As the day of my appointment drew near, my dread of getting glasses morphed into excitement at regaining my vision. At this point, my eyes were getting in the way of my daily life and I longed for the day I could see normally again, even if it meant being called “four eyes”. I missed being able to sight read piano notes, run down tennis balls, and absorb the whole action movie experience again.  Not having 20/20 vision, as I quickly realized, was not fun.

Before long, the day finally arrived. I sat in the ophthalmologist chair, with one eye covered and attempting to read the eye chart. I squinted and squirmed, repositioned my head and asked for the lights to be dimmed; nevertheless, I could only correctly identify big “E” in the first row. After a few other unsuccessful tests, I was given a pair of trial frames to wear, and the prescribing process began. I felt myself anticipating my reunion with my vision finally as the ophthalmologist slid the first lens in the glasses frame. I looked at the letters projected on the screen twenty feet in front of me, but didn’t notice a dramatic increase in acuity; if anything the letters on the screen became blurrier. The eye doctor pushes me to focus and try harder, but I just can’t read it (looking back, I think he thought I was lying). He takes the lens out, and replaces it with another lens, and again I stare at the screen with no luck. This repeats for nearly an hour. Each time the doctor puts in a new lens, I close my eyes and think to myself “maybe this is the one,” and imagine the magical moment when I would open my eyes and have my world so clear and perfect again. But this moment never came. After an hour of placing a new lens in, the buildup of hope, and the disappointment of the lack of improvement in my vision, the ophthalmologist left the room with my parents. I stood in the large room, alone with the most recent lenses in the glasses and just stared at the screen trying to force myself to see the letters and trick myself into believing that these lenses were the right ones.

The eye doctor returned, and dilated my eyes. He then proceeded to perform a series of eye tests and examinations on me for another hour. Finally, the doctor left with the information and left my parents and I anxiously awaiting the results. I remember just being so confused and wondering what was going on, and why glasses didn’t work on me, like they did for everyone else. What was wrong with me? I played the last month in my mind, of how I initially found the mere prospect of having glasses despicable. Now, sitting in the waiting room, I longed for nothing but to just find anything that would help me get my vision back, and promised myself that if I was lucky enough to find a pair of glasses that worked for me, I would wear them all the time without a single complaint. After another half an hour of endless worrying, the doctor called my parents and I into another room.  “I’m sorry” he sighed as if it pained him to continue. “But you have Stargardt’s eye disease. You’re visually impaired”.

TIP: At an eye appointment, ALWAYS TELL THE TRUTH. Even if you don’t want to admit to yourself, the eye doctor, or your parents how much your vision has declined, or if you really want to say a certain prescription lens works for you when it doesn’t, tell the ophthalmologist exactly what you can and can’t see. This way, you are able to get the best help you need for your circumstance.  Additionally, if you are a parent or an eye doctor present at these eye tests, do not influence your child by reacting to what they can or can’t see. For example, if a parent exclaims, “WHAT? You can’t even see the third row now on the eye chart now?” the child may feel uncomfortable and try to guess his or her way out of lines he/she cannot actually see. Always create a comfortable environment for the patient during eye exams, in which he or she feels comfortable telling the whole truth about his/her vision.