Lie Detector

January 9, 2025

I was probably eight or maybe nine when I went for my first vision test. As the day approached, I was filled with a mixture of excitement and terror. The excitement stemmed from the fact that I saw getting glasses as a true coming-of-age milestone—an event that would signify that I was no longer a little kid. Since both my older brother, Bruce, and big sister, Maureen, wore glasses, I was confident that glasses would mark my arrival at an occasion of some importance.

There were, however, two reasons for the terror. The first arose from a story Bruce had told me a few days before the eye exam. He informed me that the optometrist would use a spoon to pry my eyes out a bit so the doctor could examine the backs of them! Despite Mom’s assurances to the contrary, I was still pretty worried that the dreaded spoon might make an appearance during the exam. Bruce had a vivid imagination and used it liberally to torment me. For instance, another time we were at a store in Red Deer. To protect its cash, the store had a large safe which was situated in the middle of the shop amongst the merchandise. Being a curious kid, I idly turned the knob on its front. On the way home, Bruce told me that if the store got robbed that night, the police would find my fingerprints on the safe, and I’d be in big trouble with the law. The next morning, I was mighty relieved to learn that the store had not been burgled!

The second reason for my terror was the fear that the doctor would somehow catch me lying. I knew enough about the exam to understand that I would be asked for my input on the level of correction needed as I looked through different lenses. To me, it was obvious that glasses were such a mark of maturity that kids might be tempted to lie just to obtain the coveted prize. As I was ushered into the examining room, I carefully scanned for indications of what I imagined a lie detector might look like. I had watched enough spy movies  to know a bit about them. As I inspected the chair where I was asked to sit, I saw them. Plain as day, there were some wires partially concealed but visible beneath the arms of the chair. These wires, I imagined, were connected to a sophisticated but unseen lie detector, designed to expose my desperate attempts to fake nearsightedness!

Much to my relief, I made it through the exam without any alarm bells going off. The lie detector, if it existed, remained blissfully silent.  And thankfully, the kindly Dr. Walker never attempted to pry my eyes out with a spoon. Best of all, I left the office with a prescription for corrective lenses. Too bad, though—as I now, sixty years later, would be more than happy to be done with the detestable things!