Cataracts

Ann attended an appointment at the cataract clinic this morning. She has been on an indefinite waiting list for two years at Bury Hospital, so they transferred her to Thetford which has a shorter list. The health centre there is a new but ugly building, shaped like an oval and with huge weird drapes hiding a glass roof over the dome.

In the waiting room, an old man with a crutch stood to his name and hobbled slowly towards the door. "Take your time," said the nurse. It's strange how a small inflexion can change compassion to sarcasm. This voice bordered on neutral and could be taken either way. "How are you?" he asked in a reversal of roles.

The eye clinic looked oddly temporary with the illuminated chart propped on a towel dispenser against the wall, and a printer sat on the couch.  I was sat on a chair holding the door open, and people passed through as though the room were a corridor. The machinery too looked basic, nothing like the sophistication of Spec Savers or Vision Express.

Finally we were called in to the great man - it was Mr. Ramsey, the same man who had diagnosed Ann's macular hole when she developed blindness in one eye some ten years ago. He explained the mechanism and virtues of cataract surgery, then out of the blue said, "we have a cancellation. You can come in tomorrow." Ann agreed straight away - she had been dreading waiting on a list and might have changed her mind had she been forced to delay. So tomorrow we have to turn up at 9:30 for the op. I think she is incredibly brave, and it was certainly faster than Bury.