Lucy’s column for March 18
Eyelo…1
It’s been a traumatic few weeks, a time to dwell on and worry about the real possibility of losing my sight. And, dear reader, you’re going to share the drama whether you want to or not!
For a couple of months now, there has been impaired vision in my right eye, like the eyeball had been smeared with Vaseline, blobbed with make-up remover which was taking its time to shift, or I’d had too many late nights, even a surfeit of the grape or juniper juice – as if. A 40-minute visit to the optician at least put a name to it – macular degeneration – and a follow-up trip to the Derbyshire Royal Infirmary eye clinic confirmed that. And it was progressing in my left eye, too.
Naturally, the scary stories ensued, not only from people who were sufferers, but from that chamber of medical and surgical horrors – the Internet, which has been my live-in silver-surfer’s daily port of call ever since those initial diagnoses. Almost hourly, he came up with definition, description, causes, risk factors, treatment. What treatment? The dry type which they suspected I had, as opposed to the wet type, was untreatable, apart from, wait for it, some Italian-initiated operation, still in its infancy, and still not generally available in this country. So what was the worst case scenario? Gradual loss of vision.
Now, my eyes have long been the glory of a lifetime’s profession of writing, of reading, and doing four crosswords a day. The prognosis conjured up visions – pardon the pun – of an end to writing and reading, the two joys of my existence. But in such times of trials and tribulations, a sense of humour, somewhat warped in accordance with my family and circle of friends, kicks in. Himself, not noted for his lavish spending, offered to paint the current walking stick white, with friends Andy and Jane Pallett claiming they’d write rude stuff on it like folk do on a leg plaster – as the equivalent of a nursing sister, midwife Jane should know better.
The intervention of my birthday led son Simon to suggest a crystal-encrusted eye patch, for the mother who has everything (except her eye-sight). And grandchildren Jacob and Grace were overjoyed at the prospect of a guide-puppy in the family – a fat Labrador, could they name it and take it for walks? And as a bonus, did you know you don’t have to pick up guide-dog poo? Talking newspapers, tape-recorded books, the idea of having to learn Braille at my ripe old age, being let loose in a frock shop without the ability to decipher the pattern or the price, have all added to the mayhem and mystery of living with impaired vision.
This jesting is in no way intended as disrespect for those out there who do suffer from macular degeneration, wet or dry. We, in Derbyshire, can be secure in the knowledge that our NHS eye clinic at the DRI is rated as one of the finest in the country. I was treated with such respect and reassurance all the way, and guess what? The over-riding problem isn’t MD at all – although there are signs of it in both eyes.
No, the major problem is cataracts – straightforward, treatable, and with the prospect of improved eyesight once the deed is done, on D-day, courtesy of top consultant Mr. P. Puri, who many local eye problem sufferers know and love.
Dear readers, over the past few years, you’ve supported and seen me through me the death of my son, a near-fatal car crash in Mallorca, and breast cancer. The gory details of having needles in my eyeballs, lenses inserted, eye drops four times daily for a month, and dicky vision for a few weeks, will be the doddle you’ll be sharing when the time comes.
And there is an up-side. No gardening, housework or decorating, for at least eight weeks in case little "foreign bodies" get into my eyes. Why, I console myself, spoil the habit of a lifetime?
***
Limblo…1
One such reader of this column is George Wride, of Hollies Road, Allestree, who writes in response to my recent article on a one-armed window-cleaner in Matlock. He has two tales to tell, one involving a one-legged high-jumper, who he saw, as a child around 1933, at the annual Tone Vale Hunt point-to-point. "He dressed in sports gear, set up a pair of poles with a bar on pegs, and would throw his crutch to one side, hop forward, and make a perfect clearance, raising the bar, and repeating his spectacular performance." He had an assistant passing through the crowd with a collection box , and George reckons he made a bob or two out of it.
Another one-limbed chap was the caretaker of a billiard hall, with three tables and a table tennis table. He had only one arm, but kept the place immaculate, brushing the tables, putting new tips on the cues – and was no mean table-tennis player. This, says George, was 1936 – 38. He believes both men were survivors from the First World War. And George? He signs himself : "1921 – and still coming back from the Crem!" What a character.
end
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
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1 comment:
Lucy’s column for March 18, So glad to read that your eyes will get better, but you were lucky, in both having a warning about how bad it could get and having the time to adjust and be ready. Plus also having close family around.
I was unlucky has i suffer from Central Serous Retinopathy in both eyes and my vision went from normal while driving one day, to not being able to see much in 24 hours, there is no know treatment for it too. Although it improve a little over early months, it will now no longer improve and with the warning from hospital it could happen again any time and may not come back and all this had to be faced on my own has a single gent these days and only a almost 87 year old mother living some miles away. But least i can still read paper on my computer, lots of other people cannot, so guess like you am one of the lucky one's too. Dennis
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