An Interesting Day (Part 1)

Dear Friends,

It’s been awhile. How have you been?

As I said, I’ve been discouraged by my lack of a camera, and the inability to do what I really want to do with this blog. The insult to the injury of my camera’s croaking was that the one shot that would have really given this entry “teeth “ didn’t transfer from the camera to my computer – lost forever- after a special trip just to capture that image. Pfft.

At any rate, I’ve purchased a new camera (a Canon Powershot a570, my nephew’s recommendation). Soon this blog be up and powering along at full speed, cleaving a crisp wake of binary bytes through virtual cyber-seas, the captain grinning at the helm, squinting through a spray of pixels... Until then, I will do my best to describe, mostly in words, An Interesting Day.

Part One

Monday morning of last week was the day I was medically sanctioned to go into the ocean again. This was great, because the surf was forecast to come up- way up. I got up early, completed my job, and thumbed a ride to town, to see the monthly visiting optometrist.

I should back up a moment and tell you that I underwent lasik eye surgery in January. The surgeon suggested several follow-up visits, to monitor my healing. The doctor who removed my surfing-wound stitches referred me to the man I was to see that morning.

The ladies in the charity shop of the Raglan Community Center (one of whom wore a striking necklace -“ELVIS” in large gold letters) directed me to the doctor’s office in the basement. I made my way down a set of outdoor stairs to an unmarked door. I was early.

Oh, I wish I had been carrying a camera! I opened the door. The room’s blinds were drawn. In the dim light I could see an antiquated version of the standard optometric tool on a rolling stand. Also present was a pair of glasses with heavy octagonal rims- a prop from a vintage 1930’s Dr. Orloff horror film. Ancient flyspecked letter and hue charts were tacked to the walls. Most enigmatically, a golf ball dangled from a string looped around a hook in the ceiling, which then led to a hand mirror tacked to the wall.

Sitting at a small desk, writing with his back to me, was a pear-shaped, balding man in his late fifties.

I took off my hat, clearing my throat to get his attention. He wheeled around and sprung to his feet. His eyes, behind glasses, flickered with a curious, off-kilter, fanatic expression. Immediately, intuitively, I sensed madness.

I introduced myself as his eleven-fifteen patient.

He said, “Do you know why people wear glasses?"

What? “To… see better?”

“No! Guess again! Think!”

“I… " I didn’t want to do this. I’m too old to play games. I just needed to get an exam. But I’m also too old to say something rude, or walk out when I needed to get the damn thing over with. Oh hell.

A friendly smile. “I give up. Why do people wear glasses?”

Triumphantly: “Because they THINK they need to see better. Their ENVIRONMENT suggests that they have a deficiency. But they don’t, you see. They see as well as they need to see. For instance, I have a patient- in fact, the one who was supposed to be here now. She had a car accident fifteen years ago, and got a head injury. She developed curious optometric symptoms. But she’s fine. She functions perfectly. Why?”

“Because… her environment accommodates… “

“No! Because, you see, nothing she does- and she likes to knit, and to cook, and to take care of her grandchildren- nothing she does- she doesn’t drive anymore, you see, nor does she work at a job that demands precise vision- in fact, this woman, and I do hope she shows up for her appointment today- what we’re doing is unorthodox, I have to say, quite at odds the suggestions of her other optometrists- what is happening with this woman is that her environment- and she was told by other doctors that she would have to live with the halos and the peripheral distortions all her life- her environment does NOT accommodate her, she is accommodating IT- that is to say- “

And on, and on and on he went, including more Socratic questioning at unpredictable intervals. It was one of the most excruciatingly “trapped” experiences I’ve ever had.

After a time (ten minutes?), feeling physically parched, I simply had to interrupt him and ask for my eye exam.

He seemed to snap out of something. Apologizing, he gave me a terse, nearly silent exam for close to an hour, using every outdated optometric device in the place (I wore Orloff’s spectacles). Everything but the dangling golf ball and hand mirror. I never found out what they were for.

My eyes were fine.