Tuesday’s appointment began promisingly. We arrived in plenty of time and I’d been squeezed in before Mr Gout’s first appointment - I could see that on both check-in lists. Dennis had to sit outside and the eye clinic, which I’ve only ever seen heaving with people, was virtually empty. Seats were 2 metres apart and there was a one-way system. I was quizzed about my medical-quality mask - was it my own mask? had I worn it before? Was it fresh on today (trick question, considering the answer to the first two. Honestly, who would share a mask??). Then I was allowed to sit and stew till I was called for at 9.25 on the dot. The poor man in the queue behind me wasn’t allowed in - he was too early. They mean business here. Although my answers to the raft of COVID-questions were all No, of course I developed a nervous cough. I feared I might be ejected. If only.
A rotund nurse checked my eyes using what looked rather like a Venetian mask. She wiped it down with antiseptic and missed nothing except the handle - that should have been a warning. Then she took me to another area and I had a prime seat for the TV. I watched a full hour documentary about bears, very interesting but not enough for me to fail to notice the steady turnover of patients while I sat put. When it got to High Society, I began to get more antsy and, with only 30 of my 120 minutes of parking left, I went off to find the nurse to ask if there was a delay. I knew Den’s mind would be working overtime after all this time. The explanation was that Mr Gout had had to deal with a couple of complex cases and was running late but I noticed the nurse scurrying through carrying a folder of notes. She hadn’t passed them on!!
I went in soon after that. The examination was unspectacular, though I did have both eyes anaesthetised so I’ve no idea what he did. I rolled them in every direction possible (and more) and was informed that my eyelid was “unusual” in that he could detect no apparent cause for the discolouration (still spreading) or the swelling. He didn’t mention the lumps but he prodded them a bit. I wanted him to say these are the classic symptoms of X or Y, not tell me they’re unusual. I was unusual in September 2018. I had a skin infiltration (use the right language) of effing cancer. Give me ‘classic’ any day.
The upshot is that he wants an MRI so he can have a better idea of what’s going on behind that socket. What? I went about my eyelid, not my eye. I’m to go back in 5 weeks and, he assures me that, if my eyelid doesn’t go back to normal, they can easily “give it a lift”. I didn’t ask if they do 2 for 1 but imagine having one tight eyelid and the other showing the wear of 69 years! So, no further along, everything still hinging (should that have an e? My iPad won’t allow it) on an ultrasound and an MRI.
I rang the breast care nurses to tell them I’d still not received dates for the tests and they rang back to tell me they are on the system - Sunday January 3rd at 2.30. About half an hour later, the post arrived with my appointment letter. Carol is driving us there and, if she doesn’t assume that involves fetching us back, it’ll be taxi or goddaughter (though I’m using her on the 11th when I go for my zometa infusion. Neither of us feels happy about a cab in Tier 3 but needs must...
So, where does that leave us? At the back of my mind, all sorts of fears try to surge up and get pushed down but that means there are surges of adrenaline I could do without. Dennis is just in a mire of misery but I swear if he doesn’t cough up a Christmas card tomorrow, that will be hard to forgive. Otherwise it’s wait till 8th January for the results and, I hate to say it, pray. I know we don’t push the boat out at Christmas, but this is not really what I wanted.
BUT I still have it in me to say:
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