emma and i - Sheila Hocken

by Emma

  had been the power of the very idea of sight, I had virtually

  forgotten about it. But I remembered now.

  I42

  EMMA AND I

  'Yes,' I said rather lamely, 'I do remember that. But what

  does it entail? Could you explain it?'

  'I'll have to try. Now, you have cataracts, and obviously

  we're taking about congenital cataracts, where the retina,

  depending on the thickness of the cataracts, has not had a

  proper chance to develop. The thicker the cataracts, the less

  chance of the light reaching the retina, and the less chance the

  retina has of developing properly.

  'If the cataracts are very thick, the light can't get to the

  back of your eye, and as this has happened in your case, your

  retinas won't have developed.'

  'Yes,' I said, my heart already sinking, 'I understand. But

  isn't there anything you can do?'

  He sat there for what seemed an age. I felt my mind becoming

  cold and empty, and strangely numb. I was incapable of

  rational thought, or any reaction beyond suddenly wanting

  to get up and go, and not hear what he had to say.

  But then, to my utter surprise, he said, 'Yes. I think there

  is. At least I could have a try. I could try removing the lens,

  or part of the lens, and see what success we have.'

  Well, this was it, I thought. But I went in on the wave of

  sharp excitement too quickly. I said immediately, 'What sort

  of sight would I have? How much would I be able to see?'

  And his reply brought me straight back to earth, and sitting

  in the chair bounded by darkness. 'It's a terribly difficult

  question, lassie. I just don't know.'

  'Well,' I said, because I had to know as much as it was

  possible to know, despite the consequences, 'if you did an

  operation and it was a success, would I still need Emma to

  guide me? Would I be able to read for instance?'

  'Oh,' he said, 'I think you'd still need Emma, and as for

  reading, well, lassie, I don't work miracles.'

  I was desolate. All those thoughts of what I would-not

  even might-be able to do. I had expected a miracle, and

  should have known better.

  He was a very gentle and kind man, Mr Shearing, and he

  must have seen the disappointment in my face. He said in a

  FRESH HOPE

  I43

  voice full of compassion, 'Now, lassie, I couldn't promise you

  anything. You wouldn't want a promise from me that you

  yourself knew might not be fulfilled. We might give you some

  sight, we might not. Well, it would be worth a try, wouldn't

  it? Anything would be better than what you have at the

  moment, don't you agree?'

  Of course, he was right. 'Yes,' I said, 'anything at all would

  be better than nothing. I've got nothing to lose.'

  When I asked him why Graham's case held out the possi

  bility of perfect sight, he explained that my brother's cataract

  was very slight compared with mine, and the retinas were not

  retarded. He went on to say that my retinas, because of

  underdevelopment, would not pick up detail. They simply

  lacked the facility.

  But by then, I knew I had to try for what might be possible.

  I said, 'Well, I must come in for an operation.'

  'There's no need to rush into it, lassie. Go home, think about

  it and let me know on Monday.'

  I felt utterly dejected. When Mr Shearing had gone,

  Graham said, 'Well?'

  'Well-nothing.'

  'Nothing? What do you mean? He must have said something.'

  We walked back to the bus station and I told Graham more

  or less everything that had passed between me and Mr

  Shearing.

  Graham gave a great sigh. 'What a terrible shame. I

  thought maybe you would stand to gain almost perfect

  sight.'

  'Well,' I said, 'obviously not.'

  'What are you going to do?'

  'I'm going to have the operation.' I got on the bus, and

  Emma went to sleep under the seat as we rumbled back to

  Nottingham, and neither Graham nor I spoke.

  When Don came home he tried to comfort me, but I sat

  there feeling sentenced for life. Until that afternoon there had

  always existed some hope that one day things might be better,

  I44

  But those last few hours had seemed to crush that possibility

  down so that though it did still exist, it seemed more of a

  formality to prove that it was not there at all, and never had

  been.

  I had to have the operation, but I also had to face the strong

  possibility I would be blind for the rest of my life. Then Don

  came to the rescue. He reminded me that when I was much

  younger I had been to eye-specialists when I could see a little,

  and they had forecast that I would be totally blind. But though

  they had been nearly right-and right for all practical

  purposes-what they had meant was an utter black void,

  whereas I could still distinguish darkness from light. It was

  of no use to me. But I could. And the thought began to cheer

  me. What if Mr Shearing was wrong, too? In any case, I

  thought, no specialist is really going to promise a miracle.

  Miracles happened, but to promise them would mean they

  would never happen. So when I went to bed I was a little

  more cheerful, because of Don's love and encouragement. On

  Monday I rang Mr Shearing and said I would have the

  operation, and when I put the phone down, my hopes were

  still alive.

