More eye-openers

More eye-openers

Sonia Kelly

INEXORABLY, the day for my second eye operation arrived. This time I had got half an hour’s dispensation, allowing me to arrive at 8.30am instead of 8am. However, this proved to be a bad move, as the traffic near the city was certainly an eye-opener, in a different way, and caused a half hour delay. I expected to be told to come back another day but, in fact, nobody noticed, and when I apologised to the admitting person, she looked at me as if I had spoken in Arabic.
I always try not to look like a dust on these occasions, ‘dust’ being the family term for an elderly spinster with crimped hair and a tweed skirt. Obviously this entails some makeup, but for the ocular process it seemed apposite to omit eye shadow. I still applied a little powder, though, and this turned out to be another grave mistake. In preparation for the incisive jab, the surgeon swabbed my eye, after which there was an ominous pause. Then he exclaimed ‘There’s powder here’!, just as if he’d discovered traces of radioactive poisoning. I said nothing and hoped he’d conclude that I really was a feeble-minded dust.
Later on, in the same way that my monetary illiteracy seems to affect other people when they’re trying to make sense of my transactions, my mental deficiency must have been catching, as, before being discharged, I got a message telling me to return in two days time. My God – this seemed hardly possible, given the perceived remoteness of Mayo and the necessity of inflicting this double trip on my obliging family. The nurses were also baffled and concluded the surgeon had found something sinister in my eye (apart from radioactive powder). There was a lot of angst – so much that a re-check was done. Then – hallelujah! – they discovered it was a mistake. I wasn’t expected back for another six weeks. Either the surgeon’s handwriting had proved illegible as a result of his encounter with my polluted eye, or the admittance clerk had become deranged since my extraordinary apology, but it was such a relief, I didn’t question it.
Although another puzzle did remain: the original prognosis was for a test to be done a fortnight after two injections and now another six weeks loomed ahead. What did it mean?
This time no dire warnings were issued as to what lethal results might ensue from the (experimental) injection. The fact that I was still alive must have encouraged the scientists to steam ahead and perhaps see how many it takes to finish someone off. I did get more antiseptic drops, though, to counteract any poisons (like powder) that might be lurking on my face with evil intent.
To apply these drops it’s necessary to lie flat on my bed with a mirror in one hand and the drop bottle in the other, which is poised in position. Nothing happens for so long that I am about to give up when something like a flash flood swamps my eye, ensuring lack of vision for several hours. And surely killing all foreign bodies. (This takes place four times a day).
The day following all these rather alarming experiences, my next appointment arrives in the post. This is for 2.30 in the afternoon, perhaps as a concession to the stellar trip that I have to undertake to get there.
And apparently the test is going to take place then.
Still, never mind how I bang on - I’m still ready to be a cheer leader for the health service and absolutely willing to be a guinea pig for cures for numb fingers, bone disease in the lower leg and something to inhibit the growth of a moustache – to mention just a few afflictions to which VOCs are subject.