I sat there, blurry eyed, and heard a voice telling me over the sounds of clicking wheels that I needed to decide if “1 or 2” was a better fit for my vision in my left eye. Imagine my surprise when wheel 2 was a better fit and it came with the bonus of the incredibly adorable eye doctor coming into sharp focus at the same time.
That is where the enjoyment of my annual visits for my vision exams come to a screeching halt.
All appointments are challenging for those of us with hearing loss. We are thrust into situations with people that are unfamiliar and whose voices we have not heard frequently enough to be able to adjust to their personal accents, prosody and tone.
The necessity of disclosure of my hearing loss is always exhausting on my best day, but having to repeat the canned statement, “I wear two hearing aids, I will let you know if I need anything repeated or rephrased” dulls the senses after the first two utterances. My last eye exam, I needed to disclose my loss to the following people: a) receptionist at the check-in desk; b) medical assistant that escorted me to the exam room; c) medical assistant that did the preliminary eye exam; d) the incredibly adorable eye doctor; e) the contact lens department receptionist: f) the contact lens department medical assistant that did the preliminary exam; g) the contact lens doctor; h) the contact lens sales person; i) the check-out desk receptionist and j) the gentleman in the elevator that missed the annoyed vibes emanating off of me who decided to strike up a conversation.
Math is not my strong suit – but at last count, that was 10 disclosures in 2 hours. (I challenge all of you to pick a stock phrase for fun, it can be anything – and repeat it at intervals 10 different times in the span of a few hours and then report back to us how you’re feeling at the end of it.)
Aside from disclosure to multiple people in the course of a few hours, the hardest part of the annual eye exam is that my eyes are compromised, leaving me to rely exclusively on my ears to help me navigate this appointment. I have lost the ability to rely on lipreading, eye contact, scanning facial expressions and interpreting nonverbal cues to support my processing of the world around me. A situation that was already stressful has ratcheted quickly, and my anxiety has flown upward right along with it.
“Take out your contacts, look into this hole and tell me what you see.” is an easy enough direction. I close one eye, peer into the viewfinder, explain that I see a red barn at a distance in a pastoral scene, and then wait. And wait. And wait a little longer because I am hearing nothing at this point, and am unclear if I should remain here staring at the barn with the other eye shut in a position that is becoming increasingly uncomfortable. I finally move back, open both eyes, and wait another beat longer until I speak and say, “I do not have my glasses and that makes it harder for me to hear you – please be louder and clearer with what you need me to do next”. And the appointment continues – lean forward, close the opposite eye, have a glance at the barn, wait until it’s almost uncomfortable, sit up again and start the interaction again – while being completely bewildered at how someone could forget in a matter of seconds that I am hearing impaired and require additional accommodations.
I am moved to an exam room, sans glasses and contact lenses, and am confronted with the next layer of the annual appointment – the evil drops. The horrific liquid is dispensed a few drops at a time into each eye for the purpose of dilating my pupils – critical for eye health – but the stinging and staining of yellow on my skin is a special form of torture. I am escorted – once again without glasses or contacts – back out to the waiting room, where I shall sit and wait for approximately 20 minutes.
I stagger to a chair in the waiting room, hoping that I am in a spot that will be sufficient enough for me to hear my name being called for the appointment with the eye doctor once my interlude with pupil widening comes to a close. I sit and wait quietly, while trying to adapt a facial expression that is somewhere between unapproachable and a sneer to discourage others in the waiting room from making “small talk”. I remain seated very still, letting my mind wander, and strain to hear any ambient noises that may provide a clue when I will be summoned for the next part of the exam.
I miraculously hear my name on the first try, and rise to follow the medical assistant to a different exam room for the active eye exam. This is where my own personal romantic comedy “meet cute” plays itself out from the first paragraph of this blog – which adds a positive spark to this very stressful appointment.
My visit to the contact lens department is easier because I am able to put my glasses back on before being fitted for contacts, and that back end of the appointment moves a lot quicker, bringing the entire experience to an exhausting conclusion for another year.
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