Open Wide

I went to the doctor today for my annual checkup, and no, it was not the dentist or the gynecologist. It was an eye appointment, which I dread more than those other two combined. Having significant myopia, I am always slightly embarrassed by how poorly I see, as if had I only tried harder growing up, I could have aced my vision tests, been the vision valedictorian. But unfortunately, eye exams don’t work that way.

To make matters worse, a few years ago, while still nursing my youngest daughter, I experienced such rapid deterioration of my distance vision due to hormonal changes and some condition that I am unable to spell. I found myself weekly at the ophthalmologist’s, funding his new SUV and lake property while trying every brand of contacts available on the US market with short lived, if any, success. Finally, my exasperated eye doctor fired me, since he couldn’t fix me, sending me instead to his colleague who specializes in problem eyeballs with bad contact issues. He ruled out LASIK as an option due to the double whammy of thin corneas and large pupils. I ruled out wearing glasses because of my vanity, my long eyelashes, and my intense desire to see peripherally. We compromised on hard lenses, not the most comfortable solution, but definitely the one with the best results. So now when I go to the eye doctor for what is a routine appointment, I sweat it, fearful that my unspellable condition is back, which will leave me sightless, wandering the streets with a dented tin cup full of pencils and a sign around my neck.

Today was no exception to my irrational fear of eye appointments but what made it worse was that I was due for dilation. Dilation can be fun, but not when it’s your eyeballs. No one I know likes to have their pupils dilated, and every two years when it is my turn, I am hopeful that some new technology has been invented that makes those evil eye drops obsolete. Alas, this was not the year. I sat in that Rube Goldberg of an exam chair and peered at the eye chart behind my black plastic spoon, trying desperately to not memorize the 20/20 letter line before switching to the next eye. I then read a close up eye chart, again relieved that I had dodged the reading glasses bullet for another year, thank you Jesus.

Dr. S came in next to work his magic, the portion of the eye exam that makes me both nervous and amused. I popped out my contacts and he moved the large apparatus in front of my face, blurring the eye chart. He then rapidly flipped lenses back and forth, a succession of “One or two? One or two?” that happened too fast to discern a difference. This part of the eye exam reminded me of a cartoon show on Comedy Central  from years ago, Dr. Katz. Dr. Katz was a squiggly animated therapist to comedians who would sit on his couch and tell jokes about their lives. One time, a comedienne said she had to break up with an optometrist she was dating because every time they were in bed together, he would ask her “Is it better like this or like this? Like this or like this?” I cannot go to the eye doctor without thinking about that episode, but Dr. S doesn’t appear to share my sense of humor, so I kept that story to myself.

After all that fun, and no significant changes in my prescription, it was time for the bad part. Dr. S left the room so his assistant could have the pleasure of administering stinging eye drops.
She handed me a tissue, telling me, “Blot, don’t rub.”
I did as told and discovered bright splotches on my Kleenex. “They’re yellow!”
“You should see what it does to your boogers,” she laughed.
“Aren’t they already that color?”
“I guess,” she said, “But it makes for a cool party trick.”
“I don’t think I want to go to any of your parties,” I told her as she gave me another round of eye drops, this time clear ones.
“Well, maybe one for second graders. Second graders would appreciate a booger trick.”
I raised my fist in solidarity. “My peeps!”

She parked me in the waiting room and I read my book until I could no longer focus. A good friend of mine, after earlier hearing of my scheduled appointment, had said to me that eye dilation is worse than torture at Guatanamo, which at the time I felt was an exaggeration. But as I sat there, unable to do anything but stare plaintively at the other patients, I had to agree with him. Pupil dilation is not just a mild inconvenience or a slight discomfort. It is a mindfuck for half a day, impairing your sense of reality to the point of near madness.

As I lost my ability to see, I began to rely on my other senses. Eavesdropping on the optical department was my only entertainment option since smelling wasn’t something I really wanted to do, and the idea of sitting and doing nothing for forty-five minutes would make me insane. I have an irrational fear of sleeping in public, so a nap was never an option. But after listening to an elderly couple argue over their remote and where they parked the car, I was ready to confess to anything just to make it stop.

Finally, the assistant called my name and gently guided me back to a room. Dr. S entered and acquainted himself with my optic nerves. I was given a clean bill of eye. No obvious tumors, no significant floaters, no high pressure build up. I stumbled to check out, declining the attractive free wraparound sunglasses in favor of wearing my own sunglasses over my regular glasses. I discovered once outside and in my car that the effect made me look more unattractive and unstable than the freebies, but I wasn’t about to walk back in the office to grab a pair. I drove home, more impaired than after a couple of cosmopolitans, wondering if I did get stopped and ticketed, could I bill the doctor’s office.

So now I am home, my pupils more dilated than at a Grateful Dead concert, waiting for the sun to dim. It is almost time to get my girls from school, and I am hoping that over the next thirty minutes, the effects of these eye drops will wear off, after over 5 hours, and I can again multitask while driving instead of clenching the steering wheel tightly and breaking at every imaginary obstacle. Why is it that preventive care can make you feel as unhealthy as an actual disease? All I know is, being debilitated for a day is the last thing a hypochondriac needs.