Yesterday was full of excitement, drama, and a possible career opportunity in the field of healthcare.
I need a new pair of glasses. When I told Kit this last week, she decided I needed an eye exam by an actual doctor, and she called up her ophthalmologist and made me an appointment.
I’m used just to heading down the street and getting a pair of glasses at the place where a rotating cast of 14 year-old doctors tend to my optical needs. Granted, there have been times when I doubted Doogie’s prescription. When I questioned my lens strength, I was assured that the headache and dizziness caused by my new Rx would go away eventually as I got used to my stronger prescription. They *kind of* went away, but, swayed by the hipster-fashion of the chunky frames, I wore them despite the mild headache and occasional vomiting.
Kit took the afternoon off from work to escort me to her eye doctor, whose office is located in Canada’s second largest mall. (Apparently, I cannot be trusted in a mall by myself. One day I’ll write about the Great Cheetah Leggings Incident of 2011.) We took a bus and then a train to the next city over, finally arriving at the bright and shining mall. Kit led me through the maze of atriums and chain stores.
The doctor was an older, quite affable man in his fifties who was efficient with all of the tests and drops and such, but he also took his time to ask about my eye-health history. After the exam the doctor had some news.
“Well, it seems like your old prescription is far stronger than you need. Either your eyesight has improved, which doesn’t happen or—”
I cut in, “What? It’s improved?! I AM A MIRACLE. I have healed my vision.”
The doctor’s jaw dropped. And he stood there frozen.
And that’s how I outed myself as a faith healer.