Tag Archives: Eye Surgery

Attributes of an RD patient

Working in a university means that I’ve heard an awful lot about ‘graduate attributes’ lately.  ‘Graduate attributes’ appears to be the latest buzz phrase in the plot to try and convince students that they’re not wasting their money and graduating with a mountain of debt in vain worthy aim of higher education institutions to not only provide students with a good solid education in their chosen field, but also to make them responsible, respectable and, above all, employable citizens.  Basically, ‘graduate attributes’ appears to be a marketing strategy to boost student recruitment and improve league table results set of qualities and skills which students are encouraged to develop during their time at university.  These vary from one institution to another, but typical examples include the following: confidence, digital literacy, adaptability, integrity, effective communication skills… the list goes on and on.  In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if tuition fees are actually trebled soon, if students continue to graduate with such impressively long lists of transferrable skills.

But I digress.  Hearing so much about ‘graduate attributes’ got me thinking about what the typical attributes of a seasoned retinal detachment patient might be.  So I set up a working party, a focus group, and a couple of committees and then came up with the following list:

  1. Patience
    Waiting in hospitals for appointments; waiting for our eyes to dilate; posturing for hours and hours with our heads stuffed into pillows, bones digging into mattresses, and muscles aching; waiting for gas bubbles to disperse; waiting and hoping that our retinas have successfully reattached…  It’s clear from all this that it’s pretty much impossible to be an impatient RD patient.
  2. Determination
    Those hours, days, weeks, and sometimes even months of painful posturing which we force ourselves through because we know it’s the one positive thing we can actually do to try and get the sodding retina to stick demonstrates our gritty determination in the face of physical and mental torture.
  3. Resilience
    This one is particularly appropriate for those of us who have had to endure multiple detachments and surgeries.  Our vision changes dramatically from blindness, to light perception, to weird wobbly shapes and crooked edges, to underwater fuzziness.  After each detachment and each surgery we have to accustom ourselves to further visual changes, but we get up again (once we’re given the all-clear to stop posturing) and we just keep ploughing on…  In fact, the lyrics of this song’s chorus seem particularly appropriate: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LODkVkpaVQA.  If you’re an RD patient, join me right now in having a listen and singing along to the chorus REALLY loudly.  🙂
  4. Anxiety
    Okay, now I get this is supposed to be a list of positive attributes, but I like to take a realistic approach.  Clearly the same can’t be said of ‘graduate attributes’ as neither ‘getting drunk on cheap beer in the student union’ nor ‘leaving half-eaten plates of mouldy food around in a shared house’ seems to feature on any of the lists I’ve read so far.  But anyway – unfortunately, anxiety certainly seems to be extremely common in RD patients.  Eyesight is precious.  It’s the sense which people fear losing above all others.  It’s therefore perfectly understandable that we often feel anxious about the very real risk of further sight loss.
  5. A sense of perspective
    As mentioned above, RD is grim and life-changing.  Eye surgery is frightening, and its after-effects of often overwhelming anxiety can be utterly exhausting at times.  However, I have found that this has led to a useful sense of perspective when faced with other unpleasant / dull / tedious / scary things I have to do.  I simply ask myself the question: “Is it as bad as eye surgery?”.  The answer, so far, has always been a resounding, “No”.  So then I just crack on and do whatever it is that I have to do.
  6.  Awareness of true friends
    They say you find out who your true friends are when you’re going through a hard time, and I can confirm this to be absolutely true.  It can be hugely upsetting and disappointing to discover that someone you’ve known for years and believed was an old friend is actually not a true friend; however with number 5 in mind, I’ve learnt that it’s better not to waste time on such people.  Instead, it’s far more helpful to focus on the genuine people in our lives and enjoy spending time with them.
  7. Extended swearing vocabulary
    When your retina detaches again, and again, and again, and AGAIN (okay, you get the picture), a short, sharp explosion of expletives can prove to be extremely satisfying in releasing pent up frustration.  It turns out that there’s a wide variety of adjectives with which to describe a retina which won’t remain attached, apart from ‘sodding’.

