EYE SPY

We recently added a clever new tome to our nonfiction: A Natural History of Seeing: The Art and Science of Vision, by Simon Ings (W.W. Norton, 2008)--catalogued NEW 612.84 Ing. It arrived on our shelves in mid-October and is a broadly painted survey of all things related to human sight.

I haven't read this book through but did pick through it and found it illuminating. The cover is a tad creepy--all these variegated orbs peering out of the dust jacket--but the subject matter is one with a paucity of coverage in our collection. I have relatively poor vision and cannot function without my glasses. I know a lot of people who find it odd I've never considered contact lenses, but since age nine I've had spectacles, and I have never wanted to relinquish them. I am quite eager to hear that my newest frames are ready for me to collect, as they should be any day now.

I had my eye exam last weekend at a place I'd never used before, which meant filling out requisite paperwork assuring the establishment that yes, indeed, I have insurance coverage. I got to the question inquiring as to my last checkup and filled in 2004. The optometrist was concerned. "You know you should be coming in every two or, at the most, three years to have your eyes examined", she pronounced solemnly.

Then I told her about my last experience in the clutches of an optometrist.

Over four years ago I merrily strolled into the eye exam room (is it just me, or are they always a shade claustrophobic? And what do eye doctors have against windows? Oh, of course. "It interferes with our testing procedures", etc. Still, most of them could certainly use some light...and fresh air) of an eye-care chain and subjected myself to the typical barrage of ocular ministrations. After several tests, the doctor ogled directly into my left cornea, daintily harrumphed, and then made several mysterious notations in my chart. Wondering what was going on, I asked if anything was wrong.

She looked slightly bemused as she informed me there was an abnormality in my left eye. I considered that I hadn't encountered any aberrant vision in that eye. I'd not felt any pain or discomfort in it, either. And, after having shared as much with the doctor, I asked what the problem might be. She looked mystified as she explained she didn't really know. "It could be anything from a minor ruptured capillary to an advanced retinoblastoma!", she chirped. Smilingly. And then rapidly made her egress. I sat there, waiting for her to reappear and perhaps lay out a plan for further examination, but she didn't come back.

Horrified, as I moved from the examination chamber to the Endless Wall of Eyewear, half-blinded with worry for my very life, I feebly attempted to select new frames. Rather than focusing on which style I might prefer, I instead envisioned myself first going completely blind, then succumbing to a particularly gruesome death involving an enormous eye-tumor.

Besides having dealt with an eye doctor with apparently little-to-no medical skill (or much of a bedside manner, to be sure), there was no follow-up---whatsoever. When I returned two weeks later for my glasses I had to specifically ask for her, then inquire as to whether or not anything more was learned about my poor eyeball .

"It was nothing!", she cheerfully enthused as she pirouetted swiftly away from me, ushering her next victim into her tiny eyeball closet. I dubiously made my way to the counter to retrieve my spectacles, wondering whether or not this woman's medical diplomas were all self-generated while simultaneously refusing to consider seeking a second opinion. I'd resign myself to a caulifloweresque tumor rupturing behind my eye socket before falling prey to another optometrist anytime soon.

So, when I recently made the acquaintance of a different optometrist at a department store who conducted the exact same tests, I was hardly surprised when she quietly murmured, "Well isn't that neat" as she stared into my dilated sinister eye. Bracing myself for something awful, she went on to ask if she could photograph my eyes. Considering this might actually illuminate what was so unique about Lefty, I readily agreed. The results were explained easily (some overlapping of my optic nerve, an anomaly that is, amusingly, not that unusual) and I was jubilant that I had a knowledgable professional who actually bothered explaining things.

I also got to keep a photo of Freaky Left. I am delighted, and am considering integrating it into a Christmas card and sending it to Former Optometrist, perhaps with the lyrics to the carol "Do You Hear What I Hear?" (highlighting the line: "DO YOU SEE WHAT I SEE???") making up the seasonal message...