Off to the optometrist

I had my routine yearly eye test with my friendly local optometrist on Monday. I was a tad nervous about going, because: a) I’m now a bag of nerves when undergoing any eye examination; and b) it was during my eye test appointment last year that the optometrist diagnosed an operculated retinal tear in my good eye, leading to a dash to Moorfields A&E and a load of laser shots. So when he asked me, “How are you?”, I responded somewhat cautiously, “I’m okay, thank you” before returning the question politely in that terribly British manner. After fibbing in a slightly harassed tone that he was fine thank you, he then told me the truth about his manic day and how every patient had required extra time meaning that he hadn’t managed to get all the other things done in between appointments. The receptionist had already apologised several times to me for the fact that he was running ten minutes late which, being accustomed to waiting for hours in various eye clinics, was no big deal at all and so I simply shrugged it off with, “Oh don’t worry, it’s fine!”. Observing his furrowed brow, I wondered if I should ‘fess up and warn him that I probably wasn’t going to be a quick and simple appointment. However, alas, it was too late – he was already reading my notes. “Ah yes, multiple retinal detachments in the right eye with oil in situ; multiple tears in the left…” he muttered, before we caught up on my colourful history (literally, in the case of all the laser retinopexy) since I’d last seen him.

By the point at which I rested my chin in place for the slit lamp examination and opened my left eye wide, whilst surreptitiously crossing my fingers and praying to St Lucy and St Jude that all would be well, I suspect he’d already written Monday off as being One Of Those Days. The customary business of, “Look up… look up and right… look right….” etc began, and I became more nervy with each pause or repeated instruction to “look right again”, etc. It seemed to take hours, but was probably only about five or ten minutes before he flicked the lights on again and told me to sit back as he began writing on the tiny notes card in front of him. Almost bursting with anxiety, I broke my usual rule of not interrupting the medical professional until they’ve finished writing their notes, and asked, “Is everything okay?”. Clearly in blissful oblivion concerning the imminent potential danger of my anxiety-driven implosion causing a mess on his carpet if he didn’t put me out of my misery fairly swiftly, he answered ambiguously, “Let me just write this down and then I’ll explain”.

As an aside, when I ask if things are okay in relation to my eyes, obviously I know that they aren’t okay at all. What I really mean is, “Are they worse?”, or “Do I need to go to Moorfields now?”. I’ll never forget one appointment at the Royal Surrey County Hospital when I asked that question, to be met by raised eyebrows from the Greek ophthalmologist as he stared at me with a stern face and informed me in no uncertain terms: “There are many, many, many things wrong with your eyes”. “Alright!”, I thought to myself, “Rub it in, why don’t you?!”. But I digress…

My friendly optometrist finished scribbling and then proceeded to scare me half to death by telling me that he could see some breaks or areas of atrophy in my left retina. However, he then explained further, and it transpired that it was all okay (or as okay as it could be), as these were within the areas of laser treatment. “So I don’t need to go to Moorfields?”, I asked him anxiously from the edge of my seat. “No”, he replied firmly, “You don’t need to go to Moorfields.” Phew.

The rest of the test was conducted without any issues – my pressures were fine and no change to my prescription was required. I was given a short lesson on astigmatisms (apparently mine have got very slightly better, but he told me that normally they get worse as we age, before pointing out, “but I think we’ve established that your eyes don’t fit in the normal category”). I told him that I find the more I learn about eyes, the more there is to learn; and he cheered me up slightly by telling me, “But you do know a lot about eyes, and you know more than me about PVR!”. Them he promptly depressed me again when he expanded, “PVR is something we’re taught about at university but we never expect to see a case”. “I wish I didn’t need to know more than you about PVR”, I responded with a sigh, before giving myself a metaphorical shake and reminding myself that at least this appointment hadn’t ended in the much-practised Moorfields dash. Such was my relief at this joyous fact, that when I stepped out into the chilly dark evening and observed the shimmering Christmas lights reflected in the puddles of the cobbled street as the rain fell, I didn’t even snort in irritation that it’s still actually NOVEMBER.

St Lucy

Desperate times call for desperate measures. So when, several years ago now, one of my eye buddies in the US, who happens to be Catholic, told me about St Jude (the patron saint of lost and hopeless causes) I thought that perhaps this was just the chap I needed to rescue me from my ongoing eye troubles. (The patron saint, I mean; not my US eye buddy.) I was actually already aware of St Jude from having devoured ‘The End of Mr Y’ by Scarlett Thomas (well worth a read!), after which I dragged my long-suffering friend on an exciting (or so I thought; I suspect he’d apply an alternative adjective) adventure to find the Shrine of St Jude in Faversham, as described in the novel. But I hadn’t been aware of the Prayer of St Jude, which my eye buddy kindly shared with me.

