by Emma
this one certainly made it. Far from being a fire-breathing
martinet, she spread an infectious goodwill. Her entrance
into the ward was like uncorking champagne. She expjoded
into the ward, and bubbled all over. She kept everyone
laughing and joking, and made it really a marvellous place
to be in.
When I finally recognized Don's footsteps coming down the
ward it was suddenly reassuring. His presence quieted the
thoughts perpetually at the back of my mind: Has it worked?
Hasn't it worked?
Don sat by me and asked, 'When will they take the
bandages off? When will you know?'
I said, 'Monday', and we both knew what an interminable
time the weekend was going to seem.
It passed, as all time passes, however. My mother and father
came in to see me on the Saturday, and my brother Graham,
and all of us were facing possibilities we couldn't translate
into adequate phrases.
'I bet you can't wait until Monday.'
'No, I can't.'
So much was unspoken behind this exchange. A history of
our family not being able to see.
Don, when he came in again, could not hide his feelings
and was very protective, saying, 'Well, you know, if it hasn't
worked and you can't see, it won't matter as far as we're
HOSPITAL
I5I
concerned, will it? it's never made any difference in the past,
and there are still so many things to do together.'
It was such a kind and loving reassurance, trying to armour
me against the worst possibility, and it took a lot for him to say
it because it really rneant so much to him as well as to me.
Time Went on slowly in the ward, spaced out by the set
hours for meals, temperature-taking, pills and sleep. On
Sunday evening, Don was by my bedside again. We were
sitting talking (I had been able to get up the morning after
the operation), and lie said, 'Now, you'll ring me, won't you?'
'Of course.'
'As soon as you kilow.
'Of course I Will.' I knew that he wanted so much to be
there at the time the bandages were taken off, and to know as
soon as I did, but it was impossible because of his practice.
When it was time for him to go, he said, 'Oh, I hope it's
worked, I hope it's worked. . .'Then, after a pause, he added,
. they're such insufficient words, aren't they?'
'No, they're not,' I said, 'I know just what you mean. The
next time you come in, we really shall know.'
And from then, from the time that he went on the Sunday
night, there began seemingly endless hours of waiting, an
interminable countdown to the conclusion I could not escape.
The hours frorn eight o'clock Sunday evening to ten o'clock
Monday morning would normally go in a flash, a brief
interval from suppe-r to going to work. But now time seemed
stretched on the rack, and I with it. The minutes and seconds
went on, and on, and on. I kept feeling my watch. I could
hear it clicking away, but never fast enough.
In the bed on one side of me was May, and on the other
Muriel. Both had been watchful and kind as I had been
coming round, and I heard Muriel, quite late, call over to
me, 'I can hear you feeling your watch. Don't worry. Morning
will be here soon enough, you know. Try and get some sleep,
Sheila.'
But sleep was out 4of the question. I felt my watch again. It
was seven rninutes past twelve. Past midnight. It was Monday!
I52 EMMA AND I
... now my watch told me it was ten past one, then eight
minutes to two, and then I think I did at last sleep a little,
because next it was six o'clock, and the nurses were coming
round and taking temperatures, and bringing the early tea.
I sat up. Another four hours, I thought, four whole hours.
I lit a cigarette, which was not strictly permitted, but I was
so strung up I hardly cared. Perhaps because everyone
realized what I was going through no one asked me to stop
smoking, which gave some relief at least.
At eight o'clock-several cigarettes later-breakfast came.
I did not want it, but I thought: I must cat it. It will pass the
time. It will take another fifteen minutes away. All too soon
I was down to the toast and marmalade, and it was still only
ten past eight. What, I thought, am I going to do for nearly
another two hours?
Muriel came over and asked, 'Are you all right?'
I said, 'Yes, I'm fine, but I think I shall go mad before ten
o'clock. I just can't wait, it's terrible.'
'Why don't you go and have a bath? That'll fill in some of
the time.'
'That's a good idea,' I said, and began searching in my
locker for my various things. If I have a bath, I thought, it
might take half an hour away if I take my time. But, though
I thought I was being leisurely, I found that I took only about
ten minutes. I must have been hurrying without noticing it.
When I got back in the ward I began pacing up and down,
and again Muriel came over, and said, 'Do you want to go to
the day-room? We can go in there and listen to the radio.'
'No,' I said, 'I don't think I want to go down there, thanks
all the same.'
The reason was that the dressing-room where my bandages
would be removed was just outside the door of the ward, but
the day-room was right at the opposite end, and at ten o'clock
I wanted to be as near as I could to hear my name called.
