“Just do it.”

Martin: “I don’t have time for this. Do you want me to do it or not?”

Jo: “Yes, I want you to do it!”

Martin: “Well then stop moving around!”

Jo: “I can’t help it. I’m scared.”

Martin: “Just stand still.”

Jo: “I need a moment. I need to prepare myself.”

Martin: “What’s there to prepare for? Just look at the ceiling. And stop moving.”

Jo: “Okay, I’m ready…. well — wait. Not yet. Just wait.”

Martin: “Jo….come on, honey. Let’s just get this done.”

Jo: “Okay, I’m ready. Go.”

Martin: “Jesus Christ, you closed your eyes again!!”

Jo: “Well you get too close with that thing!”

Martin: “This is like dealing with a mental patient!”

And so it goes. Loop this banter into a two-minute feed and this is the scene that plays out morning, evening, and late-night, in an often failed attempt to administer eye drops. After three days, my bout with pink eye is almost history. But’s it’s been a painful road. For Martin.

I try to cooperate. Open my eyes in Betty Boop-style. But inevitably, eyeball preservation kicks in and I duck at the last minute. Or squeeze my lids shut. What can I say? I’ve got issues. I can’t even open my eyes underwater.

Fortunately, these antics are drawing to a close. Either my eyes will clear up. Or Martin will throttle me.