Month: October 2025

It took me days to look in the mirror after having an eye entirely removed. Could you imagine? How would you feel?

I went into hospital with two eyes. Just 29 hours later, I emerge with just one – now blind on my left and flashing limb syndrome in full drive, sounding the alarm to the disappearance of this critical part of my anatomy.

To begin with, after the bandages were removed, I looked like I’d had a run in with Floyd Mayweather. Bruised, swollen and shut; perhaps nature’s way of delaying seeing something rather unfathomable until I’d gained some strength.

Protecting my children – and vanity

In the weeks after surgery, I mostly avoided mirrors and I wore giant dark, dark sunglasses – even in the dingy basement of my home – to protect my children, and perhaps, my vanity.

Or maybe myself the murmuring fear of confronting a face that was mine, yet not quite. The world continued its noisy spin: clients to advise, children to feed, emails to answer. But I felt like I was having an out of body experience – as though I were moving through someone else’s life.

Finally mustering the courage, I briefly glanced in the mirror – each time trying to add on a few seconds to allow my brain to adapt, somehow. I saw loss. I also saw a version of myself I hadn’t yet met; altered, but alive. That moment marked the beginning of something new: recovery and recognition.

Second self

At first, this sort of ‘second self’ felt fragile, uncertain, but I could mask her behind the Chanel shades. Once I had my prosthetic made and ‘installed’, I had to confront friends, colleagues, strangers. Their eyes reflected unsaid emotions I had never had to navigate before. Some looked at me with pity, others with surprise, and a few – unintentionally – with discomfort. A couple of people couldn’t even look at me. That was hard. To feel like a freak was quite diminishing. Gruelling. Sad.

Each reaction, however subtle, forced me to confront a question I had never asked myself: who am I now?

It wasn’t dramatic or sudden; there was no lightning bolt of realisation. Instead, it was in the quiet hours, in small domestic moments, that the conversation with me, myself and I began. Brushing my hair in the morning, I would pause mid-motion and see the subtle shifts in my features. The angle of my gaze, the way shadows fell across my face, the tiny compensations my body had made; they all whispered change. An unwelcome transformation, but one that I couldn’t run away from.

A sort of self-flagellation

Some mornings, I could stomach the new me. But on other days, I recoiled slightly, surprised by a reflection that was familiar, and yet foreign. Worst of all, I’d try out different angles that would never be favourable or kind. A sort of self-flagellation, for some unknown reason.

This would be an opportune moment to describe the prosthetic – its mechanics, materials, strengths and weaknesses. Prosthetic eyes are made by an ocularist. It’s an artisan trade that hasn’t changed in half a century. They are acrylic – and eyes are painted on a white shell, like a thick giant contact lens (complete with some natural looking pink veins) – based on some photos taken. That’s it.

Luckily my ocularist is a deft painter. But it was a far cry that the ‘amazing technology’ I was promised by kind friends just waiting to make me feel better while I waited for my socket to heal. Significantly, they can only move about 50% MAX – because they sit on an orbit that’s been attached to the eye’s muscles. But the lack of movement is very challenging; this, for me, was the hardest to acclimatise to.

Curiosity over judgement

Back to the mirror, and I tried to approach these moments with curiosity rather than judgement. Not an easy task, and not something I’ve mastered, even now.

Slowly, I started to notice the resilience of my new self, the calmness in the way I now held my head, the deliberate care in my movements. I had to re-learn body language and gesticulations. I now fix my gaze on someone’s eyes, while they might be flinging theirs around as they tell stories or just go about their normal life.

My small victories were often imperceptible to others, yet transformative to me. The first time I laughed without checking my reflection. The moment I realised I could go on a Zoom without rehearsing expressions or walk into the coffee shop without compensating for perceived difference.

Patience and perspective

It’s been a cruel but rather clever lesson in patience and perspective. Recovery for me, has never been solely about healing my body. It has been about learning to see, to meet, and to accept – first the reflection in the mirror, and then the reflection in the world. It has been about understanding that identity is layered, nuanced and capable of evolution. My second self doesn’t eradicate the old me. They bumble along in tandem. Together, on this wild, unwanted ride – that’s far from over.

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Do reach out…

Any questions about living with ocular melanoma, please do ping me an email. And follow my story on Instagram: @seeing_life_clearly.