So, in such a kind way, Muriel and May offered to bring a
table up to my bed so that we could all sit there, and pass the
time that way. Muriel, particularly, was marvellous in trying
HOSPITAL
I53
to keep my mind offthe approaching, overwhelming questionmark.
I said to her as we sat there, 'What's it like outside the
ward? You know, what does it look like?' It was hard for me
to form an idea of what the outside was like, and she described
the scene to me, telling me about the many trees (which I could
hear rustling outside the window). She also spoke of the roses
growing outside, and this, all at once, like the touching of some
secret spring, sent me away into another daydream. What was
the ward like? I knew how many beds there were, and I knew
that there were flowers by the beds and on the tables. Muriel
in fact had said, 'Your flowers are nice', only that morning.
I had some dahlias, but I had never been keen on dahlias.
They felt spiky to me, and had no scent. I could not imagine
them at all, unlike roses, or carnations, or hyacinths, each of
which had its own special character through its perfume. I
had no image of my dahlias, and I was, though it might seem
ungrateful, hardly interested in them at all.
Every five minutes I kept feeling my watch, and, in between,
I smoked endlessly. Muriel lectured me in a friendly sort of
way about the amount I was smoking. I said, 'I know I
shouldn't, but I must do something.' It was 9 .4o by then, and
I had to get up and walk up and down aga
in. My stomach
kept turning over, and I was in a terrible state; always at the
back of my mind there was that warning from Mr Shearing,
'I don't perform miracles, lassie.'
Then I heard Annette coming down the ward, and I called
to her, 'Have you started the dressings yet?'
'Notyet,'she said,'butwe shan't be long-and don't worry,
we'll make sure you're first.' I felt my watch again. The dots
must have been nearly worn away. There were only ten
minutes to go.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE BANDAGES COME OFF
WHEN AT LAST Sister came into the ward and called,
'Sheila', the strange thing was that nothing happened. I just
sat there. Everyone has heard of people being paralysed with
fear, or apprehension or whatever, and I suppose this is
literally what happened. I was sittingjust inside the ward, not
more than a few yards from the dressing-room, and I had
been waiting and waiting for Sister's voice- I had intended
to call back, 'Fabulous, I'm on my way,' or something of the
sort, leap instantly to my feet, and get on with it. But I just
sat there, shaking all over, suddenly aware of my heart
thumping, my pulse rate going up, and feeling hot and cold.
'Come on, Sheila,' I heard Sister say again, in her cheerful
voice, 'we're ready.' Somewhere behind me my friend Muriel
said, 'Go on, Sheila, we're all with you.' I was thinking:
'This is what I've been waiting for, this should be the beginning
of the great moment, at last ... or perhaps it won't be
after all . . .' I was terrified.
But I got to my feet, and then, instead of striding out the
five yards or so, I walked slowly and haltingly. I could hardly
make it at all. I got into the dressing-room eventually, and
hands guided me to the chair. I felt my way round it; an odd
sort of chair for a hospital, I remember thinking in all the
confusion of my mind-it was more like an office chair. It
had arms that felt leathery, and a head-rest. I sat in it, and
THE BANDAGES COME OFF
I55
gripped the arms as if my very life depended on hanging
on. I squeezed the arms and my nails dug into the leather.
Then I could feel the bandages being unwound, and suddenly
I did not want them to do it. Yet, at the same time, I couldn't
do anything to stop them. I wanted to shout: 'Don't. Please
don't do it.' Now that it had come, I just did not want to
face the moment.
Then the bandages were off, and even then I did not know
the result, because I had my eyes tight shut. I heard Sister
saying, 'Come on, Sheila, open your eyes, the bandages are
off. . .'And I gripped the arm-rests even harder, and opened
my eyes.
What happened then-the only way I can describe the
sensation-is that I was suddenly hit, physically struck by
brilliance, like an immense electric shock into my brain, and
through my entire body. It flooded my whole being with a
shock-wave, this utterly unimaginable, incandescent brightness:
there was white in front of me, a dazzling white that I
could hardly bear to take in, and a vivid blue that I had never
thought possible. It was fantastic, marvellous, incredible. It
was like the beginning of the world.
Then I turned and looked the other way, and there were
greens, lots and lots of different greens, different shades, all
quite unbelievable, and at the same time with this brilliance
there flooded in sound, the sound of voices saying, 'Can you
see, can you see?' But I was just so overwhelmed and spellbound
by the sensation that had occupied every bit of me,
as if the sun itself had burst into my brain and body and
scattered every molten particle of its light and colour, that it
took me some time to say anything. I looked back at the blue
and said, 'Oh it's blue, it's so beautiful.'
