Something embarrassing happened this week.  I recently moved from the state of Cal-if-FOR’-NI-yay (‘swimmin’ pools, movie stars’) to another, until I reach the destination where I will hang my final hat (that will be for another post, first I must get the weed-smoking goblins who followed me from La-La Land to stop dancing in my head.)  I had been driving around with my still-valid CA license which isn’t against the law, but I didn’t want to press my luck. I decided to suck it up and brave the DMV.  That, and I absolutely must be registered to vote this November 5^th.  I’m one of those Americans who, in an ingenuous way, still believes that somehow, someway, my vote will count.   

With my folder of required documents and freshly blown out hair for that vehicular version of a mugshot, I arrived at the DMV early.  After completing their portion of the paperwork, I ambled up to window G hoping for a painless transaction.  The clerk, who asked the requisite questions and entered my data as if her fingers were competing on “Dancing with the Stars,” asked that I do one more thing before my mugshot … “Will you please place your eyes in the eye chart and read the second line for me?”  Huh? I thought… I didn’t know there was going to be a pop quiz. My documents are neatly clipped and I’m wearing my prescription lenses, as required by law, why do you need me to press into this unsanitary View Master thing?  “We have to make sure you can still see well enough to drive,” answered the clerk, indifferently.  With some trepidation, I pressed my forehead into the View Master and said, “OK, you can put it on now.”  The clerk, now with a vacant stare and emotionless tone, alerted me “it is on…” 

I started to sense trouble.  I was able to see a few teensy-weensy letters that appeared to be hovering above the line, as if they were a lettered Picasso, but it didn’t make much sense.  If they would have only shown stereograms from my childhood vacations to Florida, where I could have easily identified the potpourri of relatives underneath the stretched rubber flower embossed bathing caps, I would have aced it. I was tempted to ask if they could make the letters a little bit larger but then realized that would defeat the purpose of the test.  I thought my vision had been okay; I knew I needed a tweak to my prescription and that I had a few, small cataracts, courtesy of my recent medical treatments, but I felt fine driving.  I may not be able to count how many stick figures the guy in front of me has displayed on his back window to proudly indicate the size of his family, but I can see a big rig coming down the highway.  No, I was fine.  There must be a mistake. 

“Well,” said the clerk, “unless you can read line 2 of the eye chart, I can’t process your license today.”  I started to sigh.  “What happens if I can’t read line 2, do I have any other options right now?”  “Well,” the clerk added, “we can issue you a restricted license for the time being which will allow you to drive from sunrise to sunset, just not during dark hours.”  Great, the DMV can become my Fairy God-Warden, and I, a senior Cinderella, racing to get home before dark lest I turn into a traffic violation. 

As I debated what to do, images of my then-almost 80-year-old grandfather, “Buffalo,” popped in my mind.  He had cataracts, although I’m not sure whether he had them removed before he died. I do know he continued to drive probably long after he should have. With his coke bottle glasses, the kind that could burn ants on a sidewalk if you were so inclined, he was easily identifiable behind the wheel.  His colossal blue Oldsmobile 98 appeared to glide down our town’s boulevard at a speed of 20 miles per hour, driving on the center line between the lanes, and he, smiling like an undaunted Buddha while remaining oblivious to the frustrated drivers who were trying to pass.  “I’m turning into my grandfather,” I thought.  “I already have his buffalo blood, now I have his eyes…”

Fortunately, I was able to get an appointment for an eye exam that afternoon.  The optometrist assured me that while I would have to have the cataracts removed for sharper vision and before they caused any further damage, she could get me back to 20/40 vision with a few clicks of a “Better 1, or Better 2,” enough for me to pass my eye test.  Whew.  There was a plan.  “And,” the woman who fitted my new glasses reassured, “You’ll be thrilled at how much stronger and crisper you’ll see after they implant the new lens!”

Wonderful.  I’ll be able to see more clearly.  As if the “Big C” didn’t cause me to see my life and those around me with extraordinary perception and an uncomfortable clarity, I’ll now be able to grab my laptop at 2 a.m. on those nights when memory recall in my mind won’t stop revolving and not suffer eye strain.