The futon, after much dizzyness and heaving of lungs and matress, is now in my living room. I have begun to realise there is no such thing as a quiet night in London especially with my thin ceiling and bustling street. Sometimes, if the sleep paralysis kicks in I become convinced I will die from another noisy night.
And no, earplugs don’t work- they make tinitus louder and muffled sounds more fretful of the source.
The ‘this is all different/I’m so busy/doesn’t this scatter cushion obsession look good’ new home thing is getting it’s reality checks.
So after waking at 3am to more voices and stomping I made it through the morning rush hour like an explorer of a new civilisation in the May sunshine. It is all heels, bare legs and lattes and suited men on teenagers scooters making me think of street scenes in Sex and the City.
The nurse at Moorfields had to force in anesthesia and dilating drops to my clamped eyelids. As the ward blurred I tried to guess what was on ITV’s This Morning and not fall back to sleep. The consultant said I don’t need eye surgery to remove life-long flickering lights in my vision. She says it’s nerves being damaged from Retinitis Pigmentosa. Nerves are the answer to all my health probs lately. Next week I am literally having my head tested to check my brain and nerves.
At what point did I morph into Vivienne Eliot? Bring on the bromides…
It is a bit of a bastard diagnosis getting to avoid the fear of cutting my eyeballs open and general anesthetic only to know I am stuck with the private pyrotechnics in my eyes.
The staff were lovely though and gave me free tinted glasses which, although I look like a hasbeen rock star, make me finally see in sunshine. The effect is almost biblical.
The real miracle would be deep, uninterrupted sleep…
Here is my pretty pink walk home from the thames.