August 6, 2013--New Glasses (Concluded)

I blew Rona a kiss.

We were doing better about me and eyeglasses and aging and could discuss amicably my vision issues and even my overall decline.

That is until a few weeks ago.

I began to notice that even with the 100-watt bulb there wasn't enough light for me when reading in bed. At first I thought this was because there was less light mornings now that the height of summer had passed, and as fall approached the sun was rising later each day.

I knew in my heart, though, that this wasn't in fact true. It is still very much summer and the sun in this northern location continues to be well up above the horizon by 6:00 a.m., and thus there should be enough light for me to make it through James MacGregor Burns' Roosevelt biography, The Lion and the Fox.

I was once more needing to deal with the subject of time and my aging eyes.

So unusually for me, without much prodding from Rona, I made an appointment for an eye exam, really to secure a new prescription for my reading glasses. I wasn't much in the mood to hear about possible cataracts and incipient macular degeneration, and therefore asked just to be fitted for new reading glasses.

No surprise, the ophthalmologist found my old ones were not nearly strong enough for my current condition.

"How long have you had these?" Dr. B asked, I sensed bemused by how inadequate they were.

I mumbled, "About . . . years . . . but . . . you know."

"I couldn't follow you," she persisted.

"Well, you know, a long time."

"How old are you again?"

"Next birthday, which is in October, I'll be a year older," I winked, thinking perhaps a little humor would help move things along.

"I have other patients waiting," she clearly was beginning to have enough of me, shuffling the papers in my file. "Oh I see. It's a big birthday coming up in October. You are, alas, old enough for us to have to worry about more than getting you proper reading glasses. In fact . . ."

I cut her off, "I know how busy you must be so maybe I'll make an appointment with my eye doctor in New York when we're there in October. As a big-birthday sort of thing. I mean, you're obviously a fine doctor, but he has all my records. So you understand."

"Whatever you say," she said with a shrug. "But if I were you, I wouldn't wait another 15 years for your next exam because, considering your age and the rate at which eyes tend to deteriorate, you should do this at least annually."

I tried to ignore this sensible way to think about my eyes and the rest of me. I simply wanted new glasses for reading.

All the while Dr. B fiddled with my old readers. "I would guess these old glasses of yours are at least 15-years old. I don't mean the frames, but the prescribed strength of the lenses. And they're so scratched. It's no wonder you can't see."

I shrugged, pretending they weren't as old or scratched as all that. "I can see," I reassured her.

"Now, rest your chin on this bar," she instructed me. "That's good. Close your right eye and tell me if you can see this clearly."

"C . . . R . . . M . . . I think that's a D or an O."

After a few minutes of switching test lenses she was done with me and gave me a card on which was written my new prescription. "While I was at it," she said, as I moved as quickly as possible to get away, "I also did a long-distance test. If I were you, I'd consider bifocals because your distance vision isn't much better than your short-range vision."

"Thank you, but I'm still OK with my 1.0 magnifiers. They're perfect for watching TV and driving."

"I hope you don't do both at the same time." I was happy to see her smiling. "Of course, whatever you want; but when you go next door where you select frames, if you want to, they can . . ."

"Again, thanks," I said, not letting her finish.

I quickly selected a sleek Italian pair--thinking why not try to look as sophisticated as possible--and was told by the cheery technician that my new glasses would be ready in less than a week.

Sure enough, three days later, they called to have me come in for a fitting.

"Here, try these," the same optometrist's assistant said, helping to put the glasses on as they are intended to be worn. About this also, I am not that adept. I have a tendency to let them slide down the slope my nose or tip them at various angles in attempts to make them more effective. I realized, of course, that in recent years I had been doing more and more of that as my glasses were not longer strong enough.

"If you use them this way, the right way," she urged, "you'll get the maximum benefit. I can see from the indentations in the sides of your nose that you are wearing these improperly," she waved dismissively at my former trusted pair and then tapped both sides of my nose, "But I understand. We have many other patients who like to pretend, sorry, I mean believe that their old prescriptions last forever. But as we know, as you know, as time goes by, this isn't true. Nothing lasts forever." She sighed with resignation.

Again they're talking about time, I said to myself, thinking, let me just get these glasses properly adjusted so I can get out of here and back to my pretending.

"Remember," she said, as I begin to squirm out of the chair, "it will take a few days to get used to these. And also, since these have the proper lenses for you," she looked again disdainfully at my cast-aside readers, "these more powerful lenses work best for viewing at distances from 17 to 22 inches. That's why they're called reading glasses."

At this she smiled broadly. She must be used to working with older patients, I thought, who, she feels have to be spoken to as if they are children.

So now I have this problem--

The new glasses are fine for reading. In truth, only for reading. That 17-to-22-inch range turns out to be quiet accurate. Unlike my old ones, which I kept in the spirit of just-in-case, the new ones make everything appear quite blurred beyond 22-and-a-half inches. (I actually measured.) This means that I now need three pairs of glasses: the new ones for reading (I have been able to switch back to a 75-watt bulb, which is environmental good news); the old reading glasses for intermediate vision (from 22 inches to six or seven feet); and the magnifiers for everything further away than that.

This is a lot to get used to and manage.

Just yesterday I ran an inventory of all my glasses and their locations--

The new readers I keep on top of whatever book I am reading. But since I usually read two or three at a time and they are often in different locations, I am having trouble remembering where I left the new glasses--on which book. So I need one of my old pair--my "new" intermediate ones--to find the new readers.