  EMMA AND I

  CL-IAPTER THIRTEEN

  HOSPITAL

  I WAS TOLD that I might have to wait up to a year before

  the operation could be performed. In the event, the letter

  telling me it was all arranged arrived in September, so the

  delay was cut to a little under nine months. But they were

  nine months I never wish to live through again.

  When the letter did arrive, it gave me only four days' notice,

  and this was a relief. I had to organize everything so quickly

  for my stay in hospital that there were few moments left over

  for further brooding or yearning. I was to go in on Wednesday,

  3 September. The day before was a little like the last day of an

  old year, when one keeps thinking: this is the last time I shall

  do this in nineteen-seventy-whatever. At the office everyone

  wished me luck, and one of the girls came up to me and said,

  'Well, wait till you come back, you'll be able to see us all.

  wonder what you'll think?'

  'I don't know,' I said, 'won't it be marvellous?' She was

  more confident than I was. With me, it was an enormous hope,

  not a certainty. But I could not pretend that I had not thought

  countless times about the visual identities of the people I

  knew so well by their voices. I had an impression of all their

  personalities, and what the office was like, and I had my own

  images of what everything and everybody looked like, but

  it was odd to think that I might be walking out of there for the

  last time as a blind person.

  I46 EMMA AND I

  When I got home, I heard Emma lap at her bowl of water,

&
nbsp; then patter offinto the living room, and thought, 'That might

  have been the very last time you had to take me anywhere,

  Emma'. Then I followed her, sat down, and started thinking

  of the final practical details involved in going into hospital.

  Don, of course, would be looking after Emma. He was

  going to take her to the surgery with him, and she would

  accompany him in the car on his rounds and wherever he

  went. Because of the short notice the hospital had given, there

  had been no chance to arrange time off for him to take me in,

  and obviously he could not cancel his patients. Instead,

  Deirdre, a friend ofmine who was a nurse, was going to take me.

  The following morning we were up early, and, thank goodness,

  the practicalities prevented most thoughts and feelings

  beyond a slightly nervous sensation in the pit of my stomach.

  Before Don went, I said, 'Now you won't forget to give Emma

  her biscuits, will you? Oh, and don't forget her bowl of milk

  in the morning. . .'

  Don replied patiently, 'Now you know I'll look after Emma.

  Don't worry. She's almost as much a part of me as she is of

  you.'

  And I knew that was true. Then he kissed me, and said,

  'Well, the best of luck.' I said something flippant, like 'I'll

  need it'. But the words only masked the feelings that we both

  knew were over-whelming us both. just as he was taking Emma

  out of the door, I said, 'I don't know how I'm going to face it

  without the pair of you to back me up.'

  'Now don't worry,' said Don, 'Everything will be all right.

  And I'll be there every night.'

  With that, he and Emma were gone. I heard the car start

  up, move away, and I felt so alone. I had never been parted

  from Emma in nine whole years, except when she had her

  operation, and that was only for two hours. Without Don and

  his constant reassuring presence any idea that the operation

  might be a success ebbed away.

  Fortunately, Deirdre was not long in arriving, and she was

  full of kindness and remarks that restored my confidence. My

  HOSPITAL

  I47

  suitcase was already packed. We chatted happily as we drove

  along. At the hospital she checked me in and took me to the

  ward, and left me with the same words as Don had used.

  'Well, the best of luck.'

  'Thanks Deirdre,' I said.

  I was met at the ward by a young student nurse, a very

  pleasant girl called jasmine. 'Oh yes. Mrs Hocken,' she said,

  'would you like to come this way?' The sound of her footsteps

  then began to recede, and I thought: Help, what do I do?

  She obviously didn't know I could not see, and so I stood

  there, feeling rather foolish, and wondering who was looking

  at me. Then I heard her coming back, and I explained, and I

  think she was more embarrassed than I was. I put out my

  hand to take her arm to go down the ward to my bed.

  As we walked along, in addition to all my other feelings, I

  knew I did not like hospitals. I had a fear of them. I had not

  been in one since I was a child, and I still imagined them as

  sombre places with power over life and death. Fortunately,

  in the next few days, these gloomy ideas were rapidly dispelled.

  When we reached my bed, jasinine asked if I would

  get undressed.

  'Can you manage?' she asked.

  'Yes, thanks,' I said, and added, 'do I have to get into bed ?'

  'Oh, no,' said jasinine, 'just put your dressing gown on.

  Patients only go to bed at night here, because there's no one

  really ill. You can stay in the ward, if you like, or go into the

  day-room.'

  'Marvellous,' I said.

  Then she began, 'What about magazines . . .' and stopped

  herself with, oh, I am sorry, youcan't read, I really am

  sorry.'

