Subtitles

T’s inability to see the TV hit a new low last night, when he asked me to read subtitles for him. Over the last few weeks, he’s been asking me who is talking onscreen, when we’re watching the sixth part of an historical drama. I asked him to make that appointment to have his eyes checked and he brushed it aside impatiently. The last time I mentioned it, he made false promises.

I’ve been watching his screen, if I pop into the study for something. A few months ago, he was delighted when I gave him my 24 inch monitor, as I saw he was struggling with the 21 inch I’d previously given him. Then I showed him how to change the size of the image in Word. Now he’s gone from one page, to half a page, to a quarter page.

In Devon, he frightened me with a complete inability to read my road map. He had to lean over it with a large magnifying glass. by the time I had to make a choice to turn, he still hadn’t figured out where we were. If he warned me of a road sign or a cyclist, it was when they were a few feet from the bonnet. I have no idea how he manages to drive, but I suspect he doesn’t want to have an eye test in case he’s told not to drive.

It would wreck his lifestyle not to drive.  I can well understand his hesitancy. “Never let them take your car away from you,” our neighbour, Hilda, told me a few weeks ago. “You lose all independence.”

I do understand. But I dread any news that someone gets hurt by this.

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