You can do what you like to me. Anything at all. But not my eyes. Don’t touch my eyes.
The waiting room in the hospital Eye Department is bereft of all visual stimulation. I surmise that the plain eau de Nil walls, armless DHB standard issue chairs and unisex white clothing the staff wear are all post-ironic. The other poor sods awaiting their fate either stare despairingly at their iPhones, pick without conviction at the ragged pile of vintage magazines or have mumbled conversations that, even from a distance, somehow convey equal measures of ennui and terror. I smile as I’m reminded of the Netherworld reception room in ‘Beetlejuice’. But the guy sitting next to me doesn’t have a shrunken head. Although he may well be dead.
As I progress through the hierarchical system of nurse, junior doctor and specialist, I’m directed to an alcove to await the next episode of ritual humiliation. There are seven others sharing the tiny space – my knees almost touching those of the noisy woman opposite. She seems to know everyone else in the tiny space and is leading a morbidly animated discussion on the various ghastly outcomes that may be visited on us. The bit about ‘injections straight into your eye’ gets my attention and promotes some nausea, palpitations and prickly heat. It’s like sharing the tumbril with a bladesmith, keen to describe the efficacy of the guillotine.
The young Englishman, Tim, with the Oxbridge accent is rather jolly. He’s strapping me into a machine that is a kind of clinician’s Space Invaders. He’s going to laser my eyes. Usually, when rigid with fear, I deploy humour as a counter-measure. Tim notices the rictus that I’m trying to pass off as a calm smile and asks, ‘What’s funny?‘ I describe the Hammer Horror alcove experience and suggest that there should be a sign above the waiting area describing it as ‘Sartre’s Waiting Room’. ‘Ah yes’, he says, ‘Existential hell.‘ That’s what a University education does. It robs me of the opportunity to explain and amplify the startling brilliance of my wit and wisdom.
Telling a Head of Department why his appointments system is hopelessly inefficient and offering to ‘come in and fix it up’ is most likely not a good idea. And it probably explains why I sat around for another hour before my appointment was kept. The impatient patient.
Author’s Note. Thanks are due to Josh Stuart for helping me back into the groove, as well as suggesting this topic as the means of re-entry.
It’s times like this when a rousing fart is the only right and proper thing to do!
They’d probably rush me to Men’s’ Surgical.
bit alarming that the image of the woman’s eyes are “Eyes Left” otherwise sounds like most waiting rooms
Might be a mirror image, Pete?