The consultant was running late which he’d expected, knowing how busy and understaffed the NHS was, but it wasn’t helping his nerves. He’d been waiting an extra half an hour already and Kieran kept texting asking what was happening. Had he gone in yet? What had they said? Was he okay? Tom’s last reply had been a bit sharp and he knew he’d owe Kieran a pint by the end of the day, but the questioning was just too much for his stressed-out brain. Hopefully soon they could celebrate that he was okay after all, though the headache he’d had last night, that had caused him to go to bed at seven and lie in a dark room, reminded him the chances were slim. The hand of panic gripped him again inching up his neck and tightening the skin at the back of his skull.
The door opened and his consultant, Mr Carrington, asked him to come in. Mr Carrington’s long slim face gave a polite and welcoming smile that Tom tried not to read too much into, but his nerves were tingling with worry and anticipation. He suddenly needed a wee and wished he’d gone earlier, but he hadn’t wanted to risk missing his name being called. Mr Carrington rounded to the other side of the desk and Tom sat opposite. He wrapped his scarf around his hand then unwound it again.
‘So, Mr Barton, how have you been? Any more headaches? Any other problems?’
‘A few more headaches, everything is much the same as last week.’
‘I see.’ He typed on his keyboard and clicked the mouse, checking some details. Then he turned and his calm eyes focused on Tom. ‘Well, we’ve had the results of your tests and I’m afraid to say you have a condition called Retinitis Pigmentosa.’
Tom tried to take in the words, but his brain had stuck on the phrase you have a condition. It meant something was actually wrong and vomit sprung up into his throat. He tried to swallow it down and catch up with what Mr Carrington was saying. ‘It’s a hereditary degenerative eye condition where the cells of the retina die and that affects a person’s peripheral and night vision. It can sometimes affect the central vision as well.’
‘Right.’ Tom wound the scarf around his hand again, tighter this time, as if focusing on the discomfort would stop him panicking. ‘What does that mean exactly?’
‘I’m afraid that, as has already started, your eyes will find it difficult to adjust to the changes in light levels at night, and over time you will lose your peripheral vision altogether. When I talk about some cases losing their central vision too, if that should happen you will unfortunately—’
‘Be blind.’ The words had tumbled out without him realising. It was almost as if his brain was trying to understand by verbalising it, but he couldn’t take it in. He couldn’t go blind. He didn’t want to go blind. His life would change forever if he went blind. How would he drive? How would he work? How would he live? How would he see the sunrise? Visit Grandad Nigel? See Nell’s face?
Mr Carrington’s patient and steady voice broke through the panic. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr Barton. I know it’s a lot to take in.’
‘What – what can we do about it?’ Surely there was some kind of treatment to stop it. Drugs? Tablets? Laser beams fired into his eyes? Robot retinas? Modern medicine could cure virtually anything, couldn’t it? The room was suddenly ridiculously bright even though it was grey and rainy outside, the light too strong and penetrating, illustrating how his eyes were useless now.
‘I’m afraid there aren’t any treatments for it at the moment.’ Inside, Tom’s body crumpled. ‘But it is a field of study that’s being taken very seriously. What we can do is monitor your condition and help you adjust as it worsens.’
Tom forced his next question out through his dry, scratchy throat. ‘How long will it take?’
The consultant gave a sympathetic shrug. ‘I’m afraid there’s no way of telling. It could be months or years. We’ll monitor you closely from now on, but there’s no way to predict.’ He leaned forward a little, clasping his hands together on the desk. ‘I know it seems like the end of the world right now, Mr Barton, and it is going to be a huge adjustment, but it really isn’t the end. A lot of people continue to lead perfectly normal lives by making changes to their lifestyles.’
Tom replied with a nod of acknowledgement, but his breath froze in pure terror. A future that he’d thought looked normal now looked anything but. He wasn’t too ashamed to admit he was frightened. He was petrified. What would his business look like if he couldn’t see? He couldn’t cut and arrange flowers, that was for sure. Would he need a guide dog or a white cane? He could feel his confidence ebbing away as gloomy thoughts ran through his head and the fear of how different everything would be penetrated his soul. ‘You said hereditary?’
‘Yes.’ Mr Carrington nodded. ‘That’s why I was asking about your family background in our last meeting. You mentioned your grandad. I think it’s likely he has the condition too. I’d definitely advise contacting the RNIB. They’re an amazing support and will help you come to terms with the diagnosis. They can also give you lots of advice as to how you can make adjustments to your home and workplace so you can continue as normally as possible. I’m afraid you won’t be able to drive anymore and will need to inform the DVLA. Did you have any other questions