So that’s my list of RD patient attributes.  If you can think of anything else which you believe should be on that list, just let me know in the comments below!  Writing this post has made me realise that I’ve learnt some far more valuable lessons from dealing with RD than I did during my three years as a student.  Never mind my 2.1 in Art and English; I just wish I could graduate from my RD experience with 6/6 vision…

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Splish splash splosh (or how to get eye drops in)

One day at work recently, I’d just had lunch with my friend and was about to set off to take the minutes at a hideously dull committee meeting in a room with ghastly bright glarey lights so I paused to pop in some lubricating eye drops before heading off to endure the rest of the afternoon.  I was sitting with my head tipped back and the bottle of eye drops poised over my eye when my friend suddenly declared loudly, “Splish splash splosh!”  This caused me to laugh, which made my hand shake and a torrent of drops splashed onto my cheek, somehow managing to completely miss my eye.

Although I can’t always blame my friend, I do frequently manage to miss my eye completely and end up with eye drops running down my face, soaking into my top, or even finding their way into my ear on several occasions.  Now, with lubricating drops it isn’t so much of an issue, but with eye drops which are prescribed medication it’s vital to get the darn things in properly.  It’s also important to remember that if you’re prescribed more than one set of eye drops, you should wait at least five minutes before putting the next one in.  This is to ensure that the first drop isn’t washed away or diluted by the second drop.

One of the most effective methods I’ve found in getting the pesky things in is by following the instructions of one of the nurses at Moorfields, who showed me the knack after my third lot of surgery.  This is what she told me to do:

  1. Wash your hands (obviously!).
  2. Tip your head back.
  3. Hold the bottle of eye drops lengthways between your fingers and thumb, with your thumb underneath the side of the bottle.  Place the nail bed of your thumb in the dip where your nose meets your forehead, so that the nozzle of the bottle is being held over your eye (but not touching it).
  4. With your other hand, gently pull down the skin underneath your eye slightly to make a pocket.
  5. Squeeze the bottle gently until a drop falls into the pocket.  You should feel it, even if you can’t see it coming!
  6. Close your eye for a few minutes and wipe away any excess drops with a clean tissue.  Wipe gently from the side of your eye nearest your nose out to the outer edge, and don’t re-use the same piece of tissue if you need to wipe more than once.
  7. Put the lid back on the bottle and wash your hands.

You can find a link to a short YouTube video from Moorfields about how to put your eye drops in here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BgodZZ2N2wY.

Alternatively, it’s possible to purchase an eye drop dispenser, which is a little gadget designed to help people administer their eye drops more easily.  I’ve never tried using one, but I know that several of my eye buddies use them successfully.  If you search for ‘eye drop dispenser’ on Amazon, you’ll find a variety of different types at various prices.  In fact, there’s so much choice that when I did consider that option a while ago, I felt somewhat overwhelmed and decided to stick with the method of the Moorfields nurse, which usually works for me.  However, if anyone reading this has used a particular eye drop dispenser and found it to be effective, it would be great if you could post a link in the comments below.  Plus, of course, any other handy tips on how to get eye drops in first time would be most gratefully received!

 

The persistent presence of pernicious Mr Pip

Mr Pip is on the prowl again.  While most of us are bemoaning the end of summer after reluctantly switching the heating on and setting the clocks back, Mr Pip looks on gloatingly as he points a skinny well-manicured finger and curls his thin lips in a satisfied smirk.  He seems to enjoy these dark, damp, chilly mornings, and takes delight in taunting me through the thick duvet just after the alarm clock has announced that it’s time to move, informing me gleefully: “It’s cold, and dark, and miserable outside.”  When I fling back the duvet in his face and pad, shivering, across the room to peep through the curtains, I see that he’s quite right.  It is cold and dark, and it makes me feel miserable.  I suspect that Mr Pip crosses the paths of a fair few people at this time of year, so you may well be familiar with him already.  If not, you might like to read ‘The unwelcome visitations of Mr Pip‘, which provides a full description of this most unpleasant fellow.  I’d strongly advise you to cross the street and avoid him if you spy him approaching.

