Reading the Chart
I had cataract surgery on both eyes. Both times the surgery was followed with several pre-op visits and post-op visits at a day, a week, a month, 90 days and finally a year following surgery. All that time in the eye doctor’s office means you begin to develop opinions about things you wouldn’t ordinarily even think about. For example: the font on an eye chart.
Having had to “read the smallest row I can make out” innumerable times over the last two and a half years I can tell you with absolute certainty that I find the font that my eye doctor uses to be quite annoying. His office does not use the traditional font that you’re all accustomed to from your own optic adventures or driver’s license exams. Instead they use a font that, digging around on the Web I have found is actually named “eye chart”
This font is quite annoying. When viewed at a distance, the difference between an “8” and a “B” is minimal and the “Y” and the “V” look more similar than the picture lets on. As a result when reading any of those I offer both options. Of course, in all likelihood that means I got that letter “wrong” even though it’s not a matter of visual clarity at hand but rather one of interpretation.
One thing I couldn’t find on the web was how the Eye Chart font got to be the Eye Chart font? What is the science? Was there a contest? What was wrong with the old block letter eye chart? Those letters were distinctive, crisp and clear. These new letters are ambiguous. They allow room for interpretation. Measurement (and make no mistake, these are instruments of measurement) should be black and white. Clearly defined. Now, as though life in our time wasn’t confusing enough, even the eye chart has room for interpretation.
I asked this question during my most recent exam and nobody seemed to know. It was just “look in here at the balloon, stay focused on the balloon, now read this line”. The chart in the balloon machine is worse than the projected one I have to read from the chair in that they always have the same line pop up after the balloon tests my focus: Z H V N C 8. You see the problem here; by now I have that line memorized because I’ve read it so many times. I haven’t told the assistant that yet because they make me read a line after that that I haven’t memorized yet because I don’t quite have 20/20 vision so I always miss a few letters and am not sure of the ones I do read. Besides, the doctor makes me read the wall chart anyway and I don’t have that one memorized because they do change the lines. It is a tough decision though: To tell the assistant or not to tell? Should I tell them I have their line memorized? What would happen then? Would they have to put me on a different machine? Would someone get in trouble? These things are difficult and dramatic. Best to just go on with the charade like a good patient, no? What do you do in situations like that? Play your role and keep it moving or tell the truth and risk blowing everything up? As long as everything else works out and I can read with my glasses on (and often now without them) what does it matter?
Maybe next time I go back for an exam the font will be different. Maybe it’ll be the old font that we all know and, well, most of you probably have no feelings about it but boy do I miss it. All I can hope is that the font will change or maybe even that the line will change, that line that come right after “look at the balloon, OK” followed by the “brrrup-brriip”, “brrrup-briip” , “bruup-briip” grinding metal sound the machine makes as the multicolored balloon (looks like the old Corel logo, actually) moves in and out of focus. Three times it makes that noise, always three times like some obsessive-compulsive robot. Then the line, Z H V N C 8 in that damn subjective font comes up and I recite my line. Maybe next visit it will be different. Maybe the machine will only grind twice or maybe the font will change or maybe the line will change or maybe the machine won’t smell so strongly of the rubbing alcohol they have to put on all the parts that touch your head in today’s germ-phobic world. Maybe the change will be good, or maybe if there is no change I’ll finally tell them the awful truth and see what happens. Maybe.
Maybe not.
Having had to “read the smallest row I can make out” innumerable times over the last two and a half years I can tell you with absolute certainty that I find the font that my eye doctor uses to be quite annoying. His office does not use the traditional font that you’re all accustomed to from your own optic adventures or driver’s license exams. Instead they use a font that, digging around on the Web I have found is actually named “eye chart”
This font is quite annoying. When viewed at a distance, the difference between an “8” and a “B” is minimal and the “Y” and the “V” look more similar than the picture lets on. As a result when reading any of those I offer both options. Of course, in all likelihood that means I got that letter “wrong” even though it’s not a matter of visual clarity at hand but rather one of interpretation.
One thing I couldn’t find on the web was how the Eye Chart font got to be the Eye Chart font? What is the science? Was there a contest? What was wrong with the old block letter eye chart? Those letters were distinctive, crisp and clear. These new letters are ambiguous. They allow room for interpretation. Measurement (and make no mistake, these are instruments of measurement) should be black and white. Clearly defined. Now, as though life in our time wasn’t confusing enough, even the eye chart has room for interpretation.
I asked this question during my most recent exam and nobody seemed to know. It was just “look in here at the balloon, stay focused on the balloon, now read this line”. The chart in the balloon machine is worse than the projected one I have to read from the chair in that they always have the same line pop up after the balloon tests my focus: Z H V N C 8. You see the problem here; by now I have that line memorized because I’ve read it so many times. I haven’t told the assistant that yet because they make me read a line after that that I haven’t memorized yet because I don’t quite have 20/20 vision so I always miss a few letters and am not sure of the ones I do read. Besides, the doctor makes me read the wall chart anyway and I don’t have that one memorized because they do change the lines. It is a tough decision though: To tell the assistant or not to tell? Should I tell them I have their line memorized? What would happen then? Would they have to put me on a different machine? Would someone get in trouble? These things are difficult and dramatic. Best to just go on with the charade like a good patient, no? What do you do in situations like that? Play your role and keep it moving or tell the truth and risk blowing everything up? As long as everything else works out and I can read with my glasses on (and often now without them) what does it matter?
Maybe next time I go back for an exam the font will be different. Maybe it’ll be the old font that we all know and, well, most of you probably have no feelings about it but boy do I miss it. All I can hope is that the font will change or maybe even that the line will change, that line that come right after “look at the balloon, OK” followed by the “brrrup-brriip”, “brrrup-briip” , “bruup-briip” grinding metal sound the machine makes as the multicolored balloon (looks like the old Corel logo, actually) moves in and out of focus. Three times it makes that noise, always three times like some obsessive-compulsive robot. Then the line, Z H V N C 8 in that damn subjective font comes up and I recite my line. Maybe next visit it will be different. Maybe the machine will only grind twice or maybe the font will change or maybe the line will change or maybe the machine won’t smell so strongly of the rubbing alcohol they have to put on all the parts that touch your head in today’s germ-phobic world. Maybe the change will be good, or maybe if there is no change I’ll finally tell them the awful truth and see what happens. Maybe.
Maybe not.
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