Why I turn a blind eye to visiting the hospital

It's been some years since I last had my eyes examined, mainly as I'm now totally blind and I believe there isn't any point in attending the hospital because is nothing the doctors can do to restore my eyesight. What little vision I had started to fail about the same time as the Western's eye department moved to Gartnavel Hospital. Not far in terms of distance, but as a blind person it became an endurance test in itself. I had a theory that if you could find the new location without any assistance, you had nothing wrong with your eyesight.

The old clinic was easy to find, as it was just off the street and a short walk from the underground station. The new venue meant either I took a rather expensive taxi to the front door, or the train to a nearby station. Taking the train involved bobbing and weaving my way through open hospital grounds and car parks, with me persistently asking passers-by for reassurance that I was heading in the right direction. Hospital grounds are notoriously difficult spaces to navigate, particularly when you are blind. They appear to be designed and built with only the car driver in mind. I found that asking other people did not always help, as they didn't know where they were going either, and rather than saying so and not wishing to appear unhelpful, they would send me off in some vague direction.

You would think that after finding the door to the hospital, I would be in a safe and friendly environment. But no: over the years, my guide dog and I have found ourselves wandering down long disinfectant-smelling corridors pushing open numerous swing doors only to come across some other lost soul asking for directions. I discovered all kinds of hospital departments in my hunt for the eye unit, only to be spun around and sent off in the opposite direction. "Hello, is this the eye department?" Answer: "No! This is gynaecology." Or: "No! This is tropical diseases." I've even had: "No! This is the psychiatric department." How appropriate, as by that point, I was ready to check myself in as a patient suffering from anxiety.

I have been lucky enough to meet a member of staff who could confidently claim that they knew where the eye unit was, as they remembered passing it once accidentally back in 2003. They were so pleased to tell me: "You're only three corridors and a lift away." Eventually - exhausted, dehydrated and stressed - the dog and I eventually staggered into the eye unit. While leaning against the reception counter, I handed over my appointment card. "Oh, Mr Hamilton. You've missed your time, you're very late, so I'm not sure if we can squeeze you in." Whether it was the look on my face, or the fact I was head-butting the counter, the receptionist relented and said that she would "see what she could do".

This particular eye unit has two waiting areas. The first is for when you arrive. I was normally in there for what felt like a day and a half.

When they did call my name, I was moved to the second area closer to the consultants' rooms, which gets you excited, as you think you are going to be taken soon. However, the waiting time is extended for a further three days. This is to keep the patients and the nurses fully occupied while the doctors are off playing golf in Spain.

Eventually I am taken, but not by the consultant. Instead, the nurses set about testing my level of vision. Now, my records state that I have no vision at all; I even tell them I have no vision at all, but staff still insist on testing my sight by shining a light in my eyes. (I only knew this because I felt the heat on my face.) What bit of "I can see nothing" didn't they understand?

I do have a mistrust of the medical profession. After all, it wasn't until I was 18 years old that someone sat me down and explained what sight I had, how it worked and how to use it effectively. This seems shocking, I know, but what is even more shocking is that visually-impaired people are still not being taught how to get the most from what little vision they have. If I hadn't trained myself to use one part of my left eye to see with the aid of powerful magnification, I would never have been able to paint and etch, something I did professionally for many years.

Ophthalmologists are keen to explain what the condition is, mostly with a doomsday scenario, which can be devastating for the patient. Rather than saying: "There is nothing else I can do for you, apart from putting you on the blind register and here is your free bus pass", they should be saying: "Yes, you are losing your sight; no, you won't lose all of it, but there are a number of options for you to use the little sight you have to maximum effect." It's important to keep in mind that only 4% of the registered blind population are totally blind. This means that the remainder have varying degrees of residual vision.

I also hate getting my eyes touched, which just adds to the layer of stress I experience during these visits. When I was a baby and a toddler, I had a number of eye examinations, during which they would have to hold me down. My ophthalmologist said that my phobia goes back to that time. "We don't do that any more because of cases like yours," he told me. "Fundamentally, you are a psychiatric case."

I suspect anyone who knows me could easily confirm that.