T he letters wouldn’t come into focus. I wasn’t concerned at first. ‘He’s just going to start flipping through those lenses and everything will sharpen up,’ I told myself. ‘You’ll see.’ But as the ophthalmologist began to click through the lenses (“Tell me which is better,” he intoned, “one or two?”), the letters stayed blurry, inscrutable figures nearly obscured by the brightness behind them. Quietly, I began to panic, experiencing a kind of test anxiety as I waited for him to ask me to read one of the lines. When his student distracted him with a question and he forgot to quiz me on a line, I felt a rush of childish relief. I couldn’t read the lines, not any of them. Had my…