So, second week of college down and yet again, I missed another day. Don’t shoot me, I was busy being patronised in the paediatric department of Queen Alexandra Hospital in Portsmouth, having them search through my eyes to find the great conclusion of nothing. Well, not nothing. They won’t let me go until they find something, so basically I have a life sentence to the paediatric eye clinic in QA. Oh, please let me leave. I have a court date soon to get out of there, please help me get out! I wish I had a court date to get out of the paediatrics.
Anyhow, my experience there – which by the way, is my millionth experience there as I have been going for two years, plus about a year when I was eleven – inspired my creative bubbles in my brain, and you will have to decide whether I am telling the truth about my experience, or if it is fictitious.
About twenty-thousand hand sanitisers surround me as I was into the hospital. STOP! it shouts at me as I walk past, with my mum holding my hand as I walk into the paediatrics. You have to look like you are a child there, so holding her hand was compulsory, not an option. I was made to look as if I was a five-year-old stamping their feet screaming, Mummy, I don’t want to go in! You can’t make me! No! I won’t go in! No! NO! as she dragged my hand past the secretary who buzzed us into the walls with starfish staring at us and octopuses strangling our throats.
All the doors for the eye clinic were made of glass; you could see the weeping children just exhausted and wanting to escape. Me, a seventeen-year-old infant walked through the rows of tears to find my seat to wait for the nurse. Who, challenged my age more than once with her tools; it was as if she opened my brain and dug some of my cells up to see whether I was telling the truth. I don’t want to be with all the small, crying children, but I am, I was thrown in as if I was a barbie doll who could not speak, couldn’t protest! I wish I could escape the horror of the tears, but no. You just won’t let me out.
When I was invited into the nurse’s room, she asked me, Are you sexually active? I asked her, Is that something you would ask a child? She replied, Well, no, but…
I snapped and said, So, I am treated like a child until you want to know about my sex life. What difference does it make if I have slept with someone in the last three weeks, and how on earth does that affect my eyesight? She frowned and said, anyway…and moved on.
So on and so on, she asked me to read the letters on the board ahead of me, and I couldn’t read the bottom line every time. Oh, how strange, she said. Oh, its not strange, I thought, as it has been the same every single time I have been here. It was the same six years ago, and it is the same now. I just cannot read the bottom line of the rows of letters and numbers than make my mind blurred and confuse my eyes to be crossed and no one can remember that this is how my eyes are. Just, deal with it.
The brutality of the assessment lead me astray, as I collapsed into the chair of a field-testing room. Stare at the green light, do not move. Put your chin on the chin rest, keep your eye behind the lens. Now, it is starting.
The noise of the machine made my eardrums spasm. The sound was going down in pitch so I knew when the light was coming closer to the green dot of electricity in the middle of the bowl, but I just could not see it with my eyepatch on one eye until it got very close to the middle. Ouch, my neck was aching horrendously so I stretched my neck to the left and the right and…I SAID DON’T MOVE! said the grouchy nurse, who I must have annoyed after metaphorically punching her in both of her eyes. She certainly was treating me like a child now, who ‘supposedly’ cannot move their neck and watch lights and listen to deafening noises all at the same time.
Out of that, twenty minutes down the line, I sulked with my mum who was sat in the waiting room reading. I was dizzy; my head felt like a hurricane about to kill planet Earth. Little did I know, at that point, that I was going to go blind any minute, and probably would end up killing planet Earth through not being able to see where I was going.
I was called into a small, claustrophobic room with a different nurse with white, opaque gloves on. She called me her flower when I didn’t shut the door. Shut the door, my flower, otherwise everyone will see. See what? I wondered, and I got a sensation of bugs crawling around in my stomach as if they were going to feed on me when I die. She said to me, this might hurt, no, it will hurt. Here is a tissue, ok three, two, one. Done, and done.
I physically could not open my eyes. The pain was euphorically agonising. From moment to moment sat in the chair of the tiny, enclosed room, I vanished into blindness. Where did I go? That cliché of, who turned out all the lights? was relevant here, as the blackness created a zone of terror, and I had no energy, mental or physical or otherwise, to defend myself. I didn’t know where the nurse was, but I could hear her speaking, and I felt lost within my own body.
When I opened my eyes, a blurry darkness shone in my vision. I could just about to see where to step, what to step on, what not to step on, when to step, why I needed to step, how to step. But that was it. I couldn’t see my hands, I could see my book, I couldn’t see the chair that I had as if I could not look. My mum was practically invisible, and so was my mind. Why did they do this to me, what did they need to find?
The darkness with my eyes open was so irritating I just shut my eyes. Nothing would work to make me feel less tortured. Do they do this to children of four, five, six, seven? Do they disable their eyesight for their enjoyment? It was not a fun affair for the victims of their mindless games.
My eyes went black, according to the doctor. I went in and his voice was patronising, I could not see his face, so my judgment of him was that he was not my kind of person. However, he inconclusively told me that they had not found anything wrong with my eyes…yet. So, my eyes were a clear black night for what? So that I can stumble around like a creature out of Doctor Who? Or is it a scheme to get me to keep returning into the arms of the lethal warriors at Queen Alexandra Hospital, who serve for the dead Queen and live for the devil.
I felt like my eyes were going to fall out of my skull. They should’ve done, it would’ve been simpler. Then, I just had to wait.
Wait for the night to turn back in to the day, impatiently, like the slutty child they think I am.