I’ve been having a hard time getting my contacts in and out. My fingers still have a pretty good amount of dexterity, so that I can get an earbud jammed in for dictation, aim a tortilla chip (or 57 tortilla chips) into my mouth, grip my glass of wine and pull it closer to me to drink through the straw, flip the pages of a book that I’m reading to Scarlett.

But the contacts, so small and thin, are presenting real difficulty these days. Rob opens the case and places it in my lap. I use my left middle finger to fish the lens out, and then raise my left hand with my right hand to get close to my eye. Balancing both hands on my right elbow, I pull my eyelid down with my ring finger and try to wedge the contact in. My hands shake, but sometimes it’s easy and happens quickly. Other times I drop the contact again and again, becoming frustrated and wondering why exactly I’m putting myself through this particular ordeal.

There are three choices, as I see it. The first is that I can continue to struggle until I finally just have to ask someone to do this for me. This does not seem smart, but the lazy and tired part of me feels like sticking with the status quo.

The second option is to wear glasses. I have glasses. I got my first pair when I was in third grade, and a boy named Bobby stopped being my boyfriend pretty shortly after, which I do not think was a coincidence. In third grade, having a boyfriend just meant that he walked me home, and sometimes his older brother prank called my house. But not after the glasses.

Scarlett has always been interested in the story of a different boy, who called me Four Eyes one day, yelling it at me as I was walking down the street toward home.

“What did you say?” she wants to know.

“Nothing,” I tell her. “I just walked away.”

It’s a stupid story about a stupid boy, but I told it to her as an example of how words can hurt people’s feelings. And also so she knows that sometimes you just have to blow off the a-holes of the world.

So the glasses are an option, but obviously I have a slightly ambivalent relationship with them. Plus I really like sunglasses and those don’t look good over glasses. Of course Dwayne Wayne rocked this look with panache, but we can’t all be that great.

My third option is to get laser eye surgery. Another cost, an additional financial burden that I can credit to my ALS. I don’t even know how much laser eye surgery costs, so maybe I shouldn’t be worrying about it so much. Maybe at this point it costs the same as getting your armpits waxed or getting a facial, neither of which I do. Just think of all the money I’m saving by not doing these things that I’ve never done to begin with! Perhaps I can feel good about spending it on laser eye surgery. I have friends who suggest this is a no-brainer. ALS is hard enough: if there’s something you can fix, then fix it. But to me it’s not that simple.

When I was healthy, I always figured I’d eventually get laser eye surgery. But that was before we had to buy a mobility van, before we had to renovate an entire house, before we had to hire a personal assistant to be with me all day, every day.

Please note this is NOT a request for funds. I’m just whining. All the money we raise goes directly to ALS research, a fact that won’t change. That much, at least, is clear to me.

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