I’m awake then, and warmly strapped into a duvet that smells of lemons. The late afternoon light angles in through the curtains, catching dancing dust in the beam.
The other eye creaks open. I’m alright. And I’m in the Intrepids’ spare room after the tenth eye test, the one in which the doctor told me for the last time that I have “perfectly healthy eyes”.
I could probably walk to the eye clinic without looking now - which is ironic in a way I can’t quite put my finger on, but there we are. I don’t have to go again. And importantly, I don’t have to have those drops that dilate your pupils...
“I’m really trying,” I said to the nurse, dabbing my eye with a tissue. My reflexes were auto-rejecting someone poking my eyeball with a teat-pipette. In the end, I just thought about something else and before I knew it my eyes were stinging in that way that makes your ears rush, and I was on my way back to the brightly lit waiting room.
I still think it’s worth saying how much I appreciate the NHS. My mind wobbles when I think how much these ten appointments would have cost - and I’m only really where I was a year ago: the doctor said I was probably on the right track with the diagnosis of ocular migraines. Nonetheless, this service, where all of us fund the care of all of us, is a wonder of the world. This is no political statement - just a thing that’s absolutely true, regardless of the bad press it sometimes gets.
“You should check with your GP about medication to treat or prevent those ocular migraines,” said the doctor, smiling. She was happier than the last doctor to comment outside her specialist subject (eyes) which was a relief.
I closed the blue door behind me, and headed out of the eye clinic for the last time. An hour later, I was asleep in the spare bedroom, with the curtains drawn, dreaming, while the dilation drops wore off and my eyesight returned to normal.
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