Eye to eye
For most of my life, I’ve had pretty good vision. Literally. Not until mid-way through college did the subject of glasses ever arise. And when it did, it was not a high-priority item. As an art major, I was not required much reading and, well, let’s just say that artistic vision does not require 20/20 eyesight. Take Van Gogh, whose effed up eyesight (glaucoma was it?) inspired such renown artistic contributions to modern art history as Starry Night. Anyhow, I’m getting off-topic. My point is, on the whole, I see fairly well.
My first eye-exam after which I was recommended glasses for reading/computer work/etc. was …maybe…2000? A few years later, having lost those glasses, I noticed my vision seemed to have changed so I had my eyes checked a second time. Here are your glasses Bridget. Well, after a few years of not wearing those glasses (and losing them), I noticed my vision bothering me yet again. By this point I was pregnant with Rhianna. I decided to wait until after my pregnancy because pregnancy screws with everything so I wasn’t sure if it was my eyes or my hormones. Before I remembered I was supposed to get my eyes checked, I was pregnant with Owen and about 2 months or so after I had him I found my first pair of glasses (the 2000 pair) in an old coat pocket.
You know how glasses are shaped to the wearer’s face? Mine, having been through who-knows-what in the pocket of my ex-ski jacket, would only only fit my face is if my head were a pancake. So I took them to an optical center to have them fixed.
Rebecca, the lovely lady working at the optical center, was clearly not having a stellar day when I arrived and asked if she could bend my frames so that I could see out of both lenses at once. She was helpful and polite, but as the frame of my long-lost pair of glasses snapped in her hands as she was trying to fix them, I could tell it was the icing on the cake of a terrible-horrible-no-good-very-bad-day. Trying to make amends, she offered to replace the frames. That'd be great Rebecca. Oh wait, wey don’t carry that frame – and lenses don’t fit in just any frame. So we’ll have to pick a new pair of frames. Sure. Oh wait, you don’t have a prescription on file within the past two years. You’ll need to make an appointment with the eye doctor. Sigh. I leave the broken 2000 glasses and lenses with Rebecca and tell her I’ll get back to her about the eye exam.
So after debating for several days whether or not to concede the $60 (I’m cheap, and so is Costco Optical) to get an eye exam, I decided that, given that my eyes seemed significantly less fatigued using the 2000 glasses and that my job is basically to stare at a computer screen for eight hours per day, it was in my best interests to get the damn eye exam.
Here comes the fun part.
I get to the eye exam – now, remember that this is only my third trip to the eye doctor, so I really don’t know what to expect.
My appointment was at 10. At 9:40 I was still in a meeting at work. I impolitely duck out of the meeting and sprint to my car. I spend the 15 minute car-trip to Costco debating whether or not I have time to run to the bathroom before having to decide between “1” or “2” for the 20 minutes. I arrived about 5-till. Uhm. Yeah. Costco doesn’t open until 10. Didn’t know that. And now my bladder is pissed. So I sprint under the gian garage doors as soon as they are opened to the far end of the store to the ladies restroom. After all, I figure if I have to pee too badly, I won’t be able to concentrate on my eyes anyway.
Whew. Relief. Off to the optical center. Hmm. That’s funny, someone ought to be working here. At 10:05 the Pissed-Off Receptionist arrives. She’s pissed off because no one has opened her office and, who knows, maybe she hasn’t had an orgasm this century. Whatever the reason, she abruptly throws a clipboard at me and instructs me to complete a form.
“Have you been a patient here before?” Part of this is odd to me because “patient” and Costco just don’t seem to jive. Anyway.
“Yes, but it’s been quite a while.”
“That must be why I couldn’t find your chart. *Old* files are kept somewhere else." She emphasizes the old, I think, to imply that they are efficient while I, unable to keep my prescription up-to-date, am not.
"Would it be under another name?"
“Maybe.” Spell maiden name. Apparently this was the height of annoyance for POR because she lifted her ass off her chair to search through the file cabinets with all the enthusiasm of a cranky toddler requested to mind her manners. I was actually surprised POR didn’t throw a hissy fit right then. But I guess she’s the more passive aggressive type. Finding my chart, she rips the clipboard out of my hand and explains only new “patients” are allowed the special clipboard. I’ve been demoted.
At 10:10, Dr. F. EyeExam arrives. I know nothing about this woman up until this point except that she is an eye doctor and, irritatingly, late. Regardless, I'm anxious to have a wall separate me and POR, so I introduce myself. I quickly learn that Dr. F. is a person whose arrival would never go unnoticed. Her appearance (aside from her lipstick) is unremarkable, but the stress level in the tiny little office immediately escalated as she entered the room. As she ordered me to the “big chair” in the next room, I wondered if being at the mercy of Dr. F. would really be an improvement to POR. After all, POR's office had a clear an unobstructed exit.
After making a few remarks to POR about not getting to bed until 2am the previous morning and how she’d “make it through” the next few appointment, Dr. F. closes herself in the exam room with me.
"Have you ever had glasses before?"
"Yes."
"Well, where are they?"
"They're..."
"Why didn't you BRING them? THAT would have been some help."
"Well, I came here a few weeks ago to get my old glasses adjusted and they broke so..."
"WHERE are they? I need those glasses."
"They are at the counter in your optical center."
"POR! GET ME THOSE GLASSES" Dr. F. yells as she's heading out the door. "This woman claims her glasses are at the counter."
(Uhm, excuse me? "Claims?" As if I came up with this convoluted story just to piss her off.)
"POR will bring me the glasses," she informs me as she, again, closes the door to the cramped exam room. She mumbles for a few minutes to herself, then says, "Where are those glasses!?"
So Dr. F. marches out of the exam room and returns a few seconds later with my broken glasses.
"I don't care about the frames," Dr. F. abruptly explains, "I need the lenses.
"You see," she checks my chart, "Bridget. I'm a scientist."
I'm thinking, uhm, no. My girlfriend who is getting her Ph.D. in microbiology is a scientist. You are an optimologist.
"We need data. This," she holds up my lense, now removed from it's broken skeleton, "is DATA. Do you understand? DATA!"
Whoa. Chill out fruitcake. It's an eye exam and 7 year old glasses. Let's not pull anything.
After 15 minutes of "Camera 1?" or "Camera 2?" Dr. Fruitcake EyeExam gets out another tool she will use to look at the tissue in my eye. At length she explains that the camera1/camera2 is really only about a third of what she does and people just don't understand that. She went to school for this after all.
I guess they didn't have any lessons on chair-side manners in Eye-School.
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Sunday, September 02, 2007
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