It is funny how a spat with my now (thankfully) former snooty
ophthalmologist in the lily white Castro, a couple of long conversations with my vision care insurer and meeting my (
decidedly much more pleasant, multi-ethnic Mission Street located) new
ophthalmologist clinic today evoked memories from so many years ago. As the Asian American woman half my size wrestled me to shoot puffs of air and drops into my eyes, she noticed the slight inward lean of my left eye. We were suddenly discussing my eye patch at age 5 and 6 a.m. appointments my mother took me to before school on far north
Britton Boulevard where I did eye exercises for 45 minutes three times a week until it was corrected. When I suddenly became the rage of my first grade class as a post-modern pirate, I resisted the attention since, although I enjoyed the concept of being a pirate, I wanted to do it by my own design. As I stumbled home wearing my $1.50 deep tint sunglasses from
Daiso to protect my dilated eyes, I gave some thought to that eternal tension of
selected and imposed deviance, and then the thought faded once I crossed Harrison.
Labels: doctors, eyes, Memoirs
If they can do valve replacement from pigs, repair the Hubble Telescope, separate conjoined twins and retrofit Joan Rivers' face, why can't they do an eye exam without dilating the eyes?
