I’m feeling bummed.
I have assumed that I would undergo some sort of vision-correcting surgery since I first started feeling the impact of my superbly-crappy vision in high school.
It was supposed to happen six years ago.
And then the divorce happened instead.
And so I’ve been patient.
Every time I’ve shelled out $500 for custom-made contacts, I would tell myself that maybe this would be the last time.
When I failed the mask-clearing exercise to try to obtain my SCUBA certification, I promised myself that I would try again once I wasn’t afraid of my contacts washing out.
Every time I’ve felt my stomach drop when I can’t locate my glasses upon waking, I’ve found comfort in the idea that at some point I would no longer be dependent upon my lenses to function.
I thought the only thing standing between me and my new eyes was my lack of money and my crummy credit.
And now that those have improved, I scheduled a consultation for today.
I never imagined that I would face disappointment.
I’m not eligible.
Not because of my bank account.
Or my credit score.
But because of my prescription.
There’s simply not enough real estate on my eyes to be able to reshape them as much as they require.
It was a shock. I knew my eyes were bad. But I didn’t know they were that bad. And even though this discovery helps me communicate my vision difficulties to others (I think my mom is finally getting it and my husband better not tease me anymore about struggling to hit the target at the shooting range), I’d rather fall within the range of fixable.
Because it’s hard hearing a doctor say that there’s nothing they can do. Even when it’s nothing life-threatening.
Feeling bummed and blind.
And oh-so-thankful that I live in a time of custom-made toric lenses that at least allow me to drive and read and function.
Even if I have to accept that I’ll never be a SCUBA diving, sharpshooting pilot.