I took my dad to the eye surgeon today. We have waited months for this elusive appointment. This is not the first time we have been to have Dads cataracts looked at. We have been through the whole thing of being examined, paying the bill, booking an admission date and being counselled by some self-important assistant sitting at a large desk, assuming the medical status of her boss and telling us all the possible things that could go wrong. I can’t remember whether going blind or dying under the anaesthetic scared Dad the most.
Last time he got as far as getting to the hospital admissions desk before doing a runner and telling the nurse “he would think about it”
This time I thought that this was hopefully going to be the day he decided to have the operation. After all he couldn’t read the racing news.
The surgeon carefully went through all the pros and cons again and then Dad stood up and said.
“Thank you for your time young man, I will think about it.
We made our way out of the office, gingerly down the stairs and out into the street.
It was raining hard, I took his arm and held him firmly.
‘I can’t see a bloody thing” he said’ and then I felt him slip from my grasp and both of us fell headlong into the gutter.
Winded, I started to say something, but no words came out, the irony of the situation hit us both and we burst into laughter and lay in a huge puddle in the gutter.