  'That's all right,' I said, 'but I can read. I've brought some

  braille magazines with me.'

  jasmine, as it turned out, had never seen braille before, and

  was fascinated. She watched my fingers as I read from one of

  the magazines, and explained a bit about how braille works,

  with its contractions and abbreviations.

  I48 EMMA AND I

  'Well,' she said, 'I don't think I could do that,' and took me

  down the ward to the day-room. On the way, she showed me

  round the ward so that I could feel my way about, and get to

  know how many steps there were from my bed to the bathroom,

  how many beds were on each side ofthe ward, and so on.

  In the day-room there was a completely different atmosphere

  from that which I had expected. It was very friendly,

  homely almost, and everyone was surprised that I could not

  see, and had virtually never been able to. Most of the patients

  were older people who had come in to have cataracts removed,

  and, as a result, some of them were very troubled by their

  failing eyesight, and could not get about too easily. Having

  been so used to seeing perfectly in the past, they suffered a

  great deal, and I soon realized that I was, in effect, the least

  inconvenienced of them all.

  I had two days to wait before my operation: the Wednesday

  of my arrival, and the Thursday. Mr Shearing came to see me

  on the second day, and stayed for a little while in the course of

  his normal rounds. I knew he was in the ward because of the

  faint aroma of cigar smoke which penetrated from beyond the

  doors: he must always have gone into Sister's office to have a

  cigar. He explained a little more to me about the operation,

  what had been done in the past, and what the newer techniques

  of eye surgery entailed. With a young patient the

  cataract is relatively soft and sticky (whereas with an older

  person it will have hardened off) and attempts had been made

  to make holes through the lens or pull part away, often resulting

  in detachment of the retina. Even when this had not

  happened, holes had been made in the lens which healed up

  as a scab and so the patient ended in a worse state than when

  he had gone into hospital.

  Mr Shearing explained that he intended to take the middle

  part of my lens away. The lens, he said, was like an onion,

  with layer after layer of tissue, so taking the middle part away

  and leaving the outside would protect the retina, and let the

  light through the middle. He had no idea, of course, what my

  retina would be like, beyond the fact that it would not be

  HOSPITAL

  I49

  developed, and it was believed that with this kind of retina

  detailed vision was an impossibility.

  It was marvellous to talk to him, and though it still did not

  make me any the less scared, I had a kind of confidence in him.

  Don came in to see me on both evenings, and on the Thursday

  night he sat there and I remember saying, 'Well, this time

  tomorrow, it will all be over.'

  'Yes,' said Don, not concealing his anxiety very well, 'I'll

  be thinking of you all tomorrow.'

  Beyond that, not much passed between us apart from talk

  ing about what Emma had been doing,
and how good she

  had been going round with Don in the car. For most of the

  time wejust sat there and sort of hoped together.

  I went to sleep very easily that night, and then, on Friday

  morning, woke up with a quite extraordinary feeling of being

  on top of the world. All the worries seemed to have disappeared.

  I knew this was the day, yet instead of being

  scared, I simply thought: Marvellous, I'm glad it's here, and

  I'm not worried. Marvellous.

  This was before the pre-med, even. At about nine o'clock

  I was taken down to the operating theatre, and although it

  seemed a long way, I still could not get over this feeling. It was

  not happiness as such, but a great feeling that something

  really momentous was about to happen, and that I need not

  be afraid. In the ante-room the anaesthetist gave me a final

  injection, and I remember simply trailing off thinking: this

  is the moment ... the moment of ... and the words never

  materialized.

  I came round in the ward. It would be about half-past four in

  the afternoon. My first thought was: It's over, thank goodness,

  it's over. But I knew I would be bandaged over the eyes,

  so I was not expecting to be able to know immediately

  whether the operation had worked, and I remember thinking,

  I shall know soon enough. But, most ofall, I was feeling thirsty.

  I felt as if I could have drained a reservoir. Yet I was not able

  to muster the effort to ask for a drink. I lay there, vaguely

  i

  I50 EMMA AND I

  hearing other people coming and going and the now familiar

  sound of screens being wheeled and other hospital noises.

  After about an hour, I at last pulled myself round enough to

  say, 'Could I have a drink, please?'

  Don was coming in to see me that evening, and I remember

  making a great effort not to be doped, and somehow to

  appear reasonably sensible and alert for him. I would know

  when he had arrived, by his footsteps approaching the bed.

  But all I heard were the nurses' footsteps, all different:

  Annette, Ann, jasmine, Alison, Linda and Sister herself.

  Sister was a tremendous character who had not been there on

  the day I arrived. Sisters make or break a hospital ward, and