A Visit to the Hospital

By Neville Jenkinson

[Note: Mr. Jenkinson lives in a small market town called Abergavenny, 25 miles North of Cardiff, the capitol of Wales. Prior to his retirement, he was the Wales director, for the Royal National Institute for the Blind. His vision loss results from diabetes.

The "folk dancing" he refers to in his article is what often happens when a sighted person is unable to guide a visually impaired person correctly. Often, the individual is pushed, or pulled in an attempt to move the person from one place to another.]

For the next few minutes, I would like you to imagine that you are unable to see. All that you can be aware of in your surroundings are sounds, touch, smell, disembodied voices, and bodily contact with other humans and objects.

Because I had nobody to accompany me, I was taken to the hospital by ambulance car. I was told by the person who organizes this service, that I was not to worry when I telephoned to tell him that my appointment time had passed five minutes ago and I was still sitting at home.

He was right because I was not scolded at all by the smiling voice that greeted me on our arrival and merely "guided" to the clinic. I was now sitting in a waiting room, I assume, after what seemed more like folk dance lessons than a short walk from the reception area to this chair.

"On your own today?" a voice, which an educated guess told me was a nurse. "Yes", I replied. Treating this remark as an introductory line rather than unnecessarily stating the obvious.

While we were "folk dancing" our way from the entrance to the clinic, I advised my guide I would like to follow my usual routine of visiting the chiropodist after the clinic. She said that she would make herself available to take me there.

I was now sitting down somewhere else recovering from another struggle against being lowered backwards into an unknown space and landing with a bump onto a hard seat of another chair.

Sooner than I expected, being so late, a gentle voice inquired, "Mr. Jenkins?" My name is Jenkinson but it is often shortened to Jenkins. I am sure other people with "son" names have the same experiences, so I piped up, "My name is Jenkinson. Are you calling me?"

"Yes," replied the voice.

There then followed another violent struggle against being pushed ahead of the voice into various objects and bounced from door frame to door frame, then finally being told to turn around.

"In which direction?" I said, "and for what purpose? Are you going to weigh me or do you want me to take my clothes off?"

"No," said the voice. "I want you to sit down."

"Oh!" I said, beginning to lower myself and using my left hand to feel what distance I needed to lower my bum to reach the chair seat and so avoid that long free fall sensation I experienced during my previous sitting down operations.

"Stop!" cried the voice "The chair is further back."

I then did my "walking backwards" impression of the "Hunchback of Notre Dame" eventually lowering myself gratefully into the chair.

"Well, how are you keeping?" asked the voice.

"Fine, thank you," I answered in my pleasant chitchat mode, "and how are you?"

"I am Mr. Saunders' assistant, Dr....."

I was unable to catch the name. Partly because of its unfamiliar sound but mainly due to my embarrassment for having assumed she was a nurse. It is unusual for a doctor to bring a patient from the waiting room into the consultants' room, I thought.

She told me that Mr. Saunders was busy that morning and did I mind her doing the business instead. I said that I had no objections.

Perhaps I would have preferred to see the boss but the thought of another battle was too much.

We began to discuss my condition only to be interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Excuse me, doctor." It was my nurse. "You have Mr. Jenkins' records and you are interviewing Mr. Jenkinson."

This is an easily made error. I asked if I had pushed in front of someone, but was told by both parties, in chorus, that I should not worry as it was now sorted out. My nurse and the doctor told each other how easy this sort of error could be made with a name like mine. If I had been in the operating theatre instead of a consulting room, it may not have been so easy to rectify the error, I thought to myself.

With the correct records on her desk, we began to discuss the relevant aspects of my condition: blood sugar levels, hearing, etc. I confessed to having experienced some difficulty in distinguishing the higher register voice tones. The doctor said she would see that something would be done about having my hearing tested.

There was no more to talk about so the doctor excused herself and went to find my guide. "Come along, Mr. Jenkinson," said my guide, poking her elbow gently into my ribs and off we went to see the chiropodist.

There was a great improvement in how I was guided and we arrived at our destination with very little mishap.

"He seems busy today," I commented. Basing this assumption on the number of voices surrounding me. "Who?" inquired my nurse. "The chiropodist," I answered with a note of surprise in my voice.

