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