Mr Pip is irritatingly omniscient, so as well as being aware of my dislike of the short, cold days and the challenge of driving in the dark at this time of year, he also knows fully well that appeals season – my favourite time at work – is now over and I’m suffering with a bad case of Appeals Withdrawal Syndrome.  Symptoms of this include: a reluctance to go to work, more frequent purchase of lottery tickets, increased frustration when the lottery people don’t select the correct numbers (i.e. mine), excessive yawning, and an almost overwhelming desire to hurl a stapler at my office buddy when she persists in talking to herself all day when I’m trying to concentrate.

Naturally, Mr Pip is also aware of the fact that I have a check-up appointment at Moorfields the week after next.  “They might find something wrong and want to operate again”, he constantly whispers into my ear, spitting slightly as he does so.  “Maybe they’ll whip you straight into surgery again”, he continues gleefully, “Or perhaps they’ll tell you that they need to remove your eye altogether!”  He claps his hands in delight and prods my forehead with his skinny fingers until he sees me reaching for the paracetamol, whereupon he announces, “A-ha!  A headache!  It must be your eye pressure increasing!  That’ll mean they’ll want to take your oil out.  They’ll take it out; they’ll take it out; they’ll take it out and throw it away, and then your retina will detach again!”, he sings, mockingly.  He dances around me, tapping his shiny black shoes on the floor in an irritating rhythm which causes an answering drum to beat loudly in my head.  Each time I summon up the energy to try and swipe him away, he simply dodges and laughs again as if he’s having the time of his life.

Sometimes it’s not even possible to escape Mr Pip when I go to sleep.  I’m convinced that he has the ability to shrink himself down until he’s the size of a Borrower, whereupon he creeps through my ear and into my brain where he settles down and narrates bedtime stories to me from inside my head.  Stories about being late to hospital appointments; stories about writing down the wrong information from the consultant in my little eye book; stories about being trapped in some kind of dark underground world filled with dangers;  being chased; unable to see some horrendous threatening presence looming, coming closer and closer, faster and faster, until it’s right THERE!  And then I wake with a huge jump, heart pounding, and raise my head to stare at the dim rectangle of light coming in through the curtains as I open first one eye and then the other to check that I can still see.

As is usually the case, there’s no point in applying logic to the problem of Mr Pip or attempting to argue with him.  Pleasant distraction seems to be the only thing that really works in banishing him for a while.  Fortunately, I’m reading rather a good book at the moment and retreating into a fictional world is always an effective method of escapism.  There are also cakes which need baking, in preparation for an imminent fundraising event for Moorfields Eye Charity and Marie Curie.  Despite Mr Pip’s constant whining voice telling me that it’s cold and damp and grey outside, at weekends I layer up and go out for walks, defiantly pointing out to him that the air is still fresh, there’s much beauty to be found in nature, and it’s good to make the most of these short hours of daylight.  This causes Mr Pip to sulk, and he hunches his skinny shoulders and scuffs his shiny shoes along the ground as he drags himself away like a moody teenager.  Perhaps I should treat him as such and, next time he starts whining in my ear, tell him in that particular parental tone favoured by parents who also happen to be teachers, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, then don’t say anything at all.”  Yeah, pipsqueak!

 

The curse of PVR

“PVR is from the devil!”, one of my eye buddies frequently declares with feeling, whenever the subject is broached.  She should know.  Her eight-year-old son has had five retinal detachments in his left eye and undergone over thirteen surgeries as a result of PVR.  Currently, he’s lost almost all vision in his eye and is only able to see some motion and colours.  PVR is the cause of my five re-detachments following the initial surgery to fix my first detachment back in April 2014.  PVR is a curse, and those three little letters strike fear into the heart of any RD patient, for we know the devastation and utter misery that it can cause.

“So what exactly is PVR?”, I hear you ask.  When a friend asked me this question recently, I simply answered, “Oh, it’s the thing that keeps making my retina detach – it’s like bad scar tissue, which keeps pulling the retina off again”.  That seems the simplest and quickest way of explaining it to someone who knows little about eye issues, but even the reference to scar tissue can be a bit confusing.  You see, there’s the ‘scar reaction’ which occurs after laser or cryotherapy, which basically welds the retina back together.  I think of this as ‘good scar tissue’.  In contrast, I think of PVR as ‘bad scar tissue’.  I did once have a conversation along these lines with a retinal surgeon, and he agreed, “Yes, I see what you mean”, when I explained my confusion about the difference between the scar reaction of the laser and the scar tissue of PVR.

