My eye appointment two days ago went off without a hitch.  I was particularly excited about this appointment because I would be asking for a new prescription so that I could get new glasses.  I’m sick of my current lunettes and am most desirous of a change!

I was also planning to tell my doctor that I don’t care what he says, I wear contact lenses every month or so, high myopia be damned(!) since he had flatly refused to talk about contact lenses at our last meeting.

I think the eye care centre I go to is one of the best around, simply because there are so many hoops I must jump through before being awarded with my prescription.  My eye appointment includes the following steps:

• I check in at the receptionists’ desk, present my health card, and I’m asked to sit in the waiting room until it is my turn.
• In the first room I’m asked whether my health has changed, asked to read some letters and numbers with my glasses on (one eye at a time), the pressure in my eyes is checked and I’m then given eye drops (to dilate my pupils I presume), and asked to return to the waiting room and wait with my burning and watering eyes until the next call.
• Room number two includes the fun peripheral vision test, where you look into a large bowl full of holes like a colander, and tiny lights of varying intensities flash.  The object is to press a button when you see a light flash, all while keeping your eye focused on the centre light.  This is done for each eye.  This goes a lot faster when you don’t keep looking around trying to see if you can see more lights flashing if you, you know, cheat.  Sadly the computer is smart and catches you:  it’ll stop flashing and you’ll panic, thinking your peripheral vision is shot.  The nurse will then tell you sternly to stop looking around and stay focused on the centre light, and the game will continue.
• Station two in room two involves a picture of an air balloon in the sky.  The whole picture is green, and you get to sit and look at the picture while the nurse brings it in and out of focus.  Then you’re asked to return to the waiting room.
• Finally, if you’re lucky to survive the imbroglio (since you are sharing this process with approximately 15 of your favourite strangers), you get to see the esteemed ophthalmologist, who, asks you if you’re able to read some letters better now [flip of the knob on a complicated looking piece of machinery] or now [flip of the same complicated instrument] and he proceeds to ask this about 20 times per eye and when the changes are so subtle between the lenses he’s flipping between, it became a game of randomly choosing to respond in the affirmative, neutral or negative as it fit my mood. 

Apparently your ophthalmologist can refuse to write you a new prescription that would result in sexy new glasses.

I was crushed, but he said that the changes to my eyes were strange and such that it would make it hard for me to get used to the new glasses so I’m better with my current prescription.  He went on to point out that my glasses are still fashionable, even though I told him that I was sick of them.  He reminds me of my dad:  he clearly doesn’t see glasses as a fashion accessory and recognize that sometimes, even if something ain’t broke, you want to (and should be able to) fix it.  Unlike my father, he has a way of shutting me up, mid-whine and protest:  I meekly said ok and got up to leave, but not before my parting shot:  I told him quite defiantly that I wear contacts from time to time without a prescription from him(!).  That’s right, Dr. Ophthalmologist, I let the optometrist at the store calculate the correct prescription for my contact lenses.

His reaction?  “That’s fine.  It shouldn’t be a problem.”

He must be a father.

Filed under: Adventure, Health, WurdyGurdy by jummy