It’s been a funny old week. It began with a romantic anniversary trip to Kent and ended with two unexpected nights in the Royal Berkshire Hospital – two very different settings, but both left me reflecting on how much the people around us shape whether we feel safe… or vulnerable.

Let’s start at the beginning. This year Kath and I celebrated 19 years of marriage with a few nights at The Pig at Bridge Place, a converted country house just outside Canterbury. We have stayed at a few Pig hotels over the years and what attracts us to the chain is their relaxed atmosphere, welcoming staff and beautifully local food. They pride themselves on their “25-mile menu” whereby all the food served is either grown or reared on site or, you guessed it, within a 25-mile radius. The bar and lounges are lavishly furnished with comfy antique sofas and the rooms are fitted out with sumptuous beds, monsoon showers and well-equipped fridges.

This was Chester’s first trip with us, and I’ll admit I was nervous. We’d been sent a long list of assistance dog guidelines, complete with costs for damages, which hardly set the tone for a relaxing anniversary break. But we needn’t have worried — the manager welcomed us warmly, even upgrading us to a secluded room so Chester could settle. The staff went above and beyond: finding quiet spots for him, offering extra towels in case he fancied a paddle, and guiding me when Kath was away. Their inclusivity of Chester naturally became inclusivity of me — and it made the whole stay feel effortless.

The only damper on the trip was an ongoing niggle I had in my stomach, just to the right of my belly button. It started on Tuesday morning with a bit of a heavy stomach which I just put down to over-indulgence from the complimentary fizz and succulent sharing pork chop so I settled on a light breakfast of boiled egg and dippy soldiers. As the day progressed, my stomach seemed to settle but nevertheless I had no appetite so skipped lunch. After an early dinner the grumbling returned and I opted for a brew rather than joining Kath in a glass of wine. Wednesday morning began in much the same way as the day before but as it progressed, the discomfort in my abdomen grew more prominent and when we got home I was totally exhausted – not just from the long drive (that is happening more often) – but also from the increasing discomfort.

Sadly, the end of our break was overshadowed by a grumbling stomach pain that sent me to the Royal Berkshire Hospital. My appendix was the suspected culprit, but what stayed with me most wasn’t the physical discomfort – it was how excluded and invisible I felt. Not because of my condition, but because of my sight loss. Now for someone who is disabled, a hospital should be that one constant in life where staff just “get it” and perhaps for other forms of disability this is true but sadly, in my experience at least, this isn’t the case for sight-loss. I have to stress that not all my experiences were negative. The radiographers operating the CT machine were fantastic, giving clear verbal instructions on where I needed to lie down. The General Surgery consultant carefully explained each step, never relying on vague directions like “here”, and the attending nurse gently guided my hand to my water glass for orientation before describing every step as she connected the paracetamol drip.

It’s a shame these thoughtful touches stand out because they’re the exception, not the rule. Elsewhere, the actions – or inaction – of a small number of the acute care team left me feeling belittled and excluded.

Scroll back to Thursday morning and my initial experience going into the assessment ward couldn’t have been more different. The staff really didn’t seem to have any grasp of how to work with a visually impaired patient. I can forgive the nurse when she first called my name as they weren’t to know of my condition but after seeing my cane, some form of instinctive training should have kicked in to provide more verbal descriptions and the offer of sighted guiding.

We then come to the subject of consent. You see it seemed highly likely the reason for all my discomfort was a grumbling appendix meaning there was a chance it would have to be removed. To do this, I must sign the usual forms to confirm I consent to the surgery and understand the side-effects. Now the form appeared to only be available in a standard format which is inaccessible to someone with limited or no sight, which of course, raised the question about how I could sign something I can’t read. It seemed nobody from the ward were prepared to support (I don’t know if this is hospital policy or not) so it was down to me to come up with a plan. Thankfully mum and William were still nearby so it was no problem for them to pop back up and help me out before heading off home. Problem solved, but the doc wandered off into the ether before they had time to get back upstairs.

Making forms accessible shouldn’t be the patient’s problem. In a hospital, where decisions affect your health and future, that responsibility should rest with the system — not the individual scrambling to find workarounds.

Many hospital eye clinics have a dedicated Eye Clinic Liaison Officer (ECLO) who’s role is to support patients as they come to terms with a new diagnosis, help with forms and other practical and emotional support. Sadly, their remit stops at the eye clinic door and there seems to be no cross-departmental information sharing.

In the almost five years since my sight loss began impacting my life there have been a handful of times when I’ve felt truly vulnerable: not being able to find the right bus to Oxford Station, being stranded in Preston during mass train cancellations and being excluded from a clinic waiting room just because I had a guide dog with me.

But lying in that hospital bed in the corner of the ward, hooked up to fluids and painkillers with nobody around, I felt truly abandoned, isolated and worthless.

Hospitals should be places of safety — havens where we feel supported when we’re at our most vulnerable. But lying there in an unfamiliar ward, struggling to see and unsure when help might come, I felt anything but safe. I know our NHS is under immense pressure, but no one — whatever their disability — should feel invisible when they most need care.

I’m home now, appendix still intact, but the experience has left its mark. For now, I’m hoping the inflammation settles — and that next time, if there is one, I’ll find that safe haven we all deserve.