Okay, so let’s get down to the complicated bit… PVR (or proliferative vitreoretinopathy) is a disease which is a major complication that can occur following retinal reattachment surgery.  It occurs in 5-10% of all rhegmatogenous retinal detachments (retinal detachment as a result of a tear in the retina).  Although PVR can be treated with surgery and reattachment of the retina can be achieved, the visual outcome is often extremely poor and PVR is the main cause of failure of retinal reattachment surgery.

Retinal detachment happens when a hole or tear in the retina results in vitreous fluid seeping through the hole and getting underneath the retina, pulling it away from its place at the back of the eye.  Imagine the retina as being like a wallpaper, lining most of the inside of your eye, apart from a small section at the front.  Now think about when you strip wallpaper off a wall, and how you use an instrument to create a tear in the paper and water to soak through and lift the paper off the wall.  If you think of the wallpaper as your retina and the water as the vitreous fluid inside your eye, that’s sort of what’s happening when a detachment occurs.  Of course, technically the room would be filled with water, but that’s just weird.  ANYWAY… during the process of retinal detachment, the vitreous fluid comes into contact with RPE cells (retinal pigment epithelium) just below the retina.  (In our wallpaper-stripping example, I guess this would be the brickwork, or maybe the mortar.)  As a result of the retinal tear, the RPE cells are able to migrate out into the vitreous.  The cells then proliferate and form fibrotic membranes (or scar tissue), which can then contract and pull at the retina, causing it to re-detach.

To complicate matters further, there are different types of membranes which can form, depending on which side of the retinal layers the cells settle in and which other cells are involved.  One type forms like a sheet and doesn’t necessarily affect retinal reattachment surgery; the other forms as thick membranes which cause traction, thereby pulling at the retina.  These need to be removed before the retina can be reattached.  Naturally, these are the ones which I have.  [Pauses to wail in loud misery.]  Since reading up on all this, I now understand why I’ve had three retinectomies.  A retinectomy is the procedure whereby the surgeon physically cuts away the part of the retina which won’t lie flat due to PVR.  Nothing has ever caused me to assume such a death-like pose as the moment I heard the surgeon utter the words, “Can I have the cutter, please?”, during my fourth surgery under local anaesthetic.

So why do only 5-10% of RD patients get struck down by the curse of PVR?  Although it really does often feel like some kind of terrible punishment for some unknown dreadful crime I’ve committed, I’m assured that this isn’t the case.  From what I’ve read, it seems that PVR is more likely to occur alongside any of the following circumstances: a large retinal hole or tear, a macula-off detachment, vitreous haemorrhage, aphakia (no natural lens in the eye), a long period of time between detachment and surgery, multiple surgeries, and poor surgery itself.  My initial detachment was macula-off and I waited two days for surgery, but it’s pretty normal to have a wait once the macula has detached as a delay of up to a week doesn’t affect the final visual outcome.  My current consultant (who just happens to specialise in PVR) explained to me that once someone has PVR they will always have it.  From what I can gather, the effects of PVR – particularly in the more severe cases, which mine is – can clearly be seen on the retina, but even if the surgeons are able to remove the worst of it and reattach the retina, there will still be cells floating around in places that they shouldn’t be within the eye.  A further huge problem is that PVR is a process, and inflammation can aggravate that process.  So every surgery unavoidably causes inflammation within the eye, which then risks activating the PVR once more.  It really is a vicious circle.  PVR is the enemy of the RD patient, and it needs to be beaten.  Just as Jules Gonin made a massive breakthrough in RD surgery by discovering the importance of locating the retinal tear (have a read of my earlier post, Hurrah for Jules Gonin if you’re wondering what I’m talking about here), now we need a modern day Jules to crash through the PVR barrier and bring hope to those of us who live with its curse.

