For the final few months of last year and the beginning of 2014 I thought I was going blind.
I have always been short-sighted. I have no memories of a time when I didn't need glasses. and, because of the severity of my myopia, my family optician prescribed my first contact lenses when I was eleven years old. I have worn lenses continually since. For nearly thirty years my daily routine has barely changed: get out of bed, put in my lenses, clean my teeth, and do these in reverse at the end of the day. Within hours of both my daughters being born, I was wearing my lenses and the only times I would have been seen in public wearing spectacles was on a long haul flight.
Without lenses, I can't see the optician's wall chart, let alone see the letters written on it. Without lenses, I can't see my feet in the shower, I can't see people's faces when I talk with them, I can't count my fingers with my hand outstretched. But, because of the time and place I live within, I have never had a real lived sense of being short-sighted. I have always had access to contact lenses or glasses. I have always been able to see. I have always been lucky.
Everything changed in September 2013. I visited a new optician in a shiny shop in Boston's financial district. He was a hairy little squirrel of a man, reminiscent of Woody Allen and almost Dickensian in his obsequiousness and hand-rubbing. I trusted his eccentricities were illustrative of his competence and made the error of expressing my frustration that I could not fully relax while sea-kayaking in case sea-spray knocked out my lenses. It was a foolish concern and has sparked a series of events which make me grateful now to be able to see my computer screen as I sit here in thick-lensed glasses typing this blog.
The optician, let's call him Doctor Uriah Heep, was excitable, as squirrels often are. Using handfuls of long words, he showed me his latest technologies and enthused about a new contact lens designed for cases like mine. He cited statistics and research. In real terms, he told me, these new lenses wouldn't wash out if a wave hit my face or I found myself underwater. I would be able to see in the dark. And, he said rubbing his palms together, surely I deserved a bespoke pair of lenses after all the years I had endured a one-size-fits-all technology.
I am naturally an optimist. I believe the best in people. I give generously to pan-handlers and street musicians, on the off-chance that the money might be well spent. I bear no ill-will to the persons who twice burgled our home in London or the air crew member who stole all my jewelry when we flew to America. After my fifteenth visit to Dr. Heep's optical practice, I realized Dr. Heep had taken my 'glass-half-full' approach to life and turned it into something very dark indeed. It is possible that if I saw Dr. Heep on a dark night - unlikely, I grant, now that I no longer have any kind of night vision - I would hit the gas pedal rather than the brake. On that final visit, I sat in his black leather optician's chair and waited for him to make the magical adjustment which would allow me to read the letters on the board. The tears streaming down my face probably didn't help me focus, but there was no denying that whatever he did, I couldn't see the letters. I saw him clearly enough, however, and he shrugged.
To be technical for a moment, part of my short-sightedness is caused by an astigmatism - a bulging at the front of the eye. The front of the eye is covered by the cornea, and my cornea is shaped like an American football. (It's only writing this now, that I finally understand why both Dr. Heep and the subsequent Dr. Pugh, kept making comparisons with footballs. All this time, I have wondered why they have been referring to a non-symmetrical bulge as a football, but we're in America now and, Toto, it sure ain't soccer).
If Dr. Heep had had more sense he might have anticipated the extent to which my cornea has been moulded by rigid plastic lenses for more than 12 hours a day for nearly 30 years. Taking away the rigid plastic lenses, therefore, resulted in fairly significant changes in the shape of my cornea. Which meant my focusing power could shift significantly during the course of the day. Which meant my brain would struggle to process the distorted data it received from my troubled eyes. Which meant some days I wouldn't be able to see, even with glasses, and other days I would have double vision. If Dr. Heep had had an ounce of compassion in his little rodent body, he might have mentioned to me that, for the next few months at least - if I was lucky - my eyesight would be wrecked. If he had had the honesty and integrity which make the best of us human, he might have mentioned it was possible I might never be able to see properly again.
He didn't, of course. He had a few attempts at trying to fit me with lenses through which I could see. He failed. He shrugged.
Without good sight the world becomes a very different place. I can't use our local subway because,when I step onto the escalator I feel as though I am about to fall: my eyes don't read enough information for me to have a sense of depth. I can't use the computer for more than an hour at a time because I lose my focus and can no longer see the screen. I can't drive at night because my eyes are unable to decipher what they see outside of the halo of oncoming headlights. Over Christmas, the deterioration in my vision coincided with a trip to England to see family and friends. By late afternoon each day. I had double-vision. Ordinarily I would have made jokes about seeing two of my favourite people in the same place, but I was exhausted and spent most of the trip wanting to lie quietly in a darkened room.
When we returned to the US, I bought a new computer which had good voice recognition technologies and a large screen. And I found a new optician. She's plump and middle-aged, a committed lifelong spinster with an enthusiasm for fluffy jumpers and cats. She used to teach science in high school, but prefers ophthalmology to the classroom. We have spent a lot of time together recently and she's told me a lot about her life. The first time we met we both hoped it might be a fleeting encounter: she was relatively unconcerned and I still hoped that Dr. Heep's incompetence might be easily remedied. My new optician, let's call her Dr. Pugh, examined my eyes for an hour and we agreed things were looking good. Just to be on the safe side - and Dr. Pugh is a big believer in living on the safe side - she asked me to return for some minor tests at the end of that day, by which time my eyes had changed radically in both shape and power. Since then, there have been a plethora of consultant appointments, additional tests, and brightly colored charts which map my cornea's gradient and shifting nature. Some days it feels a bit like trying to understand what's happening in Antartica: we all agree there are changes and deteriorations, but there are varied explanations on how we got to this point and what we might do to repair some of the damage. The latest plan involves a new pair of lenses which will gradually mould my cornea back into something an optician might hope to see.
I've been wearing them for a few hours a day and I'm hopeful they might work. When I walk into coffee shops, they don't steam up. I've even done some driving in the dark and it's felt fairly safe. I haven't tried out the subway escalator yet, but I'm gradually starting to look on the bright side again. In all likelihood, it's going to be a fairly slow process, but I appreciate my glasses now in a way I never have before and I value all the things my eyesight allows me to do. It's a good place to start afresh.