"I don't know," she said with a similar note of surprise in her voice. Best stay quiet, I thought.

"Hello," said a new young female voice. "Would you please come along with me."

"Yes," I agreed hesitantly, "but where to?"

This was not the voice of the regular chiropodist. Having already mistaken a doctor for a nurse it seemed prudent for me to play it a little cooler this time.

Just a slight struggle this time because the room I was gently pushed into was only a few yards away from where I had been sitting. No time to do any training.

"I am going to test your hearing," said the young lady.

No wonder my nurse did not know whether or not the chiropodist was busy. The doctor must have told her to take me to the ear, nose and throat clinic. I assumed there would be a long waiting period for an appointment, perhaps things are improving in the National.Heath.Service.

"Yes," said the hearing tester. "You seem to have some difficulty with the higher register tones." She had arrived at this conclusion after bombarding my ears with a series of weird sounds via a set of headphones.

Another short journey. Another little "heave-ho" and another chair.

"Mr. Jenkins, what is your Christian name?" inquired yet another new voice from somewhere behind me.

I did not reply.

"Mr. Jenkins," repeated the voice a little louder.

I had better reply, I thought, because she seems to be speaking to me. If I don't reply to this second call then she may think that I am deaf!

"Neville," I said.

At the same time another voice said "Clive".

I turned my head, coughed and pretended that the previous sound I had just made may have sounded like Neville, but it was just another cough, in fact!

"I am going to put some wax into your right ear," said the ear tester. Seems a strange thing to do. Wax is usually removed from your ears, so I humbly inquired as to why she was about to do this.

"To make a mould of your ear," she said.

"Why?" I asked.

"So that your hearing aid fits snuggly," she said comfortingly.

Before I was able to make any sort of protest a male voice said "Mr. Johnson."

As he was standing very close to me, but surely he was not speaking to me so I waited.

"Mr. Johnson," repeated this new voice.

He is speaking to me.

"Jenkinson actually," I said patiently, "and why am I having a hearing aid?"

I did not know who this fellow was. He may have been a Porter, or an ear specialist. He did not say who he was, but he explained all about loss of hearing and how the aid would help.

"Well, now that's all over I'll take you back to the ambulance depot," said my nurse. Did I denote a certain amount of relief in her voice?

"No! No! No!" I protested strongly. "I want to go to the chiropodist". Yes, you did detect a certain amount of anguish in my voice.

My guide sounded surprised at my little outburst.

"Yes," she said.

The longish trek to the chiropodist was almost perfect. My training course had certainly made a difference to my guide's guiding skills. We arrived outside the chiropodists. My hand was placed on the back of a hospital plastic moulded chair, just the way I had shown her and I began to lower myself into the seat with dignity.

"Ouch!" I exclaimed. As my tender parts caught a glancing blow on the arm of a wooden chair next to mine.

"I'll just pop along to the ambulance depot to check on your lift," said my nurse. "Will you be all right on your own?"

"I think so," I said. I should be all right when the pain subsides.

Just after she left I heard a door opening. "Mr. Jacobson," I heard the chiropodist say directly into my right ear.

I didn't answer of course, so he repeated himself and touched my shoulder. He does mean me?

"Jenkinson," I retorted.

"Of course," he said. "The writing is a bit difficult to read, I recognise you now."

He made his usual good job of my feet and chatted pleasantly as he worked. I was returned to the ambulance depot, then into a car and the sanity of my home.

I was sorry about my little outburst about going to the chiropodist, but I could not handle an identity problem. And, having to explain that, no, I did not have my feet done, but I will be the proud recipient of a hearing aid.

My tale is supposed to make you laugh, but there is a very simple remedy to avoid any repetition of this sort of fiasco happening to me, or any other visually impaired patients in any hospital.

A simple list of do's & don'ts:

* When opening any sort of conversation with a visually impaired person, touch them gently. This simple action will tell the person that you are speaking to them and only them.

* Always tell the person who you are, and why you are speaking to them. If, for example, you are a nurse, doctor or ear tester, then just say your name, why you are taking them and what you are going to do with them.

* If you need to walk that person anywhere then offer them your elbow to hold. This means you will then be leading and not pushing the person in front of you. The particular person may have their own method that they will prefer.