Forty and Four-Eyed

In one month, I will celebrate my fortieth birthday.  I don’t expect a big party to take place, but should it happen, I expect to be able to see it.  Up until yesterday, I haven’t questioned the quality of my eyesight to a large degree.  My prescriptions for glasses and contact lenses have not changed much at all over the last ten years.  In fact, my vision had actually improved, a neat little trick that can happen to fool you while you’re in your thirties.  Now I know why.

My oldest son came to me about a month ago, complaining of trouble seeing the chalkboard at school.  I was due for an eye exam, so I scheduled us both for appointments on the same day.  He felt a bit apprehensive about the possibility of needing eyewear, but I assured him he would not achieve nerd status. 

     “But, Mom, you wear glasses,” came his reply.  I shot him a look and told him to go find some broccoli to eat.

I went in first to see the doctor, after explaining to my son that my appointments tend to be brief and he wouldn’t have to wait long for his turn.  I knew something was up when the assistant led me to a different room than usual and instructed me to remove my contacts.  I complied, then asked for a dog to lead me back to the exam room.  I felt my way back through the waiting room, past where my son sat, flipping through an issue of Field and Stream.  I tried to appear sighted as I walked by him.

The friendly assistant first asked me about any prescription drugs I may be taking.  I rattled off my list and politely waited while she searched for a second sheet of paper.  Then she hit me with the dreaded eye pressure test.  Who doesn’t enjoy receiving a sudden blast of gale-force wind in each eyeball? 

I had to perform, and be graded on, several stupid human tricks before my doctor arrived.  I believed I had hit the mark on each task until I was asked to read the bottom line of letters projected on the wall across from my chair.  Oh boy.  Well, I had just put my contact lenses back in, so maybe I needed to acclimate.  I took a moment, made a show of rapid blinking, coughing, and I think I even squeezed out a tear for effect.  Still nothing.  I could not have read those two bottom lines if Charlie Sheen had been standing there offering me a ball of crack and my own live-in male porn star.

Maybe I’m in denial.  I hadn’t noticed any recent changes in my eyesight.  I hadn’t run over any dogs or mailboxes lately.  Maybe the assistant made the projection of the chart too small.  Yeah, that was it.  I waited for the doctor.

After a minute of adjusting a variety of lenses before my eyes, the doctor made a few notes on my chart and prepared to send me on my way, but not before making a statement that nearly cost him his life. 

     “We’ll be looking at bifocals soon,” left his mouth.  Yeah, and he'll be looking at a coffin soon.  I took a swing at him, but perception is his business and he dodged me in time.

My son went in alone when his turn came.  I had been banished to the waiting room for bad behavior.  When my son returned, the doctor accompanied him.  I approached with caution.

     “Well, he has your eyes,” the doctor said.  I blushed.

     “Thank you,” I said.  “People are always –“

     “No, he’s farsighted.  He needs glasses.”

Oh.  Didn’t see that one coming.