Trucking Sight.

Tanvir Naomi Bush Uncategorized 12 Comments

You may recall that I had a hospital visit just before my trip to Lusaka and they said I had lost more vision. They meant ‘losing’! Holy shit people! I went out a couple of times last week and was completely off balance. Bits of pavement missing, people emerging magically in front of me, invisible cars. This all gets a little unsettling when trying to have ordinary conversations with people in cafes or at the supermarket. One doesn’t just turn desperately to people and share .

‘I must apologise for my twitching and is just that I seem to be losing my sight rapidly on a daily basis and it is so terrifying that I feel like I have a massive juggernaut truck thundering up behind me and I can’t escape. I am sure you understand.’

No that would never do. Instead one says things like;

‘Thank you I’ll have a mocha.’ Or ‘Please would you assist me with the self scanning machine. Its rejected my bean sprouts.’

It is the fear though – that articulated lorry screaming down the road towards you – that comes from knowing something as precious as sight is leaching from your life and there is nothing to be done but swallow hard and buy more magnifiers. I presume the terrible fear is there too for those of us with other encroaching disabilities. I have a wonderful friend with MS. We talked a little about that monster truck we can see if we look over our shoulders. We both came very quickly to the conclusion it is best, for the moment, not to look, just to keep running.

Just an aside about hospitals. If you have to go in for anything I would recommend dressing as a consultant. I did so the other day and got marvellous treatment. Power dressing gets you both attention and respect. (Although perhaps the stethoscope was going a bit far…I ended up doing a ward round.)
I once had an ongoing battle with a terminally rude, distant and seemingly bored ophthalmologist. I could never be sure he was giving my eyes full attention. I won the battle by wearing a red push up bra and the lowest cut soft ruffled black top I could squeeze into. At close quarters I could watch the cold sweat dripping from his forehead as he desperately tried to keep his eyes away from my sumptuous bosom (trust me on this one). To prevent a potential sexual harassment case he was forced to concentrate and focus on my eyes at all times. I actually got a coherent and detailed eye exam as opposed to the usual cursory dismissal. Small victories and potentially unethical but I couldn’t think of any other way of getting the little sod to do his job properly.

(c) T. Bush ‘Dad’s cooking apron.’

Comments 12

  1. Great ploy – at least you have got sumptuous bosoms – nobody would notice if I tried to do that….yes, it must be very scary and I think you are very brave Lxx

  2. Oh hon, good luck with every day that comes.

    My husband’s family all die suddenly, of heart attacks or in their sleep of old age. My family all die of lung diseases and cancer: slowly. I swear I don’t know which is worse. Losing sight or life or ability slowly at least gives you time to say goodbye to it…but the goodbyes are so very painful. My sister has terminal cancer and is doing her ‘last things’ now — last visit to the sea; last road trip with friends. It’s hard enough doing that vicariously with her; I don’t know how I’ll handle it when it’s my turn. I almost hope I go completely mad beforehand, and be spared the poignancy and pain.

    I’d like to think the truck will turn down a side street after all, and leave you alone. I’ll be hoping for a miracle.

  3. Post

    Thanks Family Affiars – yep it is scary but only in fits and starts. Mostly life intervenes and there is no time for being frightened. One is too busy fixing martinis and cooking spag bol. (Martini based bravery methinks.) X

    Susan I am so sorry about your sister. That must be so hard for the family, especially those goodbyes. It must feel surreal and strange for her, for all of you. I think I’d go with the heart attacks and old age – tho’ I suppose its the people left that the grief resonates with on and on. Perhaps you right about the madness…

    Ach- I too am hoping the truck will turn off or run out of fuell!

  4. I always hoped that when I ‘get something’ it will be senile dementia, that I’ll be completely unaware and very funny, so I can leave a little happiness (aka laughter AT me) before I go.

    But we don’t always get what we want. Push on, hang in there, and keep your pecker up. Not that you have one. So maybe that should be ‘keep your sumptuous bosoms up”. 🙂

  5. Oh Tanv I’m so sorry. After all these years of the condition setting in so slowly it must be such a shock to have this sudden turn for the worse.

    But if and when the last bit of vision vanishes at least you’ll have the comfort of knowing that you held it back for so long because… of your positive attitude. I believe it’s because of the way you make full use of what’s left that you’ve managed to baffle the doctors in the past.

    Hope I haven’t been insensitive here. Sending you a big hug C x

  6. am hoping and praying that the truck runs out of fuel or reroutes. `your bravery and strength of character are inspiring, but still it must be very frightening. thanks for this blog – take care x

  7. My Dear T,

    When I read this, I wish I could reach out and stand in front of that truck to divert it. And I wish for you a million other things that are too much or too personal to write here.

    You are very much loved,

  8. I think you’re really smart to dress for these visits with the doctors.

    So sorry to hear that your vision is changing rapidly. Sending lots of good energy your way.

    Take good care.

  9. Hey whatever works. I hate doctors other than your pa my pa and ma and me of course.So actually I love doctors.

    I am so sorry that sucks. I wish I could stop you from loosing your site. I would if I could. I would slay a dragon if it would help. Would that help? I have my armor and trusty steed ready if it would.

  10. Dear Tanvi – gradually reading through your blog. So sorry about the losing of your sight. Your honest, eloquent expression of the emotional ups and downs are truly inspiring.

    Although, my disability is very different, your stories, particularly this one, somehow connect. Reading this, I feel, suddenly, less alien and separate. Thanks.

    And keep fixing those Martinis!

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