Chapter 20: [read and unread]

There are only a few things that truly terrify me. Drowning is one. I remember as a teenager swimming off the coast of Santa Monica and getting caught in the mildest of rip tides. I’m not the strongest swimmer, though, and the current proved just determined enough to keep me from easily returning to shore. I quickly dispelled a moment’s panic and relied instead on my instinct to reduce all fear to a series of accomplishable tasks, both remembering what to do and how to do it; swimming parallel to the shore I escaped the nagging current and, once in easier waters, returned to the feel of gritted sand under my feet.

My other big fear is my eyes. I once saw an old Japanese horror movie—a genre that there is more subtle than here—possessing a single gratuitously awful scene involving an eye and a needle. (This was long before such moments had become ridiculously common). The scene, wrapped as it was in an odd little love story (I did say the Japanese were more subtle in their horror), was one I could not watch, could not even listen to. I left the room. Even when merely written the thought of damaged eyes haunts me. John Irving (an excellent author whose stories, sadly, have never really captured me) in The World According to Garp had a child lose any eye to a Volvo’s stick shift. I understood then and understand now the need for the novel’s tragic moment, but why an eye?

And there are few things that I truly love. I truly love my wife and children, and I’m not even adding an “of course” after that clause, since such love shouldn’t be assumed or taken for granted. I love music, both the listening to and the playing of, and when I’m traveling it saddens me that days go by where I can’t pick up a guitar, or lay fingers to piano keys or flute.

And I love reading. But that you know.

*****

Aging is an odd process, one that proceeds in humans much like it does in automobiles. The early years are great: everything handles perfectly, things stop and start when they should, everything accelerates smoothly.  Basic nutrition and exercise keep things running with little thought. After some years, though, maintenance requires a more attentive ear, a more concentrated eye. Small parts start to weaken. At 57, that’s about where I am—there’s no need to worry about anything, but awareness has climbed. A shoulder aches, a knee twinges. It’s a little harder to get in and out of a car. A three-hour flight in coach pins-and-needles the legs. But it’s no big deal.

Unless it’s the eyes.

I’ve worn glasses since I was a kid; at age twelve the chalkboard (that’s what they were then, slate with white marks and erasure’s shadows) seemed slightly further away than it should have been and the words on it bore fuzzed edges. Moving to the front of the class wasn’t an option; seats were assigned and decisions irrevocable. Glasses were the answer, and not a surprise—my mother had worn thickened lenses for many years and she recognized the need right away. Since then new prescriptions have followed every few years; now I own progressive trifocals which serve me well.

(In case you’re wondering, by the way, why I never considered Lasik surgery—or even contact lenses—I refer you back to paragraph two, the one that includes the reference to a particular horror movie.)

Recently it became clear (or unclear, to be specific) that the need for yet another new prescription has come round. It’s been four years plus since the last cycle—a span longer than normal, I admit, but a span sans vision coverage on my insurance plan—and street signs were starting to wander a bit in my field of vision. So I set up an appointment.

Normally such visits are boringly routine.  This one wasn’t.  It seems there’s something wrong with one of my eyes. Or maybe both.

I don’t know exactly what it is, nor exactly what it means. The term used was corneal dystrophy which (thanks to Google) I now know something about—just enough to feed my fears. I have an appointment scheduled with a specialist, and it’s entirely possible that the initial diagnosis is wrong. But the numbers (everything is measured and numbered these days, even eyes) aren’t what they should be, and they’ve been checked twice. My new prescription still leaves the left eye’s vision fuzzy, and no amount of Which is better? One or two? Two or Three? manages to clear it up.

I’m a little freaked.

*****

As a writer, I suffer from imagination, and right now the condition hangs above me like Poe’s pendulum. I’m dwelling too heavily on what it would be like to cross one of my greatest fears with one of my greatest passions: what it would be like to lose literal clarity—the ability to read?  I know there are many options (should it come to that), but I have for so long merely assumed this simple and pleasant activity.  I read for pleasure every single day of my life. I grab a book with my morning coffee; I break out an essay over a lunchtime salad; when I travel I read over dinner and in airplane terminals and in the skies. I can’t imagine reading becoming difficult, unpleasant, uncomfortable.

*****

I have just a few books left on this list; it’s been a while since I’ve written anything, but the reading has continued unceasing. There have been more and more non-Pulitzered books on my nightstand and in my suitcase (Doctor Who novels, it turns out, last about the length of a non-stop flight from New Hampshire to Florida), but the end is in sight.

What an ironic phrase, don’t you think?

The end is in sight.

It better not be.

 

 

Read since last post:

• The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao, Junot Diaz, 2008
• March, Geraldine Brooks, 2006
• The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay, Michael Chabon, 2001
• The Known World, Edward P. Jones, 2004
• Lonesome Dove, Larry McMurtry, 1986
• The Stories of John Cheever, John Cheever, 1979
• Andersonville, MacKinlay Kantor, 1956
• Angle of Repose, Wallace Stegner, 1972 

Currently Reading:

• All the Light We Cannot See, Anthony Doerr, 2015

Count: 85 read; 3 to go