There's a lot of waiting about during a hospital appointment. Leatherette seats, posters telling nurses what to do if someone has an anaphylactic shock, whiteboards with charts stuck to them, and an array of different people in lanyards, calling out names as people go through for their consultations. From my knowledge of the Eye Block so far, there are at least three of these waiting rooms, for eyes alone!
I got called in.
"I'm just going to check whether the doctor thinks you need any more tests today," said Lydia, the nurse who had first checked that I could read letters from an illuminated screen. Back to the seats.
-
"Hello you!" said a voice. I looked up, but my eyes were still blurry with the drops I'd been given to dilate my pupils. A smiling lady was hobbling on a stick and rotating herself into the seat to my left. It turned out to be someone from church, years ago, who had recognised me. She sighed into the chair.
"I thought to myself is that...? And then when they called out your name, I said yep; definitely is!" she laughed.
I was woozy with the drops but I remembered her name so I said hello. She asked me how my parents were (which is usually in the top two questions during such encounters) and I, very carefully tried to remember whether I should ask after her husband, knowing that there was a chance he may have died. That is the kind of thing people expect you to know.
"Erm, so how's..."
"Denise? Oh she's fine - her kids are all growing up now. So fast!I mean can you believe how time flies! It's literally a blink and then they're off to university, and moving in with their boyfriends, and becoming paramedics, and..."
Of course it wasn't long before Question 3 in the list of FAQs appeared.
"How are your sisters?" she asked. That isn't Question 3, but it is a logical prelude to it.
"Oh. All fine," said I (taking the question very literally).
"All married now I suppose..." she went on. I nodded, warily. It's technically true, though it is a little more complicated than that. But I figured that that just isn't a discussion for a hospital waiting room.
"And you, you're not married I take it?" she asked, twinkling. There it is, I thought. Bravo.
"No," I said, and then to fill the awkward pause (why is there always an awkward pause?) I just smiled weakly, and for some reason said, "Not even close." The words hung in the air.
"And are you happy about that?"
The waiting room swirled with the drops. All the posters were suddenly out of focus and the rows of patients and seats were swimming in the blur. Gosh. That's a brilliant question. Most people tell me they're 'sorry to hear that' or that my 'time will come'... but this lovely lady had lasered in on something much deeper and real. Am I? Am I happy in the waiting room?
I can't actually remember what I mumbled. Before long we were back to talking about cataracts, and driving, and people we both knew, before we ran out of things to say. It was all very polite.
"I'd better get back to Jim," she said eventually, and nodded at her husband on the other side of the room.
I waved, and gave a relieved smile at the fact that Jim (his name isn't really Jim) was very much alive. Jim doffed his flat cap and winked back at me, as though he already knew.
-
The doctor confirmed what I suspected - it's most likely that my sight goes weird because of something in my brain and not in my eyes. I passed every test today (except the colour-blindness one) with flying... banners.
She advised to me visit my GP if it happens again. Meanwhile, I can end this series of interminable eye-tests in six months' time provided I pass all the tests again in August.
Something in my brain then. Stress? Migraine? (The neurologist had suggested it way back in September). She nodded at the possibility, but only in that non-committal way that doctors have somehow perfected for occasions when they don't have enough information to be certain.
I trundled back to the waiting room.
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