I did use the prayer on a number of occasions before eye appointments or when sitting waiting in Moorfields A&E in a state of terrified tension for the upteenth time. I don’t know whether St Jude actually took pity on me or not, as sometimes I received (relatively) good news and other times I received horrendously bad news. But I recited the prayer a sufficient number of times that it now occupies a little space in my memory and I can recall and mutter it when feeling sufficiently lost and hopeless. I’m not quite sure what it is about reciting text which seems to produce a slightly soothing effect, but this certainly seems to be the case for me at least. The same thing happens when I chunter one of Hamlet’s soliloquies to myself in the midst of a particularly grim day at work. Perhaps it’s because the effort of concentrating on something other than what’s directly bothering me tricks my brain into not going down the route of contemplating the worst-case scenario. Or maybe it’s the certainty in an uncertain situation of knowing precisely which word will follow the previous one. A pattern of familiarity, providing some kind of internal security and comfort, perhaps.

Some time after my discovery of the Prayer of St Jude, I became aware of another rather appropriate saint to call on in my eye-related troubles. Now, brace yourselves, fellow RD patients, but St Lucy is the patron saint of the blind and those with eye trouble! The name ‘Lucy’ is derived from the Latin word ‘lux’, meaning ‘light’, and it was apparently a name which was often given to girls born at dawn. Presumably by parents who weren’t keen on the name ‘Dawn’. Or ‘Aurora’. Anyway, I digress…

St Lucy was martyred in Syracuse, Italy, in 304 A.D. because she refused to deny her Christian faith. Ironically, her history is somewhat blurry, but accounts appear to agree on a certain amount. She had apparently vowed to live her life in service to Christ but her mother, who was afflicted by terrible illness, saw fit to provide for her daughter’s future by arranging for her to marry a pagan of all things. Because clearly a young woman, even a saintly one such as our Luce, couldn’t possibly be expected to provide for herself! In praying for her mother to be healed (told you she was saintly), Lucy was informed in a dream that her mother’s illness would be cured through faith. She therefore persuaded her mother to donate the dowry money to the poor and allow her to commit her life to God rather than being married off to the ghastly pagan. However… the rejected bridegroom was a bit hacked off by this and proceeded to dob her in to the governor, Paschasius, (what a grass!) whereupon poor Lucy was dragged away by the guards and tortured in an effort to force her to renounce her Christian faith. Various methods of torture were applied, including the gouging out of her eyes [pauses to screw own eyes shut and shudder violently]. Despite this gruesome act, Lucy was miraculously still able to see without her eyes – something which many of us silicone-oil-filled-eye RD patients aspire to. She’s often depicted in paintings holding her eyes before her on a golden plate. And so St Lucy became known as the protector of eyesight, and was frequently called upon to intervene in curing eye diseases. (I’m now wondering whether she possibly has a hearing problem though, as mine hasn’t improved at all despite several chats to her.)

During one of our online RD support group meetups, we got chatting about St Lucy, and this led to one of my eye buddies from Ireland sourcing a prayer card and tiny medal of St Lucy for me from Knock Shrine, known as Ireland’s Lourdes. I was extremely touched by his kindness, as well as relieved by his assurance that I won’t be confined to the fiery flames of hell for reciting a prayer without being Catholic. I carry them with me, although I’m careful not to let the surgeons see me peering at the prayer card when sat waiting at Moorfields, as I wouldn’t want them to think I lack faith in their medical skills.

In what seems like a fitting coincidence, my sister, who in pre-Covid times always came with me to all my hospital eye appointments, is also named Lucy. As well as providing much-needed moral support, she would write down my consultant’s answers to my pre-prepared questions, and read all the relevant travel signs to get us home again afterwards. (As my eyes have to be dilated at each appointment, my good eye is almost as useless as my bad one for the few hours following the appointment.) My sister would be the first to declare that she lacks any kind of saintly qualities, but I certainly feel blessed to have her as my Eye Secretary, fellow competitor in games of ‘I Spy’ whilst waiting in clinics, and Dr Google researcher on my behalf when I’m trying not to freak myself out with medical matters. It also goes without saying that she’s my favourite sister, of course.

St Lucy, patron saint of the blind and those with eye trouble