visionary

My visit to the eye doctor went as expected. I had to get a new perscription. I got new frames too because I've been wearing circular ones for about six years now. I got rectangular frames that looked and felt real nice even when not fitted, and they were pretty cheap. I also got them hooked up with Transition lenses, Polycarbon lenses and a non-reflective coating (thanks to work, I got it all on the free). I wasn't sure if I liked this doctor. He seemed okay enough, but he was pretty impatient, I think. Granted, I'm about the worst patient you can have in your examination chair. I freak like a feral cat in a carrier cage if you try to poke and prod me. My defense reflexes are pretty sharp, basically because I'm weak and frail and just about anything can kill me; I'm a flincher. Especially if you try to come near my eyes. I warned the doctor of this. He was about to give me drops, and I warned him. I told him that this might be difficult. I don't think he was paying attention. He chuckled it off and said, just tilt your head back. I did. He came at me with those drops, and I freaked. My eyes slammed shut tight and neither of us could pry them open. I apologized. He was getting frustrated. I think I shot him an "I told you so."

Eventually it worked, and he was able to get two more rounds of drops in there afterwards. The Poking Blue Lance of Glaucoma didn't go as well. "You won't feel a thing if you keep your eyes wide open," he said. I kept them open as wide as I could, but the Lance would keep brushing my eye lashes which caused the flinch. I was really trying. I knew it wasn't going to hurt.

"You keep pulling back," he said.

No shit. Maybe if this device looked like a fluffy bunny and not a Romulan torture device, I wouldn't have. His bedside manner left a lot to be desired, but he did a pretty good job. The last eye doctor wasn't even able to get the drops in. He was pretty busy so he had to be in and out of the examination room, which gave me time to rest my eyes and play with the various equipment, like the giant lens mask and whatever else was on a swivel arm. There was some awe-inspiring blonde patient roaming around who was looking for color contacts; she was all tall and tan and pretty much your stereotypical California girl dressed in pink, but she was upset that she had brown eyes. They were so dark, she had trouble finding color contacts that would have any affect on her. She whined, and though I couldn't see her when she said it, I assumed she pouted.

"You have beautiful brown eyes," the doctor said in a helpful, fatherly tone.

"I HATE them," she responded woefully.

They found her contacts that were able to turn her eyes a more desirable shade of blue or green (she wanted either one or the other). After analysing my glasses, Doc returned and told me that I had a vertical inversion, that my eyes had a tendency to want to pull away from each other, a worse astygmatism than most people have and that my brain has learned to compensate for all these things by actually shutting off my left eye from time to time in order to keep me from becoming too disoriented. He seemed amazed that I made a living out of reading and editing, and that my major in college was English Literature.

"You have a different way of seeing things," he said.

I kinda knew that already.