The Blind Eye Doctor

His sympathetic tone suggested that I should go home, climb into bed and wait for the end.

My eye doctor is blind.

Young enough to wear tennis shoes and joggers to work, he is very efficient.  I appreciate that, since I feel like I’m running out of time in this life. 

Recently, he talked to me about the changes that come with aging, and how there’s nothing we can do about it.  His sympathetic tone suggested that I should go home, climb into bed and wait for the end. 

“I’m grateful to be this age,” I tried to tell him.  “Not everyone gets here.” 

“Oh, well, with modern medicine, that’s no big deal.  This is nothing,” he assured me. 

Because he’s brisk, he was out the door before I could tell him that I used to be a hospice chaplain, and I met hundreds of people who would love to be my age.  Or any age.  My own brother didn’t make it this far, held captive to depression. 

I feel them circling around me, these people who died too young. 

They remind me to love each day as much as I can.  To end the conversation, or leave the house, with a kind word, since it may be the last word.  To put down the screen when a human being or a cat is in the room.  They nudge me to notice that even the days with committee meetings and boring reports are also filled with gifts.  Even on the hard days, we get to bend into a deep stretch, laugh at a kid’s joke, or watch the deer in the yard. 

Rushing out of the room in his cool shoes, the eye doctor couldn’t see it.  Any life that isn’t young and healthy doesn't look special to him.  Anyone old enough for reading glasses can see it, and so can some of our wise young friends.  I imagine you can, too. 

-- Mary Austin

The image above is via Pexels, by Wallace Chuck.