Page 21 of Seen
“That’s you,” Luke murmurs.
“Um, yeah.”
When I finally manage to stand, every eye in the room focuses on me (or tries to). Not unkind, just curious, in the same manner in which I’ve sized up all the others who’ve already gone in. Luke hesitates.
“Do you want me to wait out here for you? Go grab a coffee?”
Some responses take a while to form. Others are instinctive. “No.”
It’s the same specialist as last time. Thankfully, she acts as if we’re following on ten minutes from last week’s tests. As if she doesn’t remember I turned a nasty shade of puce and scarpered. Neither does she feel a need to torture me with the eye drops, then re-examine my eyes. Instead, she gets straight to the point; maybe she’s worried I’ll fuck off again.
“You have an early cataract on the left, which is affecting your night vision and explains most of the glare when looking into bright light,” she begins.
A cataract? My granddad had cataracts. I thought they were just for old people.
“Do you drive?”
“Yes, but I don’t currently own a car. I live and work in central London.”
Nodding, she replies, “Legally, I have to advise you not to drive in low light. Though your acuity is still sufficient, strong sunlight may also be tricky.”
“So you advise me not to drive unless the light lies perfectly somewhere between the two.”
She smiles thinly. “The DVLA needs to be informed of your condition. And it may weight your car insurance premiums.”
I’ll never own a car again. I blink, nod, and remind myself to breathe. To make all the right noises. It’s a problem for an unspecified time in the future. I don’t have the bandwidth to analyse it now.
The doctor’s sympathetic gaze flicks to Luke, reasonably assuming we’re a couple. “The liaison officers can help you with eligibility forms for public transport discounts.”
That’s the least of my worries, but I should take what I can get.
Luke clears his throat. “Is the cataract surgically correctable?” It’s the first thing he’s said—the obvious question, not that I thought of it.
“Yes but we recommend holding off surgery until it seriously compromises your vision, Neil. All eye surgery carries risks to the retinae, so we want to avoid it wherever possible.”
She’s pushing on an open door. “Okay.”
Luke’s hands look relaxed and folded over each other in his lap, but I suspect he has his fingers around his wristband. “Is there a likelihood of other operations? In the future?”
Another good question, thank fuck one of us has a clear head. All I’m managing to do is nod and grunt at the right moments. I got the stuff she said about Vitamin A supplements and pulled an appropriately grave face at the pictures of my retinae. I haveencroaching bony spicules, whatever the fuck they are. But when it comes to coming up with suitable responses, I’m a blank page.
“Yes,” she confirms. “Depending on disease progression. Medical blepharoplasties—what you might know as cosmetic eyelid lifts—usually help with prolonging what peripheral vision remains, and many people require vitrectomies when the vitreous part of the eye clouds over. We have Eylea injections to help with any macular degeneration and…”
As all thehow soonsandwhenstake over, my chest tightens.Prolong, degenerate, progress. Encroach. Luke supplies plenty of sensible follow-up questions and I hope to fuck he’s remembering the answers, because I’m taking in jack shit. The consulting room feels way too stuffy. Before I know it, I’m hyperventilating and calculating the distance between my seat and the door.
Out of nowhere, as if they already know the shape, warm fingers curl gently around mine.
“It’s a lot to take in,” Luke tells the doctor. He’s still holding my hand, softly squeezing. “So, to summarise: no treatment required now except for the acetazolamide tablets to reduce Neil’s macular pressures?”
“Exactly. And the vitamin supplements.” She smiles at him, wrapping things up. “I’ll see you both again in a year. But you have an open appointment, so if you think things are deteriorating, phone my secretary. And the eye clinic liaison officer will be in touch soon with advice regarding the practical side of things.”
Out on the pavement I suck in a few lungsful of air, then light up a fag. “I know, I know,” I say, waving off Luke’s imminent protest. “I heard her. I’ve got to stop, for the good of my eyes. This is my last, I promise. I’ll buy some patches.”
“It’s your body. I’m not going to nag you.” From the hunch of his shoulders and how he’s glancing up and down the street as if searching for the quickest escape route, Luke’s confidence in the doctor’s consulting room is ebbing away.
“Will you nag me if I go for a drink in the pub over the road? I feel I need one.”
“No, but if it’s all right with you, I’ll give it a miss.”