Note: Please note that I am not an ophthalmologist or an expert in PVR; I have written this simply as a frightened patient afflicted with PVR.  For anyone interested in doing some further reading on the subject, you can find a selection of some of the articles which I’ve found helpful below.  If any of my eye buddies have any interesting/useful information to add, it would be great if you could share it by including it as a comment below.  🙂

The dentist’s ceiling

Nobody likes going to the dentist’s; it’s just one of those things in life that we have to grit our teeth and get on with [pun intended].  As with many day to day things which are taken for granted by most people, it’s also something which a lot of RD patients tend to worry about.  “Will the vibrations of the dental instruments affect my retina?”; “Will it be okay to lie back in the dentist’s chair?”; “What if I need treatment – will it be safe to have a filling?” .  I consider myself fairly fortunate on the dental front, unless you count the six extractions to make space in an overcrowded mouth (a clear design fault there!) and the dreaded ‘train tracks’ of my teenage years, which pushed me to the very fringes of ‘the out crowd’ at school.  As I’ve got older, a recurrent fear of my annual trips to the dentist has been, “Oh no – this time I might actually need a FILLING!”   However, one positive of RD and multiple eye surgeries is that in comparison with that horror, a visit to the dentist’s is a piece of cake.  (Cake with reduced sugar content, obviously.)  Also, as I pointed out to a friend, if I ever do need false teeth, at least they’re capable of doing the job required.  Unlike a prosthetic eye, which would function merely to preserve outward appearance.

After my first two RD surgeries, the time between my dental check-ups had stretched to well over a year, but I eventually plucked up the courage to make an appointment.  Upon being asked the customary question: “Has anything changed in your medical history since your last appointment?”, I explained that I’d had some eye surgery for retinal detachments.  “Oh well, I’ll try not to poke you in the eye then”, he said breezily, completely oblivious to my icy glare as he rattled his instruments of torture dental equipment on the little tray by his side.

I haven’t mentioned the eye surgery since that first time, although after surgery number five I did check with the ophthalmologist that it would be okay to go to the dentists, and he said it would be fine.  I still get nervous about going though, and often put off making the appointment.  This year’s reluctant visit took place a few weeks ago.  After scrupulously brushing my teeth in the loos after work (I assumed that the sign declaring, “This sink is for hand washing only; please do not put paint down the sink” for the benefit of the Architecture students didn’t apply to toothpaste), I headed off to the dreaded dentist’s.

As I’m not supposed to lie on my back because of the silicone oil in my eye, I always wait until the last possible moment before lying back in the chair.  If he doesn’t start the examination immediately, I raise my head again until he’s ready.  I shut my eyes against the glare of the huge overhead lamp as he counts and prods and pokes at my teeth.  Obviously, I understand the need for the bright overhead lamp, but something which never fails to astound me is the large flat screen television mounted on the ceiling.  So when I cautiously half-open my ‘good’ eye to peer out at various points and see what he’s doing, I have to avoid the glare of both the overhead lamp and the huge bright television screen.  “Do any of his patients actually watch the television whilst undergoing dental treatment?”, I wonder each time I visit.  Is it there as a method of distraction?  Or because he stacks up so much spare cash from his extortionate charges that it seemed a good thing to splash out on?  I really have no idea, but if anyone does actually watch a spot of telly whilst undergoing their scale and polish, do let me know as I’m rather intrigued!

Fortunately, one good thing about my dentist is that he’s incredibly quick.  So without too much ado, I was able to sit upright again and allow the slight queasy dizziness to subside along with the floaters in my eye which had been stirred up by the oil sloshing around as a result of lying back.  All was fine, although as the receptionist informed me of the amount owing for the ten-minute appointment, I opened wide without being asked to, and had to swiftly catch my chin before it hit the desk.

