Opinion

Invisible and exposed — but adaptable, as only the old can be

Eyes? Did someone mention eyes? I had made peace with the decline of my eyes — the weakening vision, the saggy eyelids’ hostile takeover of the eyeball, the eight remaining lashes — until two years ago, when dry eye appeared. Dry eye in my case has meant symptoms too repulsive to go into here.

So I made an appointment right away, and the ophthalmologist gave me a prescription to use twice a day, along with instructions to use over-the-counter eyedrops five times a day and gel drops at bedtime.

Regrettably, I mostly forgot to do all this, or could not be bothered to, except for the prescription.

Curiously, the condition did not improve.

My excuse for not following directions was that it seemed like too much to do, and there were other priorities. My family, my writing, sick friends, elections and pickleball, but I finally decided to make another appointment to see my ophthalmologist.

The HMO to which I have belonged since I was four has new systems in place. New systems do not really work for me or my older friends. When we joined this HMO in the 1950s, pediatricians made house calls (and smoked with your parents in the living room). Also, you could telephone and make same-day appointments.

Now, you have to discuss your wish for an appointment with an advice nurse.

So, the other day, I called Ophthalmology and was placed on hold for 45 minutes, while warped séance/Ouija board music played, the first time in my life I have pined for a Muzak rendition of “Up, Up and Away.” I finally hung up, thinking it was a glitch in the system. I tried again, got put on hold for another half-hour, and hung up again. Having errands to do near the medical center, I decided to drive up and make an appointment in person.

The superpower my older friends and I share is that we have learned to adapt to changing circumstances, like England’s peppered moths that, during the Industrial Age, darkened in tandem with the arrival of soot. My colleagues and I gladly adapted to bifocals, hearing aids, Depends, custom orthotics — whatever we needed to keep our standard of living as high as possible. (My husband and I thought of registering for wedding gifts at the local Jack’s Durable Medical Equipment and Pharmacy.) We’ve learned to adjust when things go wrong, rather than try to control things. How do we know things will go wrong? Because that is the nature of life.

Two receptionists were behind the desk when I got there, one older and cranky-looking, and a friendly younger one who looked about 15. When the younger one waved me forward and asked how she could help, I explained how long I’d been on hold and that I’d driven up because I needed to be seen.

The mean nurse butted in and said, “This is not the ER. This is not triage. If you need to be seen, go to acute care.” I drew myself up with a look of appalled distress that would have made Maggie Smith proud. I said, “I don’t believe I’m speaking to you. Please don’t interrupt.”

Where did that perfect retort come from? Thank you, age.

It shut her up, and I would have claimed victory, had I not then started to cry in silence. The young woman said gently that she wanted to help me but they weren’t nurses and so could not make appointments. I’d have to get back on the phone. There was a wall phone off to the side of reception where I could call the advice nurse.

Another of the gifts of older age kicked in: surrender. I lay down my weapons. The young woman showed me to the phone, and pulled up a chair for me. I sat down, no longer teary.

I got a Madame Blavatsky serenade again. Sigh. But then I remembered something: On planes, a voice always reminds us that, if the lights go out, path lights will come on to guide us. What are the path lights when life does not work?

You just can’t go wrong with deep breaths. Us praying people pray — I say in silence, “I currently hate everything about life so please help me. Have at it, Pal. Amen.” After doing that, I made a gratitude list — this was dry eye, not third stage ocular melanoma. Also, no hairy spiders nearby.

I ate a protein bar from the Carter administration that I found in my purse.

Ten minutes later, the ophthalmology advice nurse came on, and I explained that I’d been on hold nearly two hours.

Right off the bat, the nurse snapped at me for complaining, as he had to handle 50 calls a day. Tears began to roll down my face again. This time, I was glad to be invisible. He asked whether I was doing exactly what the doctor had said to do, and repeated the protocol. I was busted. He snapped that I would not need an appointment if I did what I had been told. I somehow managed to tell him I wanted one anyway. He made an exasperated sigh; you would have thought I’d asked him to come by my house and give the kitty a flea dip. But he gave me one for a month away.

I hung up, dried my tears and put on some lip gloss. Then, I went to the front desk. The young woman looked up expectantly. Better? One of the gifts of vulnerability, of exposure, is that you show, so she could read me. I smiled and nodded and she smiled, too. “You’re going to have a good life,” I told her. “I can tell these things.” She patted her heart gratefully; love had tiptoed in on little cat feet. (Older people know how much words of appreciation can change a person’s life, or at least their day.)

Puffy clouds hung high in the sky for me like the frostiness of the sea turned upside down. They are only water vapor and air, but look how deliciously solid their shapes are. It’s a celestial trick, proof once again of how substantial the insubstantial can be.

I hated feeling as though I were back in the eighth-grade locker room, but at least this time it was for only a few hours. Ever since, because I’ve been doing everything the advice nurse said, my eyes are a lot better and you know what? I’ll probably cancel the appointment.