Seeing the light for sure, but I certainly didn’t spot the brain attack heading my way. Mind for two years beforehand, I’d not been viewing anything particularly clearly. I’d been advised by an ophthalmologist that I needed cataract surgery but being a complete wuss, I’d dithered, dallied and delayed until it reached the point where I really should’ve gone to Specsavers. Or at least returned a lot sooner.

Looking back, I realise that in a weird way the brain attack’s proverbial bolt from the blue did me a big favour . . .

For as long as I can remember, I’ve been prone to iatrophobia, experienced the full works: nausea, dry mouth, dizziness, you name it. Forget white coat syndrome, at so much as a glimpse of scrubs, I morphed into a quivering wreck

Trust me, there’s nothing irrational about my fear of doctors. Even my hospital consultant recognised the signs and agreed to my pleas to cut back on four-hourly blood pressure checks. From then on, they were taken twice a day. For the good of my health.

Nonetheless, surrounded by medicos, monitors and machines, enduring obs, meds and bloods equalled almost my worst nightmare. CT scans and X-rays were bad enough, but when I was told I needed an MRI scan, I was in night terror territory. I hated every second of the imaging.

On the plus side, after going through the horror of my personal hell and living to tell the tale, I reckoned cataract surgery would be a doddle; a gentle breeze, a stroll in the park yada-yada.   

It wasn’t. When the day arrived and I clocked the surgeon’s blade approach for the first incision, I flirted momentarily with the idea of doing a runner. Recalled I could barely walk without a cane. Mentally, I donned big girls’ pants, lay back and, as they used to say, thought of England. Or in my case, visualised an exquisite stretch of Cornish coastline.

Back in the real world sipping post-op tea in the recovery area, I quickly agreed (with myself) that compared with an MRI the fifteen-minute painless procedure had been eminently bearable. Good thing, too, as I had to go back six weeks later for surgery on the second eye.  

Although it had been a massive deal for me, for the NHS cataract surgery is minuscule beer. It carries out 1200 operations like mine every day, that’s around 450,000 a year making it the common surgical procedure in the UK.  

I’ve been extolling its virtues ever since because the benefits are beyond belief. My pithy advice to anyone putting it off – just do it.

I’d become inured to seeing through a slight fog, everything a tad blurred. I found it difficult adjusting between bright sunlight and shade. I read mostly on my Kindle because I could increase font size. Reading was non-negotiable as I couldn’t imagine life with it.

Lens replacement surgery proved a revelation in more ways than one. Within hours everything around me was clearer, brighter; colours were vibrant again; perspectives sharpened; I could read even the smallest print without glasses.

I likened it to living in a house and having the windows cleaned properly for the first time in years. The quality of my life improved almost – forgive the expression – at a stroke.  

As far as health goes, the brain attack was undoubtedly the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, having cataract surgery was – still is – categorically the best.

Brian the clot might have run amok in my head severing countless complex cerebral connections, but it forced me to face up to and conquer feared medical interventions and that brought major gains.  

I can see clearly now: cinema and theatre trips, coastal walks and crossword are even more enjoyable, reading, an unalloyed delight. The new lenses have enhanced the quality of my post-brain attack life immeasurably.

I see that as one in the eye for Brian.     

Up next, part 5, from a guest blogger

In health and in sickness – who cares?