The fun part of this whole Incurable Disease thing is the sudden demand for tests, retests, and retests of retests. My eyeballs haven’t changed much, except for a slightly-less-thin veneer of bleariness early in the morning, in the last thirty years, but now I must go and submit myself to the ministrations of a specialist every twelve months or so.
It is, I suspect, one of God’s little jokes that I have been assigned (my regular doctor set up this appointment without input from me) to a specialist who is extremely easy on the eyes. Not that I’m in a position to notice such a thing, after drops and more drops. I did finally manage to decipher the new glasses prescription, and it’s within scratching distance of my old glasses prescription. (In the interim, there were bifocals, which I refuse to wear on the grounds that constantly jerking my head back and forth gives me a headache. If I need a headache, I can simply drive to work.)
Curiously, my astigmatism is apparently less stiggy these days; in the Nineties, it was so bad that if I brought up the possibility of corrective surgery I would have been laughed out of the examining room. I have to figure, though, that surgical techniques surely have improved since then. Otherwise: no cataracts, no glaucoma, no macular degeneration, no blood vessels about to go troppo, and only slightly impaired side vision, off to the left. (Whether this means a decrease in depth perception, I don’t know. If you’re a regular reader, you’ve probably wondered if you were ever going to perceive any depth here.)
I consider this a cleaner bill of health than I had any right to expect. On the downside, the mystery liquid that blows up one’s pupils to the size of a dime took a long time to wear off.