And then I have at least three pairs of the 1.0's--one near the TV and two in the car: a tinted pair of Ray Bans for daytime driving and a clear pair for after-dark driving. Twilight presents a problem, but I am not inclined to try to find a pair of semi-tinted ones for that.

I am now needing to juggle glasses of three strengths in tinted and clear variations. And, I should have a back-up pair of the new reading glasses and, why not, a pair of tinted ones for reading outdoors.

How many does that make?

If I get the backup readers and another tinted pair so I can read in direct sunlight, that's about ten.

Rona has been monitoring all my thinking, frustration, and eyeglass management; and in the spirit of attempting to be helpful, has a suggestion--"Trifocals."

My response--"That's for really old people who are blind as bats."

If I am wearing the right glasses, I will notice she is smirking.

"And," she adds, "don't forget the hearing aids."

"What? What did you say?"

August 5, 2013--New Glasses

Just as I am now resisting getting fitted for hearing aids, some years ago I struggled with the idea that I was old enough to need reading glasses.

"Old enough," that was the problem. In truth just "old"was the issue. I didn't want to have any part of that. Oldness.

And so, in the spirit of denial and rationalization, it wasn't until I had to squint and hold newspapers and menus at full arm's length to be able to distinguish Iran from Iraq and appetizers from entrées that I began to give honest consideration to getting my eyes tested.

I had joked, "It's a good thing [nervous laugh] that I have such long arms."

Rona would say, "You're making a spectacle of yourself--pun intended. Everyone in the restaurant is staring at you bent over like a pretzel trying to get a little candle light on the menu so you can read it."

"I'm just having a little trouble seeing if they have spaghetti carbonara."

"You're having more than a little trouble knowing the difference between the men's and women's rooms. Remember what happened when  . . ."

"No need to finish the sentence," I interrupted, "On Monday I'll make an appointment to get reading glasses."

And so I did. And discovered, if that word applies, that I indeed needed reading glasses, and as soon as possible if I wanted to be able to read anything smaller than a typical road sign. In anything other than daylight. Summer daylight. Between noon and 3:00 PM.

The ophthalmologist wasn't worried. He said, my condition was the result of the simple fact of aging, that, "Everyone your age  . . ."

"My age?" I moaned, "I'm only . . . whatever. Does this mean that I have other aging eye things to be concerned about?" I was careful to make the distinction between my eyes aging and the rest of me.

"Well, I'm not seeing any evidence of glaucoma and you're too young still for us to have to worry about cataracts. Though . . ."

"Though's I can do without," I continued to moan. "But the too-young's I am pleased to hear. Anything that pertains to me that I'm too young for is very reassuring and  . . ."

He interrupted me, "If you press me, which I don't suggest or think necessary, there is always macular degeneration and . . ."

Before he could complete his list I was out the door, my dilated-eyes blinded by the sunlight coursing down Fifth Avenue.

I duly got my reading glasses and for years was happily able to read in bed ealry mornings in half-light and had no trouble getting my carbonara.

Then about five years ago, when driving, Rona noticed me leaving extra distance between the cars in front of us and slowing excessively when making left turns.

"I'm just trying to be extra careful," I lied. "What's our hurry now that we don't have jobs to rush to?"

"You're driving like an old man," she wouldn't let me off the hook, seeing through my dissembling, "And I think it's because you can't see."

"I can see," I insisted with some heat.

"I know you can see, but you can no longer see well. I think you need distance glasses for driving. It's not that I'm in a hurry, it's that I don't feel safe with the way you drive."

My non-response was to snatch my then new reading glasses out of my breast pocket, put them on, and pretend I could see perfectly; whereas in truth they made everything even blurrier.

So at my next eye exam I muttered to Dr. Cohen that, "Rona thinks I'm going blind."

"I assume you're exaggerating." He is so understanding.

"Maybe a little. When we're down in Florida and up in Maine where we have to drive even to get the newspaper, it's true that I don't see as well as I used to."

"Just as I said some years ago when you first got reading glasses--that as one gets older, one . . ."

"Again with the older business," I snapped, feeling guilty since he is such a gentle soul, "But whatever," I said, again resigned.

"All you need is 1.0 magnifiers," he chirped in an effort to make this new inevitability sound matter-of-fact. "You can get them from an optometrist for a hundred dollars or more, or buy a pair at any large drug store for maybe twenty dollars."

Which I duly did at the local Rite Aid.

This worked well for a number of years. My reading glass prescriptions continued to be adequate, though, after time, I needed to change the bedside lamp lightbulb from 70 to 100 watts; and the 18-dollar 1.0's were just what I needed for driving. I closed the gap between cars and zipped right through left turns. I was pleased with myself and, what's more, Rona was no longer pointing out the affects of my aging. At least in regard to seeing and driving.

Though she did suggest bifocals, as she observed me struggling to manage my two pairs of glasses. The reading pair usually in my breast pocket or on top of the book I was reading, and the magnifiers in the glove compartment. "They would make it . . ." she stopped herself from pressing too hard, ". . . and the kind of bifocals they have now have so-called 'graduated' lenses, which means they don't look like bifocals. There's no visible seam between the two prescriptions so they don't make you look like you're . . ."

". . . an old man," I completed her thought. "I'm OK with things the way they are. You know I hate change. And besides, aren't those kind of lenses hard to get used to? Then, I assume they're very expensive."

"Whatever you say works for you. I was just trying to be helpful."

I blew her a kiss.

We were doing better about me and eyeglasses and aging and could discuss amicably my vision issues and overall decline.

Until a few weeks ago.

To be concluded tomorrow . . .