Chapter 16 #2
My stubbed toe throbs. My grazed palms smart.
Visually impaired. Blind. Partially sighted.
Every time I hear, see, or say those words, I feel sick to my stomach—unless I’m in conversation with Luke.
Somehow, they don’t have quite the same visceral effect on me.
I can even sensibly put them together in coherent sentences.
How come when I’m with him I can keep my condition in perspective?
Last week, watching us together in the reflection of his kitchen window, everything seemed doable. Even sitting through this meeting.
Derek claps his hands, and the room falls silent. “I usually explain my role at Moorfields with a short history lesson.” He gives an apologetic fake laugh. “Don’t worry, there won’t be a quiz at the end.”
I have a feeling I won’t be within a mile of this place to find out.
“Not so many years ago, care for people losing their sight was traditionally focused on providing medical and surgical treatment for their eye conditions. And we still absolutely focus on that, you’ll be pleased to hear.
” He gives another grating laugh. His teeth are unnaturally white.
“But since us liaison officers joined the team, Moorfields care no longer ends when you walk out of the hospital, taking your diagnosis with you.”
Shaking his head, he waggles his finger from side to side.
“No, no, no, because at Moorfields we recognise that our patients need more than medicines and surgery and vision correctors. And that’s where I step in.
Think of me as the jam in the sandwich between you losing your sight and facing that uncertain future alone.
Liaison officers are here for practical and emotional support.
We offer therapeutic psychological intervention and practical advice on living with sight loss, right through to help completing paperwork and accessing community support services.
” He beams at his audience, making a scissoring motion with his fingers.
“Red tape? I’m here to slice through it. ”
Behind him, an oversized whiteboard bursts into life.
“Meet Alice.” An older couple, both wearing thick spectacles, appear on the screen.
“And her husband, Mike. Over the next few minutes, she’s going to share her retinitis pigmentosa journey with you.
Feel free to move to where you can best see the screen.
Don’t worry if you can’t—Alice’s words and thoughts are what matters. ”
If positivity had a name, it would be Alice.
As her RP journey unfolds, from the shock of diagnosis thirty years earlier, through several complex operations, to her weekly ballroom dancing classes and finishing with her recent climb up Kilimanjaro, I feel nauseated.
Alice’s glass isn’t half full—it’s fucking overflowing.
As if RP was the best thing that ever happened to her.
It’s not, I want to scream. It’s derailed everything I was building, everything I am.
“And who knows,” she declares, beaming as she cuddles into cuddly Mike.
If the sound was muted, I’d think I was watching an advert for a retirement village.
“You will feel right now, as your eyesight changes, several doors might be closing on you. But, even though it might not seem that way today, I promise you several others are just opening. I can feel it. Who knows? One day, it might be you up here telling your story. You, providing the inspiration for Moorfields’ patients of the future.
” She stares straight at the camera—not that, from the sound of things, she has much sight left to stare with.
God, I’m an insensitive, nasty little shit.
“Some days will be tougher than others,” Alice observes.
“You will have setbacks. You will be clumsy; you will fall over. You will discover train stations, airports, department stores, and pubs are not designed with you and your reduced vision in mind. But, even on the darkest days, hold onto optimism, hold onto hope.” She tinkles a laugh.
“Hold onto someone’s arm! As Mikey always reminds me, believe and trust in a life beyond the now. And it will come.”
A life beyond the now?
“Um…sorry.” Abruptly, I rise from my seat, blundering past the person positioned to my right. “Sorry, I’m feeling a little—“
My vision swims, even more than usual. Cold sweat slicks my hands. Derek makes to follow me, but I bat him away. I can’t breathe. I can’t focus. I need out, out of that room and out of my skin. As I hit the pavement, I’m practically sprinting.
Hah! There’s no future in optimism. I’ll never become someone else’s feel-good story.
Nor do I want a chirpy guy in a polo shirt every colour of the rainbow telling me neat tricks on navigating fucking bus routes or chopping vegetables without including my thumb in the mix.
Nor do I need a smug evangelist describing the view from the top of Kilimanjaro—that she’s never fucking seen—then ordering me to count my blessings.
I don’t want any of this shit. I want my fucking eyes to work.
I want Luke.
Where are you?
Every chance I get, I check my phone screen.
It’s nine p.m. Not late, but not too early to sink three strong whiskeys either.
I don’t even like fucking whiskey, and we have a policy: staff don’t ever drink more than one or two weak beers on the job.
Ez and I lead by example. But no way could I have made it through the five o’clock post-work rush sober.
Luke should be here by now. I desperately need him.
I need to swear about wanky Derek and sunny Alice, about Ezra’s amazing plans for the bar I can’t keep up with, about public toilets and how I don’t want to become that visually impaired person with piss all over my shoes and friends too polite to point it out.
I check the door, then check my phone again.
He said he’d tell me if anything was wrong.
Is Luke having second thoughts? I pretended to be unbothered he didn’t come over during the weekend when I was working double shifts here at the bar, but part of me can’t help taking it as a personal affront.
Am I reading too much into everything? Am I being side-lined before we’ve even started?
Alaric wanders over for a chat.
“Why is Luke not here?” I glare at the door as if the strength of my gaze will force him to walk through it. “He’s normally here by now.”
Alaric frowns. “Did he say he was coming tonight?”
“Yes!” I’ll try to make it. What the fuck else could be more important? “I want him here.”
“Relax, bro.” Alaric’s lips twitch. “Why so needy all of a sudden? No one’s taking him from you.”
“I’ve called him and texted him, like, fifteen times, and he hasn’t texted back. Some of my messages are on read. What’s that about?”
“Chill. He’ll turn up. Maybe his fingers ache too much after a day spent rubbing steroid cream on other people’s zits.”
“His fingers worked just fine around my cock at the weekend. But tonight they can’t text me back?”
Alaric shrugs. “I don’t know—maybe he’s gone swimming. He does that quite often after work.”
“Not for four hours, mate! Did you see him at the hospital today?”
“Yes, we hung out for about three minutes.”
“Did he seem normal to you? What was he like?” My foot taps out an agitated rhythm, not anywhere near approximating the rhythm of the song currently thrumming through the speakers.
Alaric shrugs again. “Okay, I think? Maybe a bit quiet? But he’s always quiet. And I was kind of fucking busy, Neil. So was he. It’s the NHS. We have patients and responsibilities and lives to save.”
Only one life matters to me right now. The bigger question is—does mine matter to him?
And why am I suddenly so fucking insecure?
“Did he mention me?” Please say yes.
“Um…no? We talked about the patient with lupus he’d just examined and whether I’d been locked out of the X-ray database because the shitty computers were playing up again.
Then I bitched about my boss. Luke was diplomatic about his, as always, and then I buggered off to the operating theatre.
” Alaric wrinkles his brow. “Hey, did you say Luke had his hand on your cock?”
I’ve gone before giving Alaric an answer.