I don’t recall the name for the doctor who prescribed my glasses but he had a fancy title.  His assistant’s voice dripped in awe as she described his prowess. He oozed into the room with the same self-importance of my other eye doctors.  He performed a few more tests than they did, confirmed my long-standing belief in my brain’s frustration with my right eye, and radically changed my prescription.

Before he left, he told me never again to go to the type of specialist who had been treating me, and always go to his type of specialist.  Of course, I don’t remember what it was.

It’s no matter, though.  As with all those other men and women who strove to force my eyes to see from behind thousand dollar lenses of their design, three months later, I find myself taking off my glasses to read, type, and squint at the car’s navigation system.

My little heater churns away, spewing its wide warmth throughout my tiny house.  In an hour, I’ll head into a restaurant in Rio Vista to attend a Rotary meeting.  I’ll try not to cough.  I’ll study the faces of the Rotarians eating breakfast and conducting their weekly business, wondering if this place will give me the sense of family which I felt in my home club.  I’ll drink hot tea, and strain to hear the speaker, and smile.  Most of all, I’ll smile.  If I cannot have eyes which see, at least I can have a face which welcomes anyone who chances by.

It’s the twenty-sixth day of the forty-ninth month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.

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