Rare cancers are, by definition, unusual. But living with one feels completely universal – the fear, the uncertainty, the fight to reclaim your life. My journey with ocular melanoma has been a lesson in loss, resilience – and the power of telling my own story to help others and raise awareness.

A diagnosis I’d never ever heard of

I’ll never forget the moment I was told I had ocular melanoma. It was a grey humdrum day, and I remember staring at the consultant as the words landed, not really understanding. A rare cancer. In the eye. I’d never even heard of it before. Cancer, yes – we all know someone, I my case my mum and best friend – but in the eye? It felt surreal. Scary. And certainly shocking.

When the dust settled a little, the word ‘rare’ made the volatile situation feel even more uncertain. We often use rare in our lexicon for things that are positive: rare diamonds, rare sightings, rare talent.

But I knew straight away that ‘rare’ in the context of cancer means fewer answers, less research, and not many people who’ve trodden this path before. It’s as if the ground falls away beneath you and you’re left without a map.

What ‘rare’ really means

Having a rare cancer means you carry two battles at once. The first is with the disease itself, the second is with the uncertainty. With common cancers, there are established treatments, endless resources, support groups bursting with people who understand. With ocular melanoma, there are fewer trials. Less data. More questions than answers. Telling friends and family is akin to being a schoolteacher – educating on new subjects. And yet, I’d only just learnt the topic myself.

And then there’s the isolation. You don’t bump into someone in the waiting room who says, “Oh yes, me too.” You can feel like the only one. I found myself scouring the internet late at night, searching for stories, blogs, anything to prove I wasn’t alone. Until I met my (now) one-eyed comrade, Jo – you can read about our parallel rare eye cancer stories here in The Times.

Facing enucleation

Nothing prepared me for the word enucleation. I had to Google it – surgical removal of the eye. When the doctors explained why it was necessary, they were calm, professional, careful. I listened, nodding, but inside I was reeling. How do you begin to process losing an eye? All with two weeks’ notice?

The day of the operation, I felt as though part of me was being erased. Waking up afterwards was brutal. I touched the dressing, I looked in the mirror, and I felt the absence where there had once been presence. It was grief, pure and simple. The loss of an eye isn’t just physical – it shakes your identity; it challenges your sense of self.

But strangely, in that same moment, something else stirred: determination. I realised that if this rare cancer was going to strip me of something, I had to find something else to hold onto.

Turning to storytelling

I’ve always worked with words. As a journalist and communicator, language has been my craft, my way of understanding the world. After the diagnosis, writing became my therapy. At first, it was just scribbles in a notebook, emails to family, private words to make sense of the chaos. Then slowly, I began to share more publicly. And always, candidly. Starting with ‘going global’ with this piece I wrote for The Times.

Storytelling gave me power back. When so much felt uncertain, I could at least take ownership of my narrative. I could write honestly about fear, about loss, about resilience. And in doing so, I began to connect with others. People reached out – some with the same diagnosis, some with different rare cancers, all wanting to say: “I understand. You’re not alone.”

That’s when I realised my story wasn’t just about me. It was about visibility. Rare cancers need voices. We can’t stay hidden in statistics and medical journals. We need to be heard.

The hidden weight

What most people don’t see is the long shadow rare cancer casts. The surgery heals, the socket recovers, but the emotional impact lingers. Every scan appointment carries dread. Every twinge makes you wonder: is it spreading?

And then there’s the everyday challenge of how people respond. Some avoid the subject, uncomfortable. Others offer platitudes. Very few ask, “How are you, really?” I’ve learnt to carry both bravery and vulnerability. Some days I feel strong, other days the sadness comes back sharply. Unfortunately, my diagnosis never quite leaves the room.

Why rare cancers matter

If I’ve become outspoken, it’s because I’ve seen the gaps up close. Rare cancers often fall through the cracks. Great work is being done by the likes of Ocular Melanoma UK and in the US, A Cure in Sight – you can listen to my ‘Eye Believe’ podcast here. But research funding is harder to secure. Clinical trials are fewer. Patients end up advocating for themselves, campaigning for awareness, seeking out the specialists hidden around the country.

But our lives are no less valuable for being rare. We deserve the same attention, the same urgency, the same compassion. Raising awareness isn’t just about me – it’s about every person who gets that lifechanging diagnosis and wonders, “What now?”

