There are times in life when it’s easier to share snaps of pets and plants than it is to talk about what else is going on. There are lots of reasons not to share – not wanting to burden people, not wanting to risk ‘oversharing’ and simply not having the energy, the time, the stamina.

Philip and I have recently been in difficult times, and we still are. I’ve been posting a lot of pictures of my garden! But I’ve been aware that I’d feel more authentic and comfortable sharing some of what’s happening in our life. I don’t want to feel uncomfortable right now. So I asked Philip if he’d mind me writing about what’s happening, and he doesn’t.

Squeamishness alert: this post contains some details of eye surgery.

At the end of April, Philip noticed a loss of vision in his left eye. Each of us has had plenty of eye problems and surgeries, so we calmly booked the earliest possible appointment with our excellent ophthalmologist, who diagnosed IOD (intraocular lens dislocation) on the eve of the Coronation weekend in early May. Philip was referred as an urgent case for surgery.

Over the following weeks, while he was experiencing strange and alarming symptoms (including being able to ‘see’ his own dislocated and free-floating lens, like a marooned spaceship) and stoically attempting to function with severely reduced vision, Philip and I met various specialists and surgeons who ummed and ahhed about what kind of surgery might be possible. It was all quite baffling.

To cut a long story short, two weeks ago Philip had a variation on a procedure called pars plana vitrectomy at Moorfields Eye Hospital in London. Basically the insides of his left eye had collapsed, and could not be repaired, so the lens, lens sac, zonules (tiny elastic ligaments that normally hold the lens in place and allow it to change shape to focus) and other bits and pieces, as well as the vitreous (a jelly-like substance which fills the space between the lens and the retina at the back of the eye) were all removed. The retina is still in place, thank goodness. (There’s a simplified diagram of the anatomy of the eye at the foot of this post.)

Philip is recovering well. We’re so grateful for the skills of the surgeon and the team at Moorfields, and for their care and kindness. After the first dark days post-op, some vision is returning, and with new prescriptions for several sets of glasses he will, we hope, have reasonable 3-D eyesight again within a month or two – enough to move around without bumping into things, enough to read, maybe even enough to drive. This is good news indeed.

Less good news is that the surgeon has warned us that the lens in the right eye is very likely to dislocate too (tests have shown this), and that both eyes are at high risk of a range of other problems. The medics are now joining some dots that have not been joined before, and are investigating whether there’s an underlying genetic condition that explains not only all Philip’s eye problems throughout his life, but a few other problems too. We haven’t yet gone far down that track.

The events of the past couple of months have caused us to lead a very quiet life, much like the lockdowns of 2020 and 2021. Practice makes perfect! We’re lucky to have a home we love, with a rewarding garden, and a forest at the end of our lane. We cancelled most of our plans as soon as we knew surgery would be needed – we couldn’t risk catching infections that might delay the operation, and we didn’t feel much like going out and about anyway. But we did have a small and lovely launch here at home for my new poetry collection Beyond the Gate (Worple Press) on June 15^th – with all the windows and doors open onto the garden, and about twenty of us raising a glass to the book. It was beautiful.

Throughout my life, work has sustained me, and the past ten weeks have been no exception. I’m delighted the new book is out, with its beautiful cover art by Michaela Ridgway, and I’m now planning readings etc. I’ve also given some time to rethinking my website: my thanks to the wonderful Robin Houghton for her patience and her help with making this happen. The Open University teaching year came to a close a couple of weeks ago – with immaculate timing – just before Philip’s surgery.

June here in Suffolk is beautiful, and the Aldeburgh Festival at Snape is normally one of our highlights of the year, so we were sad to miss most of it, though we did get to a couple of concerts. But in the past week Philip has felt well enough to walk by the sea at Thorpeness and across our beloved Tunstall Forest, and once or twice I’ve been able to meet friends in the spaces between 4-hourly eye drops (it’s more or less impossible to put drops in your own eye when you can’t see). We’re gently making plans for later in the summer.

For now, we’re taking each day as it comes, grateful for doses of normality and for help and guidance as we find it. Most of the time we’re okay, but sometimes we feel exhausted: there’s been a lot to deal with, a lot to process, and there’s more to come, both known and unknown.

The mother of a dear friend of mine used to say: ‘I’m not complaining, I’m just stating a fact’. I like that.

I’m sharing this personal news because I would prefer people to know that our life isn’t a bed of roses right now, though the roses really do help, and so does their scent.