Last night I went to the optometrist for the first time in two years. When I walked in the door, the entire staff greeted me like they remembered me. I was put off by such apparent falsity, until it became clear that they really did remember me, not for my charm or grace, but because my eyes are that interesting. If you’re an optometrist, anyway.
Dr. Yu was excited to meet my blue peepers again, because most eye exams are fairly routine. I apologized for my broken eyes. He grinned with delight and described my previous visit in detail. I am always happy to oblige a fellow nerd, so I sat down and gave him a challenge, feeling quite a lot like the specimen in a Petrie dish.
The news is not good. My vision is deteriorating, which holds a special terror, for more solid reasons than most might have. I had my first eye operation, to correct my severe cross-eyedness, when I was four. When I was six, my mother caught me walking around with a sleeping bag over my head, practicing for the day I’d lose my sight. It is not as bad as all that, but any decline brings on some of that panic that I felt as a child.
I went home after the appointment to the love of my life, who is not generally a man known for excessive sympathy. I complained about my human frailty. He asked, “What have you been doing to cause it? You read in bad light all the time, you know.”
This was not what I was looking to hear.
Today I increased the font size on my laptop and turned on the lights. I am refusing to go down with the ship. My hands and my sight are non-negotiable. They are *who I am*. As aggravating as it was to not be given any sympathy when I was looking for it — I have to admit that he has a point. There are things I can do to fight back and confront the issue head on. And now it’s a challenge.
 Why do I have absolutely no idea what the medical term is for this when I’ve had it for my entire life?