I think it’s no secret that I’m not quite as young as I used to be. This, of course, is true of every single person, every single minute, of every single day, and age will always be a relative subject. In my case, however, the term ‘middle-aged’ is fast becoming less of an insult and more of a reality.
It means that, increasingly, a few accommodations need to be made.
The latest of these submissions to time’s ravages involves my eyes, and the fact they don’t seem to work quite as well as they used to.
Growing Pains
Over and above the random aches and pains of my middling years (and who’s to decide what is middle-age, anyway? Has my life span already been agreed? I don’t remember the meeting, or any letters notifying me), above the tweaks and tribulations of my disability or illness, this particular malady is irksome for a chap who likes to put (virtual) pen to (virtual) paper every now and then.
Not that my eyesight is deteriorating to a worrying degree, but it is becoming something of a burden, and my sainted mother has just undergoing her own laser eye surgery (a complete success, I am happy to report) served to provide a well-timed nudge to get my own mince-pies sorted. If only so she can’t claim to have better eyesight than her eldest child.
An Eye For An Eye
This will not, I hasten to add, be through anything as permanent and scary-sounding as laser surgery. Having previously been diagnosed with optic neuritis, I’m not sure that would even work. There’s also the fact I don’t like the idea of someone or something touching my eyeball. Not even a laser (which sounds even scarier), and not even if they desensitise it with enough local anaesthetic to send a Blue Whale floating gently to the ocean's surface. No, I’m going to settle for getting me some glasses.
Actually, that should probably read ‘some MORE glasses’ as this will not, in fact, be my first pair.
Some three or four years ago, was when I first visited the opticians. This was after my diagnosis of MS and the accompanying optic neuritis that took me to hospital to get diagnosed. The whacking great megadose of steroids the doctors gave me to self administer had arrested the neuritis (and sent me into a fury of eating everything and anything I could find, up to, but not quite including the house), but it had also highlighted the weakness in what I now called my ‘good’ eye.
An Eye For An Eye
This will not, I hasten to add, be through anything as permanent and scary-sounding as laser surgery. Having previously been diagnosed with optic neuritis, I’m not sure that would even work. There’s also the fact I don’t like the idea of someone or something touching my eyeball. Not even a laser (which sounds even scarier), and not even if they desensitise it with enough local anaesthetic to send a Blue Whale floating gently to the ocean's surface. No, I’m going to settle for getting me some glasses.
Actually, that should probably read ‘some MORE glasses’ as this will not, in fact, be my first pair.
Some three or four years ago, was when I first visited the opticians. This was after my diagnosis of MS and the accompanying optic neuritis that took me to hospital to get diagnosed. The whacking great megadose of steroids the doctors gave me to self administer had arrested the neuritis (and sent me into a fury of eating everything and anything I could find, up to, but not quite including the house), but it had also highlighted the weakness in what I now called my ‘good’ eye.
After a consultation with the MS nurse and a warning to tell them about the neuritis before the eye exam (to prevent readmittance to hospital), I toddled off to the local opticians, looked through machines, read charts and was prescribed either bi or varifocal lenses.
In hindsight (the only sight I’m 50/50 in), I should probably have chosen varifocals. I should definitely have chosen stronger frames.
Spectacular
As is the norm with these things, I was given a spare pair of glasses, just in case I mislaid or broke one. This proved a wise precaution, because as it was, I ended up breaking both those pairs as well as both replacements.
Each time, it was exactly the same story. The screw which held the arms to the super-thin lightweight frames would worm its way loose and, in turn, one of the lenses would follow suit. This led to several less than perfect situations, most memorably, perhaps, the time it happened while I was driving, and for one dizzying second thought the neuritis has flared up again, and several spurned chances for glasses cleaning comedy.
As I say, this all happened quite a while ago, but as my last serviceable pair of glasses spontaneously fell apart just before the whole world was locked down and a wheelchair user visit to a very small shop so a man could closely examine my eyes became, shall we say, unappetising?
Test Match
Now, doubled jabbed, and inspired by my dear old ma, I have made the appointment. This Friday I will head for an eye test and, with a little luck, have new specs in time for next weeks offering to not contain quite as many errprs (yes, of course, that one’s deliberate)
I guess I’ll see you then.
Until next week.
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