Cataract surgery

Lucy’s column for April 29
Not only was I a fat little kid, born weighing eleven pounds, but was lumbered with the kind of moniker, Lucy Seymour, which cried out for cat-calling of the Loose-Elastic, See-More-Knickers, variety.
I also wore specs from the age of five, so Speccy-Four-Eyes was never far from anybody’s lips, and I always had to sit on the front row of the class to see the blackboard, which had me down as a bit of a swot. Which I wasn’t, because my main aim in life was to move to the back and create mischief with my mates
It’s taken 64 years to move, metaphorically, to the back row. Because I’m writing this column without any visual aids. As from a couple of weeks ago, I can read a newspaper or book, spot sparrows and starlings without wondering which was which, identify a daffodil from a dandelion from the kitchen window at twenty paces, see number plates and bus destinations, all without peering, squinting, or resorting to the dreaded bi-focals.
And it’s all down to the skills, dedication, and patience of Mr Praknash Puri and his team in the eye clinic at the Derbyshire Royal Infirmary, a department long recognised as one of the finest in the country. Over many years on this newspaper, I’ve written stories on the miracles performed there on people who have been blind for most of their lives. This, it seems, is my very own miracle cure. I’ve had cataracts removed from my right eye. It’s like being re-born. Only the left eye to go. And aye, there’s the rub…..
Bear in mind that I’m a bit of a wimp in the eye department. Not only could I not consider popping contact lenses in and out without breaking out in a cold sweat, I come over all faint watching other people do the deed. So for me, it was not so much a sight-restoring experience, more an ordeal which will, once more, have to be faced. You see, there’s baddie in all this. So stand up and be counted, Dr Ian Whitehead. Oh, he’s handsome, humorous, reassuring, unassuming, apologetic….but he’s an anaesthetist, and earns a living freezing folks’s eyeballs. Not a pretty thought! And not the most pleasurable experience when you’re on the receiving end.
Actually, when Ian’s done his dastardly deed – and somebody has to be the fall guy – it’s all downhill as Mr Puri puts a bag over your head, clamps your eyelids open, and performs his magic. Hear the cataracts breaking down? It sounded like a chain saw at work in my head. And was I miffed when he suggested that if I stopped talking, he’d concentrate better? What do women do when their nerves are in shreds? They gabble.
I reckon the whole darned cataracts team on Ward 16 was aware they had a coward in their midst that day, from John, the theatre manager, to Gill whose job it is to meet and greet, and nurse Ann whose hands must still bear the scars left behind by my fingernails as I gripped her for support.
They worked their expertise in the preparation, operation, and importantly, comfort, department on 32 patients that day. Everybody else on theatre trolleys appeared up-beat and relaxed. All those I’ve spoken before or since, who’ve undergone the cataracts op, have taken it in their stride. One of them, my friend Rose Skivington, who can give me ten years when it comes to age, was bewildered by the fuss I made. Not only did she not give a jot about the entire operation, she even went home in a taxi, and was capable of putting in her own drops.
Oh heck, don’t mention the eye drops. Two lots are administered, eight times a day, for nigh-on three weeks. There’s more Maxidex and Chloramphenicol gurgling in my right ear because it’s failed to reach target, than you can find on a chemist’s shelf. Half-way through the blessed 21-day ritual, and we’re bordering on divorce. Himself has taken over the torturous task, and takes some perverse delight of being in charge of a dropper bottle, a highly-sensitive, blood-shot orifice, and a whimpering wreck who once was the brave, stoic wife who beat breast cancer.
He stands over me with a demonic gleam in his eye, positions my head at a neck-breaking angle, pulls down the lower lid, places the offending plastic thing too close for comfort, and, without fail, utters the words : "Hang on a minute. And don’t blink." The two comments don’t exactly go together. And neither will we, if this nightmare continues.
Eyelo..2
But so far, the resulting vistas and visions are well worth the pain, the traumas, and the rows. I trust this version of events hasn’t put off anybody on the eye clinic waiting list, because bear in mind that heroines are made of sterner stuff than yours truly, and there really are bright lights at the end of that cataract-infested tunnel.
I can’t thank enough Mr Puri and the eye-problem staff at the DRI.
I reserve judgement on Ian. He really should get a proper job…….
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