I made an appointment as soon as the email arrived from the optometrist saying two years had gone by. I could tell my prescription hadn’t changed much, but what the hell any excuse for new frames.
The first machine assesses what my new prescription should be, and shoots that shocking pop of air at my eyeball to check for glaucoma. Right off the bat, I can’t move far enough forward or sit up high enough on my own for my chin to rest on that weird little contraption.
This happens a lot, when my physical limitations prevent me from using equipment in the conventional way. I had the same problem a year ago when I had my first mammogram. It took two women to contort my body into the right position to flatten my poor girls. The very first time was many years ago, when my legs wouldn’t stay in the stirrups for a Pap Smear (Physical Comedy, Globe and Mail). At least this time I get to keep my pants on.
A very patient woman named Edna is helping me. In addition to my own postural issues, my chair is making things more difficult. My foot rests are in the way. We fold them back so I can inch my way forward. I’m still too far away. We flip my armrests over backwards so I can get close enough to hug the machine itself for support. It works.
Getting my face into the right position to check for macular degeneration is an even bigger struggle. My eye socket needs to be right up close and personal against the thingy. I’m laughing now, as I peer, one-eyed, at the image in the machine. Edna pushes me from behind while I open each eye as wide as I can. Mission accomplished.
“I’m so proud of you.” I’m not sure why.
Next stop is the optometrist. He wants me to back up a certain distance, over a small ridge where the flooring changes, and park between two marks on the floor, all to get me properly lined up to view the eye chart on the wall. I’m an excellent power chair driver, and this is child’s play to me.
Afterwards, I feel as if I’ve been working out. Holding myself in those positions is hard work.
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