Do your eyes look like this?

You probably don’t need glasses.

It’ probably not your age.

It’s probably not from lack of sleep.

You probably can forget the eye drops.


Because you’re reading this:

You probably have CVS


Do your eyes feel tired or irritated after you’ve worked at your computer? If so, you’re not alone.

The American Optometric Association reports computer vision syndrome is becoming very common. Up to 70 percent of people who work at computers at least two hours a day have it. The good news is there are simple steps you can take to ease the strain.

  • Blink often. People looking at a computer screen blink about five times less often than normal. So blink more frequently to bathe your eyes in soothing tears.
  • Give your eyes a break. CBS News Medical Correspondent, Jennifer Ashton, M.D., suggests the 20/20/20 rule. Every 20 minutes, spend 20 seconds looking at something 20 feet away.
  • Minimize glare. Locate your computer screen to avoid reflections and glare from windows and lights. If you wear glasses, get an anti-reflective coating for your lenses.
  • Position your screen properly. The ideal spot is 20 to 28 inches from the eyes. Keep it about 4 or 5 inches below eye level, measured from the center of the screen.
  • Adjust your settings. Tweak the brightness, contrast and font size until you find the best settings for you.
  • Upgrade your display. Flat-panel LCD screens are easier on the eyes than older CRT monitors.
  • Get a complete eye exam. The National Institute for Occupational Safety and Health recommends one every year.

I copied this article from here: Humana.  Why?  Because I thought you might like to know.  I especially like the 20/20/20 rule.

Painful Questions

I think we’ve stopped. I can’t believe we’re not moving. Is it rush hour traffic, an accident? Where are we? Why aren’t we moving?
“Streets flooded,” answers the young man who has been taking my pulse, asking me questions and trying to keep me calm.
And I know exactly where we are. It happens every time we get too much rain in too little time. We are on 75, close to the West Paces/Northside exit and the dad gummed drains are clogged and water is spilling onto the interstate. It takes all of my energy and focus to maintain my grasp on anything except the searing pain, but I do find myself wondering why in all these years someone hasn’t done something about those drains. Perhaps this is where I’ll die, on the way to the hospital, in a white ambulance, on a rainy night in Georgia.
I try begging the medical man once more for some pain meds, but he answers in his calm manner, “Sorry, can’t when it’s stomach pain.” Then he asks me something, the same three somethings that I remember answering before (even though, admittedly, I’m not very clear in the head right now).
“What’s your name? What’s your birthday? How’s your pain on a scale of 1-10?”
Name? Easy. Check that off. Birthday? Give me a minute. I have to moan, toss, breathe, writhe, moan some more, grunt out my birthdate, done.
But how is my pain level? Let me think, I knew you were going to ask me this. I conjure up the mental visual of the smiley face chart that they have in doctors offices and I remain completely stumped. I grab for an answer and mutter, “I don’t know,” which I promise you is not my voice at all, but my mothers.

“Excuse me?”
“I said, I sound like my mother.”
“And on a scale of 1-10, how would you rate your pain level?”
No wonder mom just says I don’t know all the time. I get it mom, I really do. Let’s see. There is having a baby pain. Is this as intense, or is it worse? Is having a baby a 10 or an 8? Pant, moan, gasp, moan, thrash. This is definitely worse than that! Or did I just forget what having a baby feels like? Man this hurts.
“Mam, can you tell me where it hurts the most?”
Okay, okay, I’m thinking. It hurts all over, like I am going to explode. But what if it’s nothing, like the time before when they tested for everything and found nothing? Maybe, I’m just a horrendous baby and they’ll say it’s just gas or something and I’ll be so embarrassed. But it can’t be. I’ve had three babies naturally and I just left home in an ambulance and scared my grand babies to death, lying there on the ground wrenching around and moaning. I would never frighten them like that unless I was having at least a pain 9 experience.
“Mam, what is your pain level on a scale of 1-10? ” Now, I begin to panic. I’ve got to pick a number. I want to say 10 but I’ve heard of pain so great that you black out and do I really want to know what a 10 is? Okay, okay, I choose 7 though I don’t know why. I hear the medical man say into his cell phone, “severe abdominal pain.” Great, I’ve communicated through this agonizing, pain-induced fog.
“May I please have some pain medicine?”
“No mam, not when it’s stomach pain.”
I finally get to the ER, see a doctor, receive some morphine (ah), have some tests, go to surgery, get knocked out, lose my appendix, wake up, go to a room for 6 hours, return home to recover. Post surgery, not one person has asked me the pain questions, but I have a sudden need to tell the world. “My name is Gwen Bullock, my birthday is November 10, 19?? And on a scale of 1-10 my pain level is zero. My gratitude is at another level, entirely. It is off the charts!

One face of Aids in Africa

I am a face on a calendar

because I have a disease.

A disease I was born with,

that killed my mother and father.

I am a lucky girl because

I get to take medicine.

Medicine, so that I can live.

Most of the people in Khayelitsha

are not so lucky.

Almost everybody I know has this disease,

except the people who work

at Baphumelele Children’s Home.

People who leave their comfortable houses in Cape Town

and come to where we live

to help us.

They give us medicine.

They bring us shoes and clothes.

They teach us how to read, write

and paint our portraits with bright colors.

Some people think our care givers are crazy.

There are too many of us, they think.

“You can’t empty an ocean with a bucket,” they say.

But I heard one of the nurses respond,

“We will try, one bucket at a time.”

I am glad that they gathered me

in one of those buckets.

I have hope.

I have a future.

I am more than the face of aids.

Look closely,

I am your neighbor.