“You will look down at the floor for fifty minutes of every hour for the next seven days. You will also sleep face down at all times.”

Auschwitz 1942? Guantanamo bay 2010? No; it wasn’t spoken with quite that much frost, but when Staff Nurse Anne Bowers, at the RoyalExeterHospital delivered her terms with a sympathetic smile, it was most definitely non-negotiable.

Lying prone, still wearing my operation theatre stockings, drip tubes and an eye patch, and staring at the ceiling – the last time this would be possible for a week, I heard her unleash her next salvo…

“They have inserted a gas bubble in your eye; you will be unable to fly for roughly 4 – 6 weeks.”

This new snippet swirled slowly through my still muddied brain like a stick through a murky pond, until realisation splashed through… our plane leaves the ground for Ho Chi Minh City in 5 weeks. Our precious trip to VIETNAM was in jeopardy. I glared at Staff Nurse as best I could through my one eye, and she glared right back at me. I silently and instantly agreed with her – my sight is more important.

I closely examined the car mat on the long drive home, the rolling green hills of North Devon passing by unseen outside the window, swifts plundering the air above, my self pity sprouting then flowering. How was I to know that worse was to come?

Within hours of sitting at the kitchen table, studying the grain of the wood – inches from my good eye, I knew that the task ahead was daunting. My neck already hurt, my back ached. My only relief would be to lie facing down, but then my stomach hurt and… my back ached. I longed for the ten minute respite I was allowed each hour, but how brief it seemed before it was time to face back down again. Trying to sleep, on that first night, pushed me into dark holes I had never imagined; claustrophobia, panic attacks, desperate loneliness.

And in the daytime I discovered the isolation that people with disabilities often suffer even when surrounded by people. When facing down, people talk around, over, and about you; as though you are not there. It also showed me in a very small way, how destructive sensory deprivation can be. During the first few days, what I most yearned for and relished for my ten minute break, was to just look into the eyes of my wife and children. I lapped them up like a hungry puppy.

After what seemed an eternity, I was allowed to stand up and stay upright. All I needed was for the aquarium in my eye – which was what the gas bubble looked like, to slowly disappear at its own pace.

Two weeks later, I knew that my right eye had been saved and I should be seeing properly out of it again one day. I had been lucky, and it made me think of Martin Ward – or ‘Masher’, one of the pioneers of North Devon surfing, still carving Saunton waves, with his one good eye scanning the horizon for the next set, and poignantly – my great friend Darren. Registered blind, he has a fantastically positive outlook and enjoys a fruitful life without aid of a stick or guide dog, holds down a high pressure IT management position with no sign of his difficulties, runs marathons, and like me is a lover of Northern Soul, music in general, dancing and partying; all whilst bringing up two lovely kids.

Because of the operation I now have a slight insight into what he has to mentally and physically negotiate each day and I have even more respect for him than before. Darren, after my very short but difficult time looking down – I look up to you.