Yesterday I went to the eye doctor for a routine checkup – which I admit I have been slack about, despite being cross eyed and wearing bifocals since I was a little kid. Thanks to this way-neat and not-covered-by-insurance machine that took a big picture of the back of my eye, I found out that at the ripe age of 31, I have glaucoma.
After a minor freak out, I hopped over to my old friend, the internet, and found out that it’s not a guaranteed conclusion that I will lose my sight because it was caught early and because I can get care to monitor the problem. I don’t have to start flipping out that I’m going to go blind. But I do have to accept that it’s not ok to slack off about going to the eye doctor, and I need care and attention to preserve my already-FUBAR eyesight.
Hubby was understandably worried, but I calmed down and we talked about the worst-case scenarios. What would I do for work if I lost my sight, what would we do differently – and then I realized:
Sarah: “HOLY CRAP. I wouldn’t be able to read romance novels until I learned Braille or found big huge large print books to read!”
Sarah: “Would you read romance novels to me when I needed to be entertained?”
Hubby: *horrified look of momentary panic* “Yeah. I’ll read you your romances. But I get to laugh, right?”