'It's me,' said Sister, coming towards me. The blue I could
see was her uniform, and she came right up to me and touched
me, and said, 'Sheila, can you see it.' But I was still not
coherent, and turned away, and said, 'Green, it's wonderful.'
And this was Annette, and Linda, and Ann, who had gathered
round me, and said, 'It's us, it's our uniforms.'
I56 EMMA AND I
I
THE BANDAGES COME OFF
Then they realized I could see properly, because there was
something away to the left that appeared to me a sort of
yellow colour. I did not know what it was, and said, 'What's
that over there, that yellow thing?' And they said, 'It's a
lamp, and it's really cream colour, pale cream.' But they
knew for certain I could see it, though I had not known
it was a lamp, and I had got the colour wrong. My memory
of colours was pretty murky, but I could still identify the
strongest ones. But until that moment in my life I had no
idea that there could possibly exist so many clear, washed
colours.
All this, I know, took only a few seconds. Everything
crowded in. Then, just as quickly, everything started to go
misty and blurred. The colours began to fade, and merge
into one another, and I thought, 'No, oh no, it's going. That's
all there's going to be, I can't bear it . . .' I was struck by a
sudden terror, and put my hand instinctively up to my eyesand
found there were tears streaming down my face. I
thought, 'Oh, thank goodness, it's not going, it's just the
tears.' And I wept uncontrollably, and could not stop, because
of the joy and the shock that I still could not fully take in, as,
at the same time, everyone round me, Sister, nurses, and all
sorts of people I did not know, were shaking my hand-and
I could just see enough to realize that they, too, were crying,
and could not say anything for tears.
The memory of those few seconds is indelible: the wonder,
the sense of disbelief, yet belief, the sudden engulfing
knowledge that I could see. I could see!
Then I had to have the bandages put back on again, but I
did not care. I knew there was a flood of light outside, even
if I had to be returned to the dark world where I had come
from. And when the bandages were back on, I understood
that before I had never really known the depth of that former
permanci-it darkness, because the recollection of the first
brief sight of brilliance remained in my mind, and the colours
danced and merged still, and came and went in unending
patterns, whirling away. As they did so, I was thinking, 'It's
i
I57
still so beautiful,' and I knew I had escaped from the infinite
black pit.
I got back into the ward with steps shakier, if anything, than
when I had left for the dressing-room. I wanted to shout out at
everyone there: 'I can see, I can see !'But what I managed was
barely above a whisper. Everyone in the ward knew anyway.
The news had gone before me, and I could feel how pleased
everybody was for me, how overjoyed, and overcome that it
had happened-and t
his, the feeling that other people cared
-was wonderful, too.
It was a strange realization that all these people wished me
well. It was like being surrounded by an embracing radiant
warmth. I sat there in the ward in one of the armchairs,
feeling this atmosphere all round me, and quite unable to
take anything in. Here was something I had waited for; I
had endlessly attempted to imagine what it might be like.
But the reality was unlike anything that I had dreamed oœ
It was bewildering, and I could not fully comprehend all its
meaning.
As I sat there, the thought was drumming away, 'I must
ring Don, I must tell him.' Then I heard jasmine. She had
guessed I would want to phone immediately, and because I
was still crying, she said, 'Can I dial the number for you?'
She had brought the mobile telephone already plugged in,
and she added, 'Can I stand here while you tell him you can
see.' I could feel her joy like a physical thing, and hear it in
her voice.
But, however perfect you imagine things might be, they
never are, and when I dialled the number myself, there was
no reply from Don's surgery. He was out on his visits. I heard
the number ringing and ringing, and thought, 'Do answer,
I've got this to tell you, you must answer.' But the ringing
tone went on and on, until I put the receiver down. Then I
tried the number of his radio-telephone service, so they could
try his callsign, 269, and give him a message. It would not be
the same as telling him myself, but he would get to know as
soon as was possible.
a
I58 EMMA AND I
I
I got through to this number immediately. 'I'd like you to
give a message to 269.'
'Yes, certainly. What's the message?'
'Just tell him I can see.'
There was a pause, and the voice that came back had a very
puzzled expression. 'Oh. Tell him that you can see?'
'Yes. just tell him that.'
I put the phone down, feeling a bit deflated, because I
really wanted to rush out of the hospital and wave all the
traffic down on the road and tell them, or go and shout from
the top of Everest, or go on to the radio world-wide and say,
over and over, 'I can see, it's me, I can see . . .'