Mood Swings:
A world of my own
By
Jenny Jobbins
My mother blamed it on her mother; the doctors indicated it was measles. By seven I had glasses and was moved to the front of the class, where I stayed. My only driving lesson ended in a near collision with a tree, and from then on I was relegated to public transport. Since I lived in the country, this meant I had to find boyfriends with cars. If not, they suffered a double disappointment: sitting at the front of the cinema, and leaving five minutes before the film ended so I could catch the last bus home.
I refused to wear glasses and struggled through my teens in a fog. None of his other patients, my exasperated ophthalmologist said, insisted on seeing as little as I did. I learnt tricks, like arriving early for appointments to avoid walking into a restaurant and looking for someone.
Soon glasses made little improvement, but along came soft contact lenses and for years I could see almost as well as anyone. Except for the hour or two each morning before I put them in, when I lived in another world. This world belonged only to me. No one else shares this, I thought as I felt my way around. This is my world.
My mother used to be upset by this. Because my condition is hereditary, she knew whom to blame -- and by extension blamed herself. Her pity, which sometimes ended in tears, annoyed me. I'm the one with the problem, I used to say. And I was fine about it. I had contact lenses. My grandmother didn't.
Eventually new orthoptic treatment allowed me to use my lazy left eye. Now I could see three dimensions. I learnt that paintings were flat, but the rest of the world had depth. I could judge distances, and cross roads knowing how far I was from the traffic. Things got better and better. Before long I was reading with my left eye and seeing distances with my right. Bionic eyes.
Then, a year and a half ago, a sudden haemorrhage in my left eye meant I couldn't wear my lenses for a while. When I put them back in, things weren't the same. First I couldn't read clearly. Then objects in my line of vision became more and more blurred and fragmented. I seemed to be going down a flight of steps: once a week or so I would see a little less well, then it would stabilise for a few days, and so on.
The doctors decided to operate, but there would be some risk: an operation would solve one problem but might exacerbate the other. There were weeks of assessments. Many patients at a large eye hospital clinic rarely see the top surgeon: I saw the top two, each time. I was in the best hands.
By now getting about was a problem. Family and friends would watch over my travels, putting me on trains and planes and making sure someone met me at the other end. At the hospital I was given a fancy pair of binoculars and a tiny telescope to help me read station indicator boards: I never mastered the art of doing this discreetly, and if I was alone I asked for help. "Can you tell me the next train to -- ?" I would say.
"It's on the board."
Thanks.
Or: "Where is -- ?"
"Over there."
Thanks again.
At the hospital, they offered me a white stick to use as an indicator to others. I declined. "Bump into things," the council social worker suggested. I preferred bumping: I was used to it and it came naturally. Once people see you doing this they quickly become aware of your problem, especially if you are wearing dark glasses. Nevertheless the comments I had heard since childhood ceased to be tiresome and started being hurtful. "Why don't you wear glasses?" was the usual one, followed by: "I know a really good doctor who can help you." I know people are trying to be kind, but that's a little like seeking a second opinion on a broken leg. I found myself getting very crusty.
As soon as the bandage came off after the operation I knew my brain had a problem. Why was there a tinfoil box under my bed? I insisted on telling my brain it was not a box, and it turned into the bed leg. And so on. After a few days my brain speeded up with the information, and my vision began to settle down. They had told me I might no longer be able to read, but would have no problem with the computer: the opposite turned out to be true.
I try to gauge my vision against what others say they can see. I'm getting used to the double vision. The other day I saw a man with a Dalmation puppy; only, of course, I could see two puppies. Then one of the puppies toddled off in a different direction. One man, two puppies. Interesting.
I now have zero vision in my left eye, neither plus nor minus. I no longer need a lens. And so, when I wake up, I can see fairly normally though this eye. I am slowly becoming adjusted to the loss of my world. At first I missed it so much I would go around with the eye shut, but it was a blessing when I went camping last week and easily found my way to my tent. And saw double the number of stars.
