It's strange when the highlight of my day is visiting my eye doctor-- something I only get around to once a year. I guess you would understand if you knew my doctor. My mother calls him an aging hippie, but I think he looks more like a benign Mel Gibson, more likely forget what he's doing during an eye exam than call some lady "Sugartits." He also never wears socks. Ever.
For most of my life, he called me "Kaitlyn," which is decidedly not my name. It didn't matter that my preferred moniker was on my chart; I was Kaitlyn for a good 18 years. Then, out of nowhere, my name became "Kathryn," which is technically correct, but a name I never go by publicly. I still don't know what changed his mind.
But what really sets him apart is how good he makes you feel about your eyes.
"Wow, beautiful. Your eye pressure is absolutely perfect."
"That's a nice thick rim of tissue around your ocular nerve."
"Your anterior chamber is deep and calm." (I've never figure this one out, but I picture a velvet blue with a humpback whale singing mournfully behind my pupils. Please, let that be what's actually back there.)
What do you say to these things? "Why, thank you! I've been working very hard to build up such thick tissue. It's wonderful when one's work is noticed."
I come out of that office with a smile every time.