"It's in there," Dr. H told me. "Yeah, I can see it."
"I can't see it," I said. "I usually do this in a bright room in front of a mirror." Taking my contact out of my right eye, in a very dim room, was harder than it should have been. But, I had felt something on my finger, and Dr. H said it was in the case, so here we go to the next room for the next tests.
Now that I'm post-treatment I'm in the process of getting my regular annual exams set back up, and for whatever reason I decided to start with my eye exam. Maybe it was on my mind because Bob, the guy with "better than perfect vision" our whole lives together, just started wearing glasses. (Don't call them bifocals around him, though, egad, they are progressive lenses! Get it right!)
I carried the leaky case with me into two more rooms. The first had a piece of equipment to test your focus (I guess) and one that takes huge pictures of both eyeballs. Later, when I saw the pictures I had to chuckle at how well it also captured my weirdly curly eyelashes. The next and last room is where all the action happens, where you find out how much your prescription changed since last time and any other things to be watching or worried about.
"Any health problems?" Dr. finally asked me. Well, kind of. I told him about the cancer, the surgery, the treatments, and let him know those are all over. He took note on the computer. I told him that I had been having issues lately with my contact becoming very blurry and sort of goopy. Took another note.
At the end of the long room there were letters were projected on a screen. He asked me to read it. Nailed it. A smaller line of letters appeared and he asked me to read it. Aced it again. "Huh." Dr. kept going back and looking at the numbers on his screen.
Dr. H swiveled around and handed me a card. "What's the smallest type you can read on this card?" I started reading the smallest paragraph. He shook his head and turned back to the screen. Then he turned back, pulled over one of those contraptions that you put your chin in and forehead on and a bright light shines in your eye while you stare at the doctor's ear. He pushed it back and brought over the lenses thingy.
Next came "Which is better? One. Or Two." "Three. Or Four." On and on.
"According to the numbers you don't need glasses." Big silence in the room while we both processed this information. I've been wearing glasses since I was 20. I've had bifocals since I was in my 30s. I started wearing a single contact lens (known as mono-vision) three years ago. I don't need glasses?
A miracle! A real miracle! I've been healed! I made some comments to Dr. H about having to get cancer for my eyes to get better. I asked him if he's ever had this happen before and he said that it has happened in certain cases. He went on with some things we need to keep an eye on in the future and made a note in the computer: "No RX needed." Dr. H showed me to the lobby and I told the nurses the news. "It's a miracle," he said. YES.
I floated out the door. If I had been wearing a beret I would have done the Mary Tyler Moore hat toss in the middle of downtown Huntington. This is awesome! Wait, what would Bob say?
Here's what he said: "Was the contact still in?" Of course not, Bob! He's a DOCTOR. He had equipment pointed at my eye! I told lots of people at work about the miracle. I don't need glasses any more, isn't that awesome?
At home, as Bob was leaving for his weekly carry-out-excursion I told him, "I'm going to go find some FINE PRINT to read!" After he was gone I had several to-dos around the house, including some outdoor stuff, and noticed later that my eyes felt very dry. I rubbed my eyes and. And.
And took out the contact lens that had been there all along.
You'd think I would be destroyed. Instead I started laughing and couldn't quit laughing.
There were a lot of things that should have been red flags. But, I'm now used to my life (literally) being in the hands of these professionals, and trusting them implicitly. (While praying for them and trusting God...) I ask questions but I don't question their expertise. If doctor says my toenails will grow back I trust him and put the drops on as prescribed. If doctor says I need 16 rounds of chemo I believe him. If doctor says I need 28 radiation treatments, I know he's not just throwing a dart.
That and I'm looking for the miracle. All through this I have been the oddball, the unusual, the exception. I've experienced miracles first-hand. So why would I NOT believe that my eyes got better? Why would I NOT believe miracle FIRST? I guess you can call me naive.
Why did this happen? Maybe it was just so that, for even a second, some people could believe that miracles can happen. Maybe it was so Dr. H would think about how he can participate in God's healing power. Maybe it was just to have a funny, silly, story to tell. Who knows.
Now that everyone knows my eyesight wasn't miraculously made perfect, what happened? Well mostly people who know me are just laughing with me about it. "Oh, Polly," they say and shake their heads. In the most endearing, loving, understanding way. Polly believes in miracles. Polly still believes in miracles.
