The doctor who performed my corneal transplant is based over in Seattle, a good 90 minute drive away. He recommended I find a local optometrist to take care of my day-to-day needs, including fitting me with a new pair of contacts. I found one out here who took our insurance, and went in to her office, hopeful and excited that I would be entering into a new day of painless vision.
The day I first visited, the primary doctor was out, and a sub was there in her place.
To put it kindly, he didn't know what he was doing. Without going into detail, he had no idea how to handle the fact that I'd had a transplant (hint: it shouldn't have mattered at all. But he wouldn't accept that).
Still, he ordered me a contact; the regular optometrist, for whom he was covering, suggested I try it out, and we'd go from there.
I tried it out. It worked. Sort of. But not really.
I went back to see my surgeon, a corneal specialist. He looked through his machine at my eye, and groaned. Or was it a laugh?
But I was due back at my new optometrist the next week, so I went in. She agreed it didn't fit, and told me she would order a new one.
That was well before Thanksgiving. I haven't heard a word back from her, since. I did stop by her office right after Christmas and left a message, but still no word.
So I went back for my check-up with the corneal surgeon. He looked (again) through his machine. This time he swore. "It looks like they just grabbed any old contact and threw it on there."
So we're on to plan B, which involves heading over to Seattle and letting the specialist fit me with the *correct* lens.
Oh, and this from the specialist.
"You seem to have a little cataract in your right eye. Your left eye, too. Nothing to worry about, except it's rare in somebody as young as you."
And the journey continues. . .