“You’ll need a steroid shot,” my dermatologist told me over the phone. I’d had a recurring dry patch on my eyelid, which had really started to put a hindrance on my eyeshadow blending. “Can you come in on Wednesday?”
“Sure,” I said, grateful for some relief. “I’ve never had a steroid shot before. Is there anything I need to know?”
“No,” she replied. “Just come in, my nurse will administer the shot, and you’ll be on your way. A few short minutes is all.”
That sounded easy enough. It was a temporary solution until I could get my allergy testing scheduled, but I was excited for some reprieve.
“I wonder how they stick a needle in your eyelid?” I asked Bryan later that day. “The skin there is so thin and delicate. Maybe it’s like a tiny Botox needle?” Bryan shrugged.
On Wednesday, I applied my makeup with the steroid shot in mind. Minimal eyeshadow, no eyelashes, light eyeliner. I’d be a good patient and give the nurse a clear view of where he was aiming that needle – while still maintaining my personal style, of course.
By the time I left the house, I was feeling slightly more theatrical. “Well, dear, the next time you see me, I’ll have had my procedure done,” I said to Bryan. “Kiss me for good luck!”
“‘Dear’?” he responded blankly.
“I’ll be out of the office for an hour this afternoon,” I announced proudly to my team at work that morning. “I’m going to my dermatologist for a steroid shot. In my eyelid.” I paused for dramatic effect, like a Munchausen patient.
“Your eyelid?” “Oh my!” “So delicate!” “You’re so brave!” I appreciated their solidarity.
“I’m sure I’ll be fine,” I said, posing like Scarlett in all of my favorite scenes of Gone With The Wind. “Somehow.”
Later that afternoon, I arrived at the doctor’s office for my appointment. “I’m Jillian,” I announced. “I’m here for my… steroid shot.” My theatrics were reaching a pinnacle.
“Nurse So-And-So will be with you in a minute,” the thin woman behind the glass responded, impervious to the scene at hand. Her desk was covered with porcelain dog figurines arranged adorably below a Dog of the Month calendar.
I thanked her, took a seat and waited patiently in a corner of the waiting room for the nurse to call my name. A few short minutes later, it was my time.
“Jillian?” A pudgy nurse called. He looked about my age.
“Yes,” I said, rising dramatically from my chair.
I followed him through the door and into Exam Room 3. “And you’re here about a spot on your eyelid?” he asked, looking at my chart.
“Yes,” I replied. “I understand I need a shot, so I did my best to apply today’s eye makeup accordingly.”
He looked up at me, puzzled. “Ok…?”
“I hope it’s not a problem?” I asked. “That I’m wearing makeup, I mean?”
“No, no,” he said, still furrowing his brow. “Shouldn’t affect a thing.” He turned and grabbed the needle from his tray.
“Ok, this will be quick,” he said. “Turn around, facing away from me, lean slightly forward – hands on the seat there – and pull your pants down so I can see your right buttock.”
“Excuse me?” I asked, confused.
“The right buttock,” he said, looking deep into my eyes.
I flushed. “Oh. Right.” Of course steroid shots go in your rear. I knew that, though I’d obviously forgotten. Humiliated, I pulled down my pants and leaned forward.
When I returned to the office, my coworkers asked about the procedure. “How did it go?” “Did it hurt?” “How did they administer the shot into your eyelid?”
“It was fine,” I replied, still shocked.
“Well, your makeup looks fantastic!” one friend exclaimed. “Can’t even tell you had a shot there.”
“Oh really?” I perked. I smiled graciously. “Oh thank you. I’m so glad you think so.”