I do. I'm a miracle. You're a miracle. Throw the hat.
"I can't see it," I said. "I usually do this in a bright room in front of a mirror." Taking my contact out of my right eye, in a very dim room, was harder than it should have been. But, I had felt something on my finger, and Dr. H said it was in the case, so here we go to the next room for the next tests.
Now that I'm post-treatment I'm in the process of getting my regular annual exams set back up, and for whatever reason I decided to start with my eye exam. Maybe it was on my mind because Bob, the guy with "better than perfect vision" our whole lives together, just started wearing glasses. (Don't call them bifocals around him, though, egad, they are progressive lenses! Get it right!)
I carried the leaky case with me into two more rooms. The first had a piece of equipment to test your focus (I guess) and one that takes huge pictures of both eyeballs. Later, when I saw the pictures I had to chuckle at how well it also captured my weirdly curly eyelashes. The next and last room is where all the action happens, where you find out how much your prescription changed since last time and any other things to be watching or worried about.
"Any health problems?" Dr. finally asked me. Well, kind of. I told him about the cancer, the surgery, the treatments, and let him know those are all over. He took note on the computer. I told him that I had been having issues lately with my contact becoming very blurry and sort of goopy. Took another note.
At the end of the long room there were letters were projected on a screen. He asked me to read it. Nailed it. A smaller line of letters appeared and he asked me to read it. Aced it again. "Huh." Dr. kept going back and looking at the numbers on his screen.
Dr. H swiveled around and handed me a card. "What's the smallest type you can read on this card?" I started reading the smallest paragraph. He shook his head and turned back to the screen. Then he turned back, pulled over one of those contraptions that you put your chin in and forehead on and a bright light shines in your eye while you stare at the doctor's ear. He pushed it back and brought over the lenses thingy.
Next came "Which is better? One. Or Two." "Three. Or Four." On and on.
"According to the numbers you don't need glasses." Big silence in the room while we both processed this information. I've been wearing glasses since I was 20. I've had bifocals since I was in my 30s. I started wearing a single contact lens (known as mono-vision) three years ago. I don't need glasses?
A miracle! A real miracle! I've been healed! I made some comments to Dr. H about having to get cancer for my eyes to get better. I asked him if he's ever had this happen before and he said that it has happened in certain cases. He went on with some things we need to keep an eye on in the future and made a note in the computer: "No RX needed." Dr. H showed me to the lobby and I told the nurses the news. "It's a miracle," he said. YES.
I floated out the door. If I had been wearing a beret I would have done the Mary Tyler Moore hat toss in the middle of downtown Huntington. This is awesome! Wait, what would Bob say?
Here's what he said: "Was the contact still in?" Of course not, Bob! He's a DOCTOR. He had equipment pointed at my eye! I told lots of people at work about the miracle. I don't need glasses any more, isn't that awesome?
At home, as Bob was leaving for his weekly carry-out-excursion I told him, "I'm going to go find some FINE PRINT to read!" After he was gone I had several to-dos around the house, including some outdoor stuff, and noticed later that my eyes felt very dry. I rubbed my eyes and. And.
And took out the contact lens that had been there all along.
You'd think I would be destroyed. Instead I started laughing and couldn't quit laughing.
There were a lot of things that should have been red flags. But, I'm now used to my life (literally) being in the hands of these professionals, and trusting them implicitly. (While praying for them and trusting God...) I ask questions but I don't question their expertise. If doctor says my toenails will grow back I trust him and put the drops on as prescribed. If doctor says I need 16 rounds of chemo I believe him. If doctor says I need 28 radiation treatments, I know he's not just throwing a dart.
That and I'm looking for the miracle. All through this I have been the oddball, the unusual, the exception. I've experienced miracles first-hand. So why would I NOT believe that my eyes got better? Why would I NOT believe miracle FIRST? I guess you can call me naive.
Why did this happen? Maybe it was just so that, for even a second, some people could believe that miracles can happen. Maybe it was so Dr. H would think about how he can participate in God's healing power. Maybe it was just to have a funny, silly, story to tell. Who knows.
Now that everyone knows my eyesight wasn't miraculously made perfect, what happened? Well mostly people who know me are just laughing with me about it. "Oh, Polly," they say and shake their heads. In the most endearing, loving, understanding way. Polly believes in miracles. Polly still believes in miracles.
I do. I'm a miracle. You're a miracle. Throw the hat.
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