Business As Anything But Usual

First day back at work

After nearly three months of closure, the optometric clinic where I work is finally open for business — though business is anything but usual.

For starters, we’re located in a mall that’s still closed, so upon entering we must register with security and ask our patients to do the same. Our hours are also drastically reduced and appointment slots are lengthened to limit overlap. Plexiglass is installed at the reception desk and the counters are all adorned with masks, gloves, and cleaning supplies to showcase our unrelenting commitment to sanitation. Signs advertising physical distancing measures sprinkle the clinic walls and in complete obedience, small grey chairs at least two meters apart dot the wide hallway.

Adding to the dystopia, the clinic is brand new. Right before the pandemic hit, we moved just across the hall — a business choice I still don’t quite understand— so we’re still adjusting to the space, banging our knees on unfamiliar territory and instinctively reaching for light switches, forgetting they’re controlled by motion sensors.

Our clinic is now hidden at the back of an eyeglass shop that was previously our adjoining neighbour, so people-watching is out of the question and the acoustics of the new space immediately drowns my high-pitched voice. The double layers of altruistic protection offered by the mask and plexiglass — while very much appreciated — only add to my phonetic struggle.

The clinic’s maximum capacity is eight people, including staff, so patients are confronted with a massive, though polite, sign that asks them to wait outside until permission is granted — a vampire law we must now abide by.

As our first patient arrives, I check him in and immediately begin his preliminary testing. I have been an optometric assistant for nearly five years, but it currently feels like my very first day. A new environment, new procedures, new pandemic-tied perspectives, I feel somewhat anxious but massively relieved to be witnessing some pending normalcy.

“How have you been?” I ask the returning patient whose distinctive features I remember clearly. “Great!” he responds in a thick European accent, “our credit card bills are half what they used to be, I love working from home, and I’m sick of people so it’s been a nice break.” I nod in partial agreement and chuckle at his blunt response, appreciating his spirited honesty.

“Can I take a look at your glasses?” I ask as I reach out my hand. With a heavy hesitation, he removes his glasses and points them in my direction without extending his arm. “……Are you sure that’s safe?” he asks. “I’ll be sanitizing them afterward, I just need to verify the prescription you’re using,” I say as I tilt my head towards the army of cleaning supplies that glorify the small counters of this testing room. Their presence is reassuring and his hesitation is quickly absolved.

In the next testing room lies a futuristic piece of equipment, a major monument of our clinic that scans the majority of the back of the eye to detect retinal conditions and to help capture peripheral regions that may otherwise be difficult to see. A great scan is possible even with a pupil size as small as 2 millimeters! It’s absolutely incredible. Unfortunately, though, it’s also incredibly sensitive to movement — and all other things — so it can be an absolute nuisance for some patients.

I remind the patient of how the test works and ask him to position his chin and forehead accordingly. “We’ll begin with your right eye.” He correctly positions his eye as if looking out a peephole. So far, so good.

“A bit to your left — shift your entire head to the left — no, the other way — don’t turn your chin, just move your head to the left,” my mind struggles to convey it's out of practice expertise as my body fights the urge to offer physical guidance. It’s usually at this point that I’d ask the patient for permission to gently guide them with my hands before their composure runs out and our schedule falls apart.

Following some deep breaths and after accessing our individual reserves of stockpiled patience, we proceed to the doctor’s exam room where we continue chatting about life as we currently know it until I finish setting up. It takes me almost twice as long as normal to complete his testing and preliminary questions. “Sorry, it’s my first day,” I jokingly declare to my colleagues.

With every passing patient, the novelty of our current precautions and procedures begins to diminish, rewiring the networks in our brain, and challenging our cemented motor memory. Cleaning becomes our pinnacle vocation and prompt head-counting becomes our functional craft. Patient trust also begins to take on new forms and our conversations naturally center around the anomalies of the past few months. From today’s interactions, I can see that most are also a bit anxious but massively relieved to be witnessing some pending normalcy. Change can be weird, even eerie, but it can also magically allow us to see the world with a less myopic lens.