As I removed my eye shield I tried to piece together the frontiers of my new vision. I was not immediately impressed by my surroundings, as I was familiar territory. I was at home. But I was in a hurry with little time to ponder. I had tried to recover from a restless night as I struggled to sleep with that heavy plastic eyepatch hanging on to my left eye like an uncomfortable and shapeless limpet. It was 7.30 in the morning and the day immediately after my operation, I was due at work that morning but I was not going to chance driving a car. So I opted to catch a train from Brentford to Ashford and to get to the station initially by a bus. I dressed and walked along the canal to Brentford High Street. As I stood and waited, my heart suddenly sank. I could not see the number of the first bus approaching the stop. Hastily I asked a startled schoolgirl what number was arriving. The 237. No good then.
But I was more concerned by my relative blindness. I had been assured before the procedure that my left eye would continue being able to read without the need for glasses, while the view from my right eye would dramatically enhance my distance vision. A new pair of glasses might even not be necessary. This had fired my imagination, especially in view of the fact that I hated night driving. Now it should be less difficult for me and I could see more clearly without being blinded by oncoming headlights. That was the theory, anyway, In practice, the opposite was true. Both my near vision and my far one were actually worse than what I had before. Yet that was not everything. I tried on my old glasses, expecting them to be more of a challenge than before. In fact it was worse than that. If I wore myglasses, my vision would disappear in a kind of fog. With glasses my vision was limited to about 20 metres. It was worse than without glasses. It was a disaster.
This sense of disater was compounded by my journey. At Brentford station I would only read the destinatio of the next two trains when I stood immediately below the electronic notice board. This was dreadful. But what was even more dreadful was that a number of trains had been cancelled and neither of the next two trains travelled to Ashford. The only viable train went to Hounslow and looped round travelling back to central London by way of Whitton and Richmond. Why? All I could think of was to get as near to Ashford as possible. I caught the train to Hounslow, took a ten minute walk to busy Bell Corner in Hounslow shopping centre and caught the 117. Sure enough, after a long and winding journey through London's colourless south-western suburbs I was able to reach Ashford and my office. Half an hour late. I was never late before. My timekeeping was legendary as I always left myself a margin of half an hour, especially when I was driving my car. Left with only public transport, I could not be so reliable.
Over the next 2 days my vision did not improve. I was sent an invitation to attend a post-operation meeting at Ealing Hospital, but not until January 4th. In 2023. That was a whole month after my procedure, and nearing a month and a half before my world cruise. I could not go to Specsavers to order new glasses until the hospital had given me clearance. So not only would I not have new glasses to travel to Cambridge at Christmas. It might be a struggle to get them even in time for my world cruise in February. And in the meantime I was as blind as a stranded bat, unable to drive, regardless of whether I wore glasses or not. Also while in the office my near vision had also deteriorated. Because of my artificial lens I could no longer screw up my eyes to read small print, which was quite a handicap in a job like mine where I had to inspect and approve documentation presented in varying print sizes. Also I could only read in good light
I wrote a protest email to the Moorfield Hospital in Ealing, but I doubt whether any one would take a blind bit of notice. They advertise no email address and give no names to their staff. Unlike any normal hospital or clinic. It had the anonymous security of a government department and with a good deal less transparency. My self-confidence was completely sapped. As I travelled to work on the Thursday morning. The situation had not improved, either vison wise or transport wise. I had since discovered there were no direct trains from Brentford to Ashford for just that week of all weeks, because of structural damage at Barnes Bridge, further back on that same line. I could take a bus but was warned they were on strike. On the previous night I learned that the bus strike was off, so I planned a route by taking bus 267 to Twickenham station and from there to catch a direct train to Ashford. I waited at 7.30 for the 267. Two buses went past as I peered mole-like trying to make out the numbers on the bus. After 15 minutes, still no 267. This time I checked details on my phone. Yes, the bus stroke was off, but a few garages were still on strike, including the one that supplied the 267. So my waiting at this stop had been futile. I crossed the road to catch another bus, this time to Brentford station. There I caught the same train as on Tuesday but instead of disembarking at Hounslow I carried on by the loop that came back to central London, and got off at Whitton. At Whitton I managed to get a direct train to Ashford and still arrived there before 9, despite these many obstacles.
On the way I had to ask another bewildered schoolgirl to read a bus number for me. I reckon if this continues, I will probably get arrested for harrassing schoolgirls at bus stops. Yet I met a friend on the last bus journey who promised to check with another friend that worked at Ealing Hospital, to follow up my complaint to the hospital. She came back with an interesting new angle. Apparently, the normal practice is that following a cataract operation, the vision does not immediately respond until after about five days. Well, who knew. Was all my desperation and frustration of the last few days premature?
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