SO my eye doctor tells me yesterday that he has NO IDEA what’s causing the misalignment, and is referring me to whiever of the two Big Name Medical Centers (either the University of California, San Francisco or Cal/Pacific) will be covered by my insurance, since he wants the neuro-oculists (neuro-optometrists?) inhabiting same to examine me before calling for a CAT scan or MRI.
“Should I be flattered?” I asked. He, not sharing the mordant sense of humor that is the genetic legacy of my father and his father and his and and so on back to Sinai and before (at least for the Attinson Clan — maybe not for Levites in general) just looked at me blankly.
I told him that (when I work) I am a newspaper reporter, and used to cold, brutal facts. “What exactly did you see in my eyes that makes you want to refer me to the finest medical minds within 100 miles?”
He looked at me. “It’s not strabismus, because if it were, it would have gotten better or at least stabilized instead of getting as bad as it’s gotten.” He also doubted that it’s something pressing on my eye or optical nerve, because it would be evidenced by something secondary (my capillaries would be all swollen up, say).
“Huh,” I said. “Can I at least get a corrective lens to tide me over?”
“There isn’t one strong enough to correct the misalignment,” he said.
“Huh,” I said. I was tempted to ask him for a large-caliber handgun and a big pile of ammunition, and some canned food, but declined on account of the humor thing.
So here I sit, typing one-eyed into the void, waiting for a phone call to guide me to the next stop on the way. Ann is frantic. I am strangely philosophical. I guess I’ll just get through it.