A couple months ago, I got my eyes examined by a new optometrist. I was pleasantly surprised to find a doctor that listened to everything I had to say about my eyesight. He asked all right questions and gave me reassuring answers to the concerns that I had. Well…they were all reassuring until we discussed why I was having trouble seeing things up close.
The doctor was very tactful, but he basically told me that my eyesight was changing because I was getting older. Great. I’d been able to focus on anything as close as half-an-inch away from my nose for my entire life, and then all of a sudden I needed reading glasses.
He must have noticed the chagrined look on my face because he suggested an alternative to what I thought of as “granny glasses.” He could order the usual lens to correct the myopic vision for one eye. Then he could order a lens to correct the hyperopic vision for my other eye. All I had to do was look out of whichever eye I needed at the time. I had to think about that for a minute or two. (I also had to ask him what hyperopic meant. I’d never been farsighted before so I had no idea. Just in case you’ve never been nearsighted, that’s what myopic means. I’ve known that one since grade school.)
I told my new optometrist that I wasn’t so sure that was a good idea. I kept visualizing myself driving down the road and getting something in my eye. I worried that it would be so painful that I wouldn’t be able to keep my eye open. Then I wouldn’t be able to see the road with the way the other eye had been corrected. I explained that not being able to see while driving could end badly.
I’m pretty sure the doctor rolled his eyes as he gently asked me how often that happened. I answered that I could only think of one time…when I was about eighteen. Obviously it had made a huge impact on me. I simply couldn’t take the risk of that happening again.
Getting used to carting a pair of “readers” along with me wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. It didn’t take long for the self-consciousness of pulling them out to read small print to wear off. Still, a part of me daydreamed about having not having to use them. I wondered if the two very different lens for my eyes would actually be a good idea after all.
That was until I was driving home late this evening. Something landed in my eye (I’m pretty sure it was a skyscraper) and I couldn’t keep it open for the life of me. In fact, it was also a struggle to keep the other eye open. It seemed to want to close in sympathy.
Somehow I managed to arrive home without crashing myself into a ditch. As I examined my poor eye in the mirror, I took a good look at my mascara and tear streaked face. I couldn’t help but congratulate myself for having the foresight to trust myself.
I can hardly wait until my next eye exam. I’ve got a few things to talk to that optometrist about.
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