I pull the book a tad bit closer, at first. Then,
instinctually, I extend my arm out to its full length and tilt the book towards
the light. I repeat this process with as much subtlety as possible but the
truth is evident.
My eyes are struggling.
I am no longer able to read, hour after hour. When I look up
from a focused task to gaze out the window, it takes a few moments for my eyes
to focus on the distant view. Sometimes, it never fully does.
Many times I think I can see more than I really do. As a
general rule, I drive the same streets and know each route by heart. Much of my
daily routine is so rote that it is a rare thing, indeed, when I must stop to read instructions.
The last time I stopped by a coffee shop, I squinted and
squirmed and strained in order to clearly make out the drink choices printed on
the wall and place my order with confidence. In the end, I went with an
Americano with an extra shot. It’s what I knew.
This is all so strange and new to me. I used to pride myself
on my ability to see clearly and without assistance, as if it was some great
wonder to still be able to see clearly and effectively with my own eyes, alone.
As if perfect vision was a reflection of something greater in me.
But here’s the thing. It’s not just the words in books or on
street signs or across back lit café menus that are shrinking and morphing and
eluding me. Many days, it feels like everything
is.
++++++
To read the rest, please follow this link over to
TheMudroom Blog where I am guest posting today.
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