The Thing in TJ's Brain Part 3: From Pillar to Postponement

I started making preparations for my incarceration. I notified the people with whom I play RPGs, and also told less important people, like work. I arranged for my regular tasks to be covered and did other sensible grown-up things.

Then, late on the morning before I was due to go in, I received a call.

“We’re terribly sorry Mr. Jones, but we’re going to have to postpone your appointment.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Sorry about that. It will now be at the end of April.”

“But-“

“Bye.”

*Click*

“Oh.”

I began to unprepared all my previously prepared preparations, and let everyone whom I’d let know I’d be away know that I’d not be away after all.

Then late in the afternoon, I received another call from the hospital. I glowered suspiciously at my phone, and wondered if I would have to re-prepare all the unprepared prepared preparations I previously prepared and unprepared, and let everyone whom I’d let know that I would now not be away now know that I would now be away.

“Mr Jones?”

“Yes?”

“Were you expecting to come in for surgery this week?”

“I was expecting to come in tomorrow.”

“Right. I’m afraid you’re surgery has been postponed.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Oh, right. I’m afraid that we’ve had to postpone several appointments; we’ve not got enough beds free at the moment.”

“I see.”

“Are you happy with the new date?”

“Well, It’s not ideal. I mean, for a start, it’s my birthday.”

“Oh no! Well, you might have birthday luck at least?”

I cannot say that this reassured me. One rather hopes that luck or the lack thereof play little part in relatively routine brain surgery. The fact that the hospital thought it might did not make me feel any better about it. On the other hand, at least my unpreparations could be left in situ. It was merely a reassuring case of the NHS’s left hand not knowing that the right hand had already called me.

I will say that both people who phoned were very apologetic. However, I was mentally geared up for it, on top of the other preparations we’d made, and the help and offers of help provided by friends and family. The sudden cancellation rather took the wind out of my sails.

On top of this, I finally got round to notifying the DVLA about my vision problem. With remarkable speed for such a monolithic organisation, they wrote back instructing me to go for an eye test. Only one company is allowed to do these, and only certain branches are suitably equipped, but I phoned one of them and was able to get an appointment for the following Saturday.

Somewhat nervously, I turned up and checked in. Eventually a pleasant lady took me through to a room. I explained the situation. She listened, took some notes and then brought my attention to the chart on the wall. “Right, can you tell me what are the letters on the lowest line you can read please.”

“Um, ‘Copyright 2011’.”

“What? Oh, right. Ok. Now try with just the right eye please.” The result was the same. “Now can you do it with the left.”

“No.”

“Pardon?”

“No, I can’t.”

“The top line?”

“Um, V? Or possibly Y? I can see that there are letters there.”

“Oh, ok.”

Next I was taken to another machine for a field test. Confusingly, despite the name this happens inside a building. You’ll probably be familiar with it. It’s the one where little lights flash up and you have to click a clicker. I’d not been told that I had to keep my eyes still or just stare at the point in the middle, so I darted my gaze around anxiously, especially towards the left, where I hoped to catch any lights that my duff optics might miss.

I finished, and she suggested that I try without my glasses. I did so. I became aware that the machine gave a little hum when I pressed the button. I also became aware that occasionally it did not, especially when I wasn’t a hundred percent certain I’d seen a light. My state of anxious anticipation meant that my darting glance was seizing on the slightest twinkle, or perhaps even inventing extra ones. I finished again. She looked at my results, and suggested I give it another go. You’re apparently allowed three tries, and the DVLA will use the best one.

I did, trying to be a little more careful about imaginary lights. This time she seemed happier with the result, and informed me that I would hear from the DVLA within 4 weeks.

I also had two further hospital appointments, conveniently both falling on the same day, one in the morning, and one in the afternoon.

The morning one was a visit to the neuro-ophthalmologist. This was originally booked before I got the final diagnosis and a date for my surgery, as part of the diagnostic process. Then my surgery was going to happen before this appointment, but I was told that I’d still need it for after the surgery. Then my surgery was postponed, and I was informed that it would be used to provide a baseline for any tests done after my nasal trepanation.

I turned up, and after waiting for a while, was taken into a room for a field test. I knew the drill by now, but this one was different. For a start, the machine was an Octopus 800. I was immediately impressed. No mere Octopus 700 for me! I was given an eye-patch for my left eye and was also informed that a lens would be used with my right eye (I have no idea why.) The nurse produced what looked like a monocle, which I assumed I’d have to screw into my eye, Lord Haw-Haw style.

Happily, the monocle instead went into a clever little holder, held not by myself but by the machine. I put my chin on the chin rest and prepared myself. The nurse dimmed the room lights, the little LEDs started flashing and I started clicking. There was a sudden ‘whirr’ and the arm with the monocle moved slightly, pressing closer to my eye. I’m pretty sure I missed at least one light because of it, which I thought unsporting. This happened a couple more times. The NHS can be quite underhanded when they're trying to win eye-tests.

When I’d finished, the eye-patch was moved to my right eye, and the monocle was removed. The nurse dimmed the lights again.

“Ok, you can start now.”

Some time passed.

“Remember to click when you see a flashing light,” she prompted eventually. I assured her that I would. I finally saw a light and clicked. This happened several more times.

I was then led back to the waiting room. I sat in this aptly-named chamber for some while, and was eventually seen by the neuro-ophthalmologist. A few more tests. Read the letters. Go through this book of pointillism ‘magic-eye’ pictures and read the hidden numbers. The backs of my eyes were scanned with a special back-of-the-eye scanner which was disappointingly named after no marine creatures at all, that I could see.

Eventually the neuro-ophthalmologist agreed that I did seem to have some vision loss in my left eye. I’m glad that the medical profession like to be thorough and rigorous, but to be honest this seemed a little too far. He was however a very nice man, and assured me that the surgeon I’d been given was extremely good.

I now had about three hours before my next appointment. I went and had lunch at Monsieur Starbuck’s Café and Restaurant, where I consumed a Croque Monsieur, a cinnamon bun and a cup of English Breakfast Tea which they were still serving at lunchtime by mistake.

This done, I briefly considered wandering over to the British Museum, but decided that by the time I got there and through their stringent new security measures, it would be time to come out again. However, I discovered that the Foundling Museum was just over the road, so I went in there instead. This provides a curious mixture of utterly depressing information about abandoned children in the Georgian period, and fantastic art, including some wonderful paintings and numerous original manuscripts and other documents by Handel, bequeathed to the Foundling Hospital. I pootled round here until it was time to head back to the hospital.

Another waiting room. A lot more waiting. Eventually I was seen by the same registrar I’d encountered back in Part 1. There was no sign of the surgeon or his ‘fellow’. Perhaps they were on their honeymoon. I hope they enjoyed it, and are making each other very happy.

The registrar seem a little confused as to why I was there. He went to find my notes. He came back, told me he couldn’t find them, and would go down to the eye clinic to see if they were still there. I waited for some time. This was not a waiting room but a consulting room, and I began to worry that I was misusing it.

Eventually he reappeared with my notes. He checked, and everything still appeared to be in order. He was able to assure me that it was highly unlikely that my operation would be delayed again. He told me that they’d see me again in two weeks for the procedure, shook my hand, and showed me out.

A little annoyed at a wasted afternoon (not to mention the entry fee for the Foundling Hospital), I returned home.

To be continued…