Going Blind After 40: Doctor Warns Near Vision Loss, Woman Borrows Glasses from the Elderly

I’m going blind. 

Sure, I can still see far-away objects with contacts, like a traffic light or a mother pushing her baby across the street in a stroller. And I have magnifying vision from about 1/8th of an inch away, like a super hero, but that is rarely useful.  Yet, the distance from the end of my nose to 12 inches away, I’ve got nothin’.

Around 40, my near vision started to disappear as slowly as a teenager washing dishes. The first sign I noticed I needed reading glasses was when I was enjoying a novel. 

In a dimly lit room late at night, snuggled into a down comforter, I stared at the page, tried to focus and blinked. Blink. Blink, blink.  In one instant the page was clear and the next, WHAM, I couldn’t see a word. I turned the book at a 30-degree angle, bending and twisting the pages. Still blurry. 

I leaned over and nudged my husband, “Can you read this?”

“Of course.  Not a problem.”  Mr. Perfect Eyes.

“Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

The next day, I went to for my annual exam.  He challenged me with a laminated notecard, teeny writing.  

“Read the last line.”

“You’re kidding?”  No one could read that!  It looked like specks of pepper sprinkled in a straight line.

“If you can’t read the last line, try the first line, please,” he said as he moved the card at arm’s length.

I squinted, “Is the first letter ‘A’?”

I left the office with two pairs of reading glass. Within nine months, I worked my way up three stronger prescriptions, +1.25, +1.50, and +1.75.  At that rate, I would be using a white cane in time for Fat Tuesday.

Getting ready for lunch with friends reinforced the fact that I needed a solution to near vision loss. Looking into the mirror, two black dots for eyes stared back at me.  After five tries at applying mascara, I jabbed the wand into my eye.  Black watery streaks ran down my face. I dabbed the mess and opted to take out my contacts and wear glasses instead. 

Minus one eye, I tweezed my brows. Like reading braille, I ran my fingers across the hairs, struggling to find any strays. In a flash, I lost an eyebrow. Must repair with a pencil. Maybe no one will notice.

Down one eye and an eyebrow, I figured the rest would be a cakewalk. Wrong.  Remember when you wondered how the heck grandma could get the lipstick on her teeth and miss the lip line by a mile? Now I know.

Staring back at myself in the mirror with the readers over my prescription glasses, I was horrified by the Picasso portrait that stared back. Oh. My. God.

At , I greeted everyone with a hug.

“Oh, I see you’re wearing glasses,” my friend said.

“Poked my eye with the mascara wand. No biggie.”

With only prescription lens, I struggled to read the menu. 

“Does anyone have a pair of readers I can borrow? Left them at home.”

Three hands started digging into ginormous purses but came up empty. Panic.  Not one of us could see well enough to order. We scanned fellow diners for a pair to borrow.

“Can we borrow your glasses?” I asked an elderly lady wearing bifocals on a chain around her neck.

We passed the reading glasses around the table but the waiter was back to take our order within seconds. His forehead scrunched up, eyes wandered around my face.  Take a picture it lasts longer, buddy! I was so frustrated, that when he asked for my order, I pointed at the salad. He returned with eggplant borani. 

“Lady, that’s what you pointed at. Want something else instead?”

“Whatever.”

Despite being aggravated by my loss of vision, I tried to focus on the conversation. After an hour talking about husbands and kids, we gathered our purses and paid the bill.

“Let’s split it four ways. It’s my turn to leave the tip.”

I left the tip on the table, a two-dollar bill.  Looks a lot like a twenty.