It was a sunny Thursday afternoon and Dr. Douglas Henry was looking deeply into my eyes.

So deeply, in fact, that he could see the lightning-storm array of blood vessels at the very back of my eyeballs.

“Looks like you have a little freckle back there,” he said.

A freckle on the back of my eyeball — now there’s a piece of information I could have gone my whole life without knowing. Has the back of my eyeball been spending too much time in the sun, doc?

Dr. Henry didn’t just pore over the alien landscape of my peepers, he took pictures. Whatever is going on in this place so close to the pink mountain of my brain, the good doctor has it on record — and now I have to fret over whether lurid pictures of my eyeball might someday appear on the internet, utterly dashing my political ambitions.

It’s possible I’m overthinking things.

A trip to the eye doctor is all in the name of good eye health, of course, but it freaks me out. I don’t want to get too literal about the eyes being windows to the soul and such, but allowing someone to peer so deeply into that intimate place is way more unnerving than allowing them to peer into your pants.

“You can’t see my thoughts in there, can you?” I asked the doctor when he first started aiming his Clockwork Orange gizmo into my eyes.

Dr. Henry just chuckled.

As doctors go, Henry is about as good as you get. He’s funny and friendly and he explains every step of his procedures in a way that’s both informative and interesting.

Ask him about the guy who reported worm-shaped squiggles in his vision. Funny story.

You get the feeling that this doctor is utterly fascinated by his chosen field of study and earnestly interested in keeping your eyes healthy. It’s comforting.

But, it’s the eyes, man — an area far more vital and sensitive than any bodily region to the south. As the good doctor was peeking into my eyeballs/soul, I worried that he would suddenly draw an alarmed breath and mutter, “Uh-oh,” or, “Yikes,” or possibly, “Well, I’ve never seen THIS before.”

I wouldn’t have those concerns if he were using his sci-fi equipment to peer at my knees, shoulders or back. Who cares what’s going on with those parts of the body? I’ll live with a tattered rotator cuff or torn meniscus (I had to look that up), but if the doctor were to find dire issues with the organs I use to navigate through the world’s treacherous landscape? That’s life-changing, bruh. There’s the potential for real misery there.

But of course, none of that happened. My eyes are still in good shape, in spite of the creepy freckle tickling the face of my brain.

Dr. Henry used his high-tech gadgetry to blow puffs of air at my corneas, to dilate my pupils to cartoon cat proportions and to take pictures of my inner eyescape, a part of my own biology I truly never expected to see.

Part of being an adult, I’m told, is submitting to physical examinations of all types so that we may lead long and healthy lives. I’m grateful that medical technology has advanced so far, truly.

But those pictures, they trouble me. Exactly what did Dr. Henry see in there that he didn’t reveal? In the nebulous network of nerves and veins between my eyes and brain, was there evidence of that time I scratched my brother’s Uriah Heep album and then blamed it on a neighbor boy?

Did Doc Henry see a pattern of shame, guilt and giddy joy left after that stuff that happened with my pretty cousin? Is all of this going in some secret report to be analyzed and placed on my permanent record?

Not that I care. Just the same, I think from this point forward, I’ll stick to those types of doctors who only peek into your pants instead of your head. It’s just safer that way.

Mark LaFlamme is a Sun Journal staff writer whose steely gaze betrays no hidden freckle. Email him at mlaflamme@sunjournal.com.