Note: For a far more interesting story about eyes and teeth, check out the following: http://www.itv.com/news/utv/2017-06-22/glimpse-of-hope-after-rare-tooth-in-eye-surgery/

 

I’m voting for the NHS

I’ve never felt so utterly let down and helpless in relation to my own health as I did on Wednesday 27 May 2015 when, after a dash to Moorfields Eye Hospital at the crack of dawn, I was diagnosed with my fifth retinal detachment.  After several hours of waiting and various examinations, I was advised to go home as they wouldn’t be able to operate that day.  As any RD patient will know, retinal detachment is a medical emergency, leading to loss of sight if not treated swiftly.  In cases where the macula has detached, a delay in surgery of up to one week won’t really affect the final visual outcome, but if the macula is still attached, surgery within 24 hours is strongly recommended.*

At the point of this diagnosis, my macula was still on.  The reason Moorfields couldn’t fit me in for surgery that day was that they’d had a number of other patients in that morning with retinal detachments.  As I’d already had multiple detachments, the prognosis for a good visual outcome in my case was poor, and I was told that I wasn’t a clinical priority.  To say that I was upset by this was a massive understatement.  “But I’m in hospital… you’re supposed to help me, not send me home!  It isn’t even just any old hospital – this is the world-renowned Moorfields Eye Hospital!”, screamed the voice inside my head, in disbelief and dismay.  But there was nothing to be done.  When I asked one of the doctors if it was worth waiting in case they were able to operate that day after all, he advised me to go home and wait for a ‘phone call.

I trudged back to the station along with my sister, with a heavy heart and failing eyesight as the detachment continued its relentless progression.  My sister was furious, and fumed about the unfairness of them sending me away.  Although hugely upset, I pointed out that there was little which the hospital could do.  If they didn’t have the resources to cope with the number of patients, it was only logical that they’d prioritise cases which had the best chance of a good outcome.  I didn’t blame the hospital, but understanding the situation did nothing to diminish its terror.  I spent the rest of that day, and the night, and most of the following day gradually losing more vision in my eye and feeling absolutely petrified that my macula would detach again.  Eventually, I received the long-awaited ‘phone call from Moorfields in the early afternoon of the following day.  I was told to go in immediately, but warned that they still may not be in a position to operate that day.  Fortunately, I eventually went into surgery that evening, and it was around 9pm when I emerged from the operating theatre.

It’s bad enough having to cope with the trauma and ongoing anxiety of RD, without having the additional worry that the hospital may not have the resources to be able to help when needed.  Clearly, this goes for any serious health issue.  If something grim happens, we want to be able to rest assured that at least we’ll receive the best treatment available and will be well cared for.  But how can we expect this to happen if the NHS isn’t cared for itself?  In January, the British Red Cross warned that the NHS was facing a ‘humanitarian crisis’ as hospitals and ambulance services struggled to keep up with increased demand.  There were horrific newspaper articles describing patients on hospital trolleys piled up in corridors, as well as chronic bed shortages and staffing problems.  There were shocking reports of deaths which occurred partly as a result of these issues.  It’s common knowledge that there are serious problems in the NHS and unfortunately many people have first-hand knowledge of this, to a greater or lesser extent.

Yet, despite the fact that demands on the NHS are increasing, it appears that the Conservative and Liberal Democrat coalition and the current Conservative government have put less money into it than it has received in the past.  Have a read of this BBC article, which states that the average annual rise of money going into the NHS since it was created in 1948 has been just over 4%.  During the Labour government under Tony Blair and Gordon Brown, it was almost 7%.  Now, numbers aren’t my strong point so bear with me here and please correct me if I’m wrong, but if you have a look at the chart under paragraph 6 of the above article, it looks as if the average annual increase in government spending on health from 2009/10 to 2014/15 was only just over 1%.  Note the points made beneath the chart:

As you can see the period since 2010 has seen the tightest financial settlements. What is more, the spending squeeze is continuing during this Parliament at almost exactly the same rate, even with England’s extra £8bn going in.

Ministers in England are right to say they are increasing funding – it’s been frozen in Wales and Scotland – but it’s just that it doesn’t compare favourably with what the NHS has traditionally got.

Indeed, the Institute for Fiscal Studies believes over the 10 years to 2020, the NHS budget across the UK will not have increased enough to keep pace with the ageing and growing population.

