thinking.  We are being chased by flesh-eating meerkats!!  We must jump NOW!  There is no other way!!

[jump]

Loving Friend:   Wait!!!!  There may be another way……

And back to Present Day: 

I go to my apt. 

Doctor enters room.

Doctor examines my eye.

Doctor:  Well, Julia, it seems you have an allergy in your eye.

Me:  An allergy?  Just in one eye?  Like one eye is super-weirdly sensitive and the other is not?  Is that even possible?

Doctor:  Oh, it’s very possible.  I’ll just prescribe you some antihistamine eye drops…

Me:  Ah… [my jaw drops, crickets chirp… for awhile…]

Doctor:  Is everything okay?

Me:  Well, it’s just that… I kind of have this tiny fear of eye drops.  But it’s okay.  I can do it if I have to.  Actually, my husband helps me.  [God love him]

Doctor:  What?!  That’s absurd!  We’re going to get you over this fear right now!

Me:  Ah…  What?  No, no.  It’s okay, really.  I’ll do it when I get home.

Doctor:  Oh no!  You can’t just depend on him to help you.  What if he's not home?  You need to learn how to do this.  You’re going to do this.  Right now!

Me:  Oh, no-  I can do it.  Really.  I just...  [Good lord, what is this woman going to do!?]  I’m just a little nervous…

Doctor:  Sit down.  No, just sit.

Me:  Oh God, this doctor is seriously crazy!  Where is a nurse?  Anybody?

Doctor Crazy grabs a Texas-size bottle of eye solution, then turns and begins coming towards me with the bottle in her hand.  I take a step back and hit the examining table.  I’m trapped. 

Doctor Crazy: Have a seat on the table.  Now you’re going to do it like this.  [She takes the bottle eye torture, thrashes her head back, and begins shooting the solution into her eyes- as if it is the most normal thing to do in front of her patients.  I cling to the table, cringing, looking for an out of some sort as artificial tears begin pouring down her face.  I must be on Candid Camera.  That’s the only possible explanation].

Now, you try it.  [she thrashes the bottle into my hand]

Me:   Um, [I try to stall…] shouldn’t I have a mirror or something?

Doctor Crazy:  No!!  You can’t look in a mirror!  You must look up at the ceiling.  Now try it!

Me:  Why is this happening to me??  [I tilt my head back and hold the evil solution over my face.  My hands are shaking and my eyes begin blinking uncontrollably.]

Doctor Crazy:  Now stop that blinking!  Tilt your head back more!  Here, give me that!

What happened next, I could not make up if I tried.

[Doctor Crazy snatches the bottle from my hand and literally straddles over me on the examining table.  Normally this alone would be completely awkward; however, my fears were overshadowing the obvious strangeness of the moment.]

Me:  Wait!!!

Doctor Crazy:  Hold on, you’re fine.  Look up.  Open your eyes!!

[She begins squirting artificial tears all over my eye.  I close it as it stings.  She treats the other eye that is not irritated.  She just continues to squeeze the bottle.  The solution is now pouring down my face and running down my V-neck shirt.  I am covered in solution to my undergarments before she finally lets up and decides enough is enough.  And still, very little has actually entered my infected eye at this point.

Doctor Crazy:  Well, I guess that didn’t quite get it in there, but you get the point, right?  And now, you’re not afraid anymore, right?

I nodded, dabbing my eyes, face, and chest with tissue.  I am soaking wet.  I grabbed my purse and ran for the door before she could even begin to think of doing a round two.

As I sat in my car in the parking lot and locked my doors.  I glanced back at the office door, fearing I may see this crazy woman running towards me with the bottle in her hand.  My hands trembled. 

What in God’s name had just happened in there?  How did a simple gross eye turn into Dr. Crazy taking it upon herself to cure me of my fears?  Instead, they had only been made ten times worse.  And so it remains:  I still hate taking showers and going to the doctor’s office.  Though I will continue to shower as a public courtesy- I will never go to the doctor again unless something is clearly broken and protruding through my skin or I am bleeding enough to need a transfusion.