A Trip To The Opthamologist
When I was a kid back in the 1960s, my mom would sometimes take me to the eye doctor just to make sure I still did not need to wear glasses. In retrospect, I think these visits were largely unnecessary and were the result of my parents becoming friends with the local ophthalmologist. He and his wife were regularly in attendance at the bridge club parties held at our home each month. We lived in a small town and I am pretty sure this guy had a corner on the market when it came to providing eye care. With our choices limited, and the additional motivation of the relational connection, I became very familiar with the routine of our family Eye Doctor.
The thing I remember the most about my visits to the opthamologist was how frightening the office of the good Doctor seemed to be. During the 1960s and 70s wood paneling was the standard wall covering for most office buildings. Before the days of bright white walls and pale fluorescent lighting, a faux walnut veneer and few 60 watt bulbs could make for a very dingy atmosphere. Upon our arrival, I would often be taken right into the inner sanctum of the office. This was the room with the old leather chair which faced the big black machine that looked like a robotic Mardi Gras mask. The Dr. would always leave my Mom in the waiting room, follow me in, and then close the door behind him. Though the outer areas of the office were dark, this room was even darker. Like clockwork, my eyes would try to adjust as my pulse quickened. Once seated, my attention was invariably drawn to the giant Blue Marlin taxidermy that hung on the wall across from the eye chart. I am not sure why it was hanging there, but it was the only thing that was well lit once the door was closed. I vividly remember how distracting the big fish could be when I was asked to put my face in the scary mask machine and try to focus on the blurry letters.
Which is more clear? This one, or that one? That one, or this one? In my young mind, this process felt like it might go on forever. Remember, I really did not need glasses in the first place. I often would have to remind myself that this was just a check up, and I would soon be out in the lobby digging out a prize from the fake treasure chest that was packed full of cheap plastic do dads made specifically to lessen the pain locked in the memories of each visit. Once this part of the exam was complete, I would then be seated at a little table on the other side of the room. Here sat an unassuming little machine which I was to place my chin in and then stare into a small circle of light. Somehow I would always forget what this thing did until it was too late. Without warning, a puff of air would hit my eyeball sending my body into an uncontrollable flinch while I simultaneously let out a scream like a startled little girl. What was that? I would protest, but to no avail. Apparently I was not old enough, or smart enough to even justify a straight answer. Even though I now understand why this was all necessary, I must admit, I still try to avoid visiting the opthamologist unless absolutely necessary. Nonetheless, if you currently need help finding one in your area, there is a link to a detailed directory listed below.
The thing I remember the most about my visits to the opthamologist was how frightening the office of the good Doctor seemed to be. During the 1960s and 70s wood paneling was the standard wall covering for most office buildings. Before the days of bright white walls and pale fluorescent lighting, a faux walnut veneer and few 60 watt bulbs could make for a very dingy atmosphere. Upon our arrival, I would often be taken right into the inner sanctum of the office. This was the room with the old leather chair which faced the big black machine that looked like a robotic Mardi Gras mask. The Dr. would always leave my Mom in the waiting room, follow me in, and then close the door behind him. Though the outer areas of the office were dark, this room was even darker. Like clockwork, my eyes would try to adjust as my pulse quickened. Once seated, my attention was invariably drawn to the giant Blue Marlin taxidermy that hung on the wall across from the eye chart. I am not sure why it was hanging there, but it was the only thing that was well lit once the door was closed. I vividly remember how distracting the big fish could be when I was asked to put my face in the scary mask machine and try to focus on the blurry letters.
Which is more clear? This one, or that one? That one, or this one? In my young mind, this process felt like it might go on forever. Remember, I really did not need glasses in the first place. I often would have to remind myself that this was just a check up, and I would soon be out in the lobby digging out a prize from the fake treasure chest that was packed full of cheap plastic do dads made specifically to lessen the pain locked in the memories of each visit. Once this part of the exam was complete, I would then be seated at a little table on the other side of the room. Here sat an unassuming little machine which I was to place my chin in and then stare into a small circle of light. Somehow I would always forget what this thing did until it was too late. Without warning, a puff of air would hit my eyeball sending my body into an uncontrollable flinch while I simultaneously let out a scream like a startled little girl. What was that? I would protest, but to no avail. Apparently I was not old enough, or smart enough to even justify a straight answer. Even though I now understand why this was all necessary, I must admit, I still try to avoid visiting the opthamologist unless absolutely necessary. Nonetheless, if you currently need help finding one in your area, there is a link to a detailed directory listed below.
