I turned 45 this year. That was the age an ophthalmologist told me I’d need reading glasses.
I’ll be damned if he didn’t turn out to be right.
It started at night, when I was already worn out from a long day of pretending to be an extrovert and pretending I heard everything I needed to. I would flop down on my couch, wait for Happy to nestle in next to me, and then crack open one of the books I was in the middle of. It happened first with a paperback and the wee lines of text therein.
I steadfastly refused to admit those words in the books weren’t just printed poorly.
But then one night, I caught myself reaching for my phone in the stead of my book. Subconsciously, I realized I didn’t have the energy to struggle to make out the Lilliputian words. It took a long time to come to realize what I was thinking. It took a long time to even admit aloud what I was thinking. It took a long time to say the words “I think I need reading glasses” to someone else.
I did one night after recording an episode.
Julie handed me hers (one of the few times she knew exactly where they were!) With hands that knew better than to shake but with lungs that forgot how to breathe, I put them on. Then immediately tore them off my face.
Looking through them made my eyes hurt.
She told me they were too strong, that I probably needed only 0.75s or 0.5s. A few days later I put on my big boy pants and went to CVS at lunch. I tried on the lowest magnifications they had, 1.0s, but they were too strong.
So I dove into The Amazon and bought some 0.5s. A few more days later, they arrived. And I was both pleased and petrified to find they worked. Right now it’s only after long days that I need them to read. But it’s still downright terrifying to need them at all.
I’ve always had great eyesight. My peripheral vision is borderline creepy. But with great eyesight comes great risk.
I have blue eyes and because of how biology works, that means they let in a lot of light. Which is both a boon and a bane. I can see better in the dark but I can also be more affected by sunshine. Sometimes painfully so.
I worked third shift for a number of years in my early 20s. I remember one morning in the early Spring when I came out into the brilliant sunshine after a night in a windowless room.
I flinched.
It had been a long, cloudy winter. And since I slept (poorly) with the sun, I probably had not seen that big ball of burning gas for days, if not weeks. I scrambled to put on my omnipresent sunglasses to filter out some of the light and allow me to see again. Because it was not just painful it was also scary.
Losing my eyesight is one of the biggest fears I have. Since my ears are already slackers, the world is brought to me by my eyes. I lean, heavily, on my sight. During conversations I read lips and body language. During dog walks, I watch out for turning cars and unfriendly dogs. I even rely on my eyesight to connect with people and substitute Zoom for the evilest invention in the history of everything ever: The phone.
Logically I know I’ll still be able to do those things with glasses. As I’m fond of saying: hearing aids don’t correct hearing loss like glasses correct vision loss. But it’s odd coming at it from the other direction. I usually say those words in order to put my hearing loss in perspective for people who don’t understand it. Now, as my aging eyes have begun to actually need said correction, I struggle to accept the fact.
Because fear don’t care about facts.
We did an episode on some of our favorite sounds. My favorite sounds are few. My favorite sights? Well, they’re legion.
From the forests of The White Mountains in Fall to a wrap-around porch overlooking a lake; from the outside of a Gothic cathedral to the dark mahogany bookshelves lined with leather-bound tomes; from dogs playing in real life to animated animals playing on the screen; from a big slice of apple pie with a generous scoop of vanilla ice cream on top to a perfect pour of the onyx liquid of love more commonly called Guinness, there are so many things I love to see.
We are incredibly adaptable creatures. I adapted to my hearing loss long before I was ready to do anything about it. That adaptation grew and changed as I moved through life. But one thing remained constant, my eyesight. It gives me those sights I so love to see. It gives me the help I so need to communicate. But now it can’t give me as much as it used to.
It’s an uncomfortable reality. And that discomfort is never more apparent when I’m doing something I love: reading. I struggle with audiobooks because of my hearing. Now I’m struggling with printed books because of my seeing. I think that more than anything else will speed my acceptance of reading glasses.
It’s only natural
To fear physical changes.
I don’t see that now.
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