My optometrist

While convalescing from a bad case of flu (upper respiratory tract infection, probably viral, if I should document that in my chart), I headed to my optometrist to get an eye exam and a new pair of glasses. It has been a while since my last visit—three years ago, when I was still a medical student. Now with long, black-brown hair but still brimming with a hippie vibe, she remembered me fondly, telling me, while checking her index cards, that she started seeing me in 2005. I was around 17 then, majoring in molecular biology, when I could still see my feet clearly sans the spectacles. These days, you could strip yourself naked right before me, and I wouldn’t recognize a thing.

My eyesight hasn’t deteriorated that much. For the past three years, I maintained the same grade; the astigmatism hasn’t worsened either. I remember her telling me that the myopia stabilizes at some point; I must have already reached that steady-state.

I never buy frames without my optometrist’s approval—she has impeccable, unimpeachable taste. I arranged my finds on the glass counter, then let her pick one for me. “This,” she said, her eyes brightened with excitement, pointing to the round frame, “You look very smart with it, like Gandhi.”

She tried it on me, then noticed that the way it was angled on my face was awkward. She twisted the frame’s legs. “Tsk,” she said, “it still falls off. Just you wait—I’ll put paddings.”

My frame will be available this Tuesday. Nella Sarabia, the daughter of the country's first optometrist, who happens to be my Spanish-speaking, super-cool eye expert, has never failed me.