I don’t like hospitals. Actually, that’s an understatement. I really don’t like hospitals. There are a number of reasons. Firstly I suppose, I go to a hospital because there is something wrong with me. That on its own creates stress but this morning was different. I was just going for a checkup, feeling fine but still dreading the visit.
As I’ve got older I’ve realised that my gene pool isn’t all good. There are some little critters that I would not have chosen as travel companions. There is glaucoma in our family. My grandmother, aunt and now cousin on my father’s side were unlucky and have suffered and still do with this potentially blinding disease. Unlike other awful illnesses, there are eye drops which can delay or even halt the onset.
So, for the last twenty odd years I have received my annual invitation to attend the local ophthalmology department. Because it’s primarily an ‘old age’ disease I join the queue of little old ladies and gentlemen as they wait patiently to be called in to have their eyes checked. It always starts with a vision test, then a ‘field’ test (the worst, it really stresses me out!) and finally images taken of the corneas and back of the eyes (don’t blink because if you do it could take hours!).
After struggling through the long line of commuter traffic for the first time in almost a year I arrived, bright and early, at the hospital. I had also received a telephone call and a text message to confirm attendance. I was advised that this appointment costs the NHS £120! After stating my name, date of birth and the first line of my address, I was shown to a row of blue chairs. When my name was called I followed the nurse, confirmed my name, date of birth and first line of my address and had a vision test. I was then told to make my way to the minor injuries department (?) and sit in one of the yellow chairs.
I’m not sure how many children were at school this morning. A significant amount were waiting with stressed parents to see a triage nurse who would decide on the severity of their ‘minor injuries’! Barring one young lad limping and in obvious pain, chasing after his impossible little brother at the behest of his lazy mother, none of the other children looked ill.
After almost an hour listening to irate parents trying to control bored children and the occasional grunt of displeasure from the other little old ladies and gentlemen who had joined me in the yellow chairs, my name was called. For the third time I confirmed my name, date of birth and first line of my address. Happy that I had been correctly identified I took my place at a machine. I was given a cover for my left eye and told to rest my chin on the indentation and to look at the orange light in front of me. Little white dots would appear randomly around the screen. When I saw them I had to push a button which was placed in my hand. This was the field test and I had to concentrate on not chasing the little white dots around the screen but to focus on the orange light. I didn’t want to blink in case I missed a dot so, by the time the alarm heralded the end of the test for my right eye, I had blurred vision in both eyes and was convinced that I had failed miserably!
I was told to go back to the blue chairs so made my way down to where I had started. The area was filling up and I had to squeeze in between a young man staring avidly at his mobile phone and a women clutching her walking stick in one had and a huge handbag spread over her lap in the other.
I didn’t have to wait long before I was called again. Once more I confirmed my name, date of birth and the first line of my address. I followed a lady into a small office. I sat down opposite her and was fascinated by the brightly coloured peacock tail tattooed on her forearm. I wanted to have a good look but dragged my eyes away to concentrate on what I had to do next. This was the photographic session so, once more I placed my chin on the little indentation where many other chins had nestled before and was told to stare at a green cross which was on the right hand side of the screen. Like the field test, I was given a blindfold to cover my left eye.
I was allowed to blink but, when the camera was in position and the warning came, I had to open my eye wide and stare at the green cross. The right eye completed I removed the eye patch, rested my chin as before and found the green star. The only problem was that the green star was so blurred that I had to sit back, blink and try to focus. The eye patch had been too tight and the tissue that should have protected my eye had scratched it.
After numerous images the best one was chosen and I moved into the final seating area, or so I presumed because it was opposite the consultant’s door. Take five of stating my name, date of birth and first line of my address and I was ushered into the hallowed sanctum. Drops that changed the whites of my eyes to a jaundiced bright yellow were administered, my eyelids forced open and a brilliant white light blinded first one eye and then the other.
‘Your eyes are fine. Just keep on using the drops. I’ll see you in nine months.’ And that was it! Two hours after arriving I walked back through the ophthalmology department with the blue chairs, on past the ‘minor injuries’ and the yellow chairs, through phlebotomy, surgery and reception, all with different coloured chairs and out into the fresh air. I took a deep breath, grateful that I had survived another hospital visit. Being a bit of a hypochondriac I always imagine the worst! Hospitals make me uncomfortable. I don’t like seeing people unwell and struggle with the protocol. I also don’t like being treated as a child! The waiting around for hours gives my vivid imagination wings so I have self-diagnosed the worst possible outcome by the time I reach a consultant!
I have nine months to prepare for my next visit. Anything can happen in nine months ….. 👠
Jenny Burrell 