Not only has the Conservatives’ lack of sufficient funding for the NHS had a hugely detrimental effect, they also appear to be pretty much kicking the NHS into the ground with many of their other policies.  We had the junior doctors’ strikes as a result of dangerous contracts being enforced upon them; we currently have the risk of EU workers (including doctors and nurses) relocating because the Tory government won’t guarantee their rights following the referendum result; the 1% pay cap for NHS staff is resulting in nurses resorting to food banks and creating a recruitment and retention crisis; and the abolition of NHS bursaries has led to a 23% drop in applications by students in England to nursing and midwifery courses at British universities.  The Tories really do seem to be a tad short-sighted when it comes to planning for the future, don’t they?  I’d recommend that they all go and get themselves checked out at the nearest decent eye clinic, but then that would just clog up the clinics even more than they are already…

As well as doing a considerable amount of highly depressing background reading on this matter, I decided to check out the opinion of friends and people I know who actually work for the NHS and who therefore have inside knowledge of the situation.  I think it speaks volumes that I haven’t yet found anyone who thinks that it would be a good idea to vote Conservative in the General Election on 8 June.  Several of the people I know who work for the NHS are already actively and urgently encouraging people not to vote Conservative if they care for the NHS.  One friend responded to my quick ‘poll’ question of, ‘Do you think it’s a good or a bad idea to vote Conservative with the NHS in mind?’ with the comment:

I think it’s a bad idea to vote Conservative full stop, but yes, a Tory win will be bad for the NHS because they are privatising by stealth and setting us up to fail so that they can sell it off.

She ended this comment with a red, frowny, ANGRY face.  This is someone who always seems relaxed and chilled-out, and I don’t think I’ve ever heard her raise her voice.  Someone else who works for the NHS and responded to my poll told me that she doesn’t know anyone at her workplace who would vote Conservative.

There are numerous additional reason as to why I won’t be voting Conservative on 8 June but – for me – the NHS is the most important one.  From everything I’ve read and people I’ve spoken to, it seems very clear that in order to vote for the NHS I need to vote for the party most likely to keep the Tories out, and so that is exactly what I shall be doing.

*I’m sure this was previously stated in the NICE guidelines concerning retinal detachment but, upon checking, I found that they appear to have been amended… hmmm.

 

Paintings for sale!

“What can I do to help my eyes?”, has been a recurring and increasingly desperate question put to various surgeons during my hospital appointments over the past couple of years.  To my dismay, I’ve always been told that there’s nothing that I can actually do, although there are certain things which are certainly best avoided (have a read of “Don’t get a head trauma”, if you’re wondering what).  However, one positive thing I am able to do is to fundraise for Moorfields Eye Charity, and this is the main reason I’ll be taking part in Eye to Eye again, in March 2017.  Although this isn’t helping my eyes directly, there’s a possibility that the results of research undertaken by Moorfields may benefit me in the future.  And if it doesn’t, at least I know that it will be helping other people suffering with sight-threatening conditions.  With this in mind, it seems like a good idea to have  a bash at selling some of my paintings and donating the proceeds to Moorfields Eye Charity.

Although I’ve sold a reasonable number of paintings in the past, I haven’t ventured down this route for many years.  Two of the little galleries which took my work have now unfortunately closed down, and the third has expanded into an enterprise which no longer has space for the likes of me, exhibiting work for sale at jaw-dropping prices by well established, proper artists who are actually able to make a living out of putting oil on canvas.  Selling work through galleries probably wouldn’t be the best method of raising money for charity anyway, as usually they insist that paintings are framed first (which can be pretty expensive), and they commonly take between 20% and 30% commission.  Having said that, nothing quite beats the confidence-boost of being contacted by a gallery with the news that a complete stranger has parted with their hard-earned cash in return for one of my paintings.

But I digress.  The point is that I now have quite a collection of paintings propped up against the walls of my spare room, which I’d be happy to part with in order to raise money for a cause which is very important to me.  I’m not going to start putting price tags on them as I was always hugely embarrassed at that aspect of selling my work and asked the galleries to price them for me.  A painting is only worth what someone is prepared to pay for it at the end of the day.  They’re all oil on canvas, and  if you hover over each image, you should be able to read the titles and dimensions.  If you’re interested in any of them, please drop me a message or an email, or just comment on this blog post.  Feel free to share, if you think others may be interested.  There are no prizes for correctly guessing which were painted before my retinal detachments and which were painted afterwards… 😉

Note: An explanation of ‘Eye Chart’ can be found in the blog post, Oil on canvas.