Reclaiming my story

Yes, I’ve lost an eye. Yes, I live with a rare cancer. But I refuse to let that be the end of the story. What cancer took physically, storytelling gave back emotionally. Sharing my journey has connected me to others and, I hope, offered them some of the reassurance I craved at the start: that you are not alone, even when your cancer is rare.

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Do reach out…

Any questions about monocular vision or living with ocular melanoma, please do ping me an email. And do follow my story on Instagram: seeing_life_clearly.

My alarm went off at 4am, but I didn’t sleep a wink anyway. It was perhaps the most nerve-racking night of my life, awaiting eye ‘enucleation’ – a grim, almost militaristic word for having one’s eyeball entirely removed. This was to be my fate that morning at Moorfields specialist eye hospital in London, after a diagnosis of ocular melanoma (rare eye cancer) just 15 days before.

As my husband drove me through the dank, dark March streets, weaving our way across London while most people were still sleeping, an advert came on the radio. It was a cancer charity asking people to leave money in their will. Or something like that. Details escape me now, but the message was loud and clear in my mind then. You have cancer and your life is in jeopardy.

‘Enucleation’

My surgeon came to see me, and drew a big, black arrow on my forehead pointing at the correct eye to remove. I am grateful there is no room for error. My left one has a tumour the size of a pea hidden in the back of it. Soon, it will all have been surgically taken out – along with the vision on that side.

Here’s the medical bit. Enucleation is the complete removal of the eyeball (the globe), while preserving the surrounding structures – the eyelids, eyelashes, eye muscles, and the bony orbit remain untouched. It feels medieval and macabre, but left in, survival would be out of the equation.

In place of the removed eye, a sphericalacrylic implant is placed deep in the orbit. This maintains the natural shape of the eye socket and allows the eye muscles to be reattached. Over time, this implant integrates with the surrounding tissue, helping to restore natural movement.

Waking up with just one eye

Fast-forward 24 hours and I had my bandages removed by a nurse. Looking like I’d done a few rounds in the ring with Muhammed Ali, I was sent on my merry way. Except merry was the antithesis of my emotions that day. My eye muscles – having been reattached to the acrylic implant I mentioned above – were tugging deep within my head, and also, at my soul. I did feel grief for my eye, immediately. And for the sight out of my left eye which was now just a black cavernous blind spot.

Why is sight so important?

I’ve contemplated this a lot since my diagnosis and surgery. Sight is the primary way we interpret, navigate and connect with the world around us. It’s not just a practical tool; it’s deeply psychological, social and emotional. Yes, it’s our brain’s primary data feed – the majority of the information we process about our environment is visual. Distances, movement, colour, shape, and light; spatial awareness and swift decision making.

But eyes, as they say, are also windows to our souls. Much of human connection is visual – such as the nuance of expression, the flicker of recognition and unspoken empathy. In short, sight is not simply seeing; it is understanding.

Monocular recovery – and living

And this is what worried me most as I returned home, just 30 hours after my operation – minus an eye and embarking on life with monocular vision. I knew I would do my best to overcome practical hurdles. But would a piece of me be lost? Would my ability to connect emotionally be half what it was? This may sound bananas to you if you have full vision, but anxiety was running high – and it felt like a huge leap into the unknown.

The mountainous task of making tea

The greatest challenge I remember was making a mug of tea – simply boiling a kettle and pouring hot water into a cup. In the immediate aftermath of my surgery, depth of field was dodgy; distances hard to gauge. Our brains are wired to function binocularly. And so, this transition takes time. Reaching for things also proved challenging. The pen simply wasn’t where it seemed to be. Letters on the keyboard are also out of place. As a writer, that was particularly worrying to me.

And then there’s the obvious total loss of some peripheral vision. Apparently, I have 20-30% less on my left side now. What’s wonderful is that my friends know to walk on my right. They often move themselves when the penny drops – anxious, perhaps, that I may tread on them! Which, to begin with, I did. My first visit to Waterloo was a thing of madness – constantly bumping into people. And still, when I cross the road, I have to turn the whole top half of my body and head to make sure I don’t get run over.

But, talking of cars, I am driving again; I was behind the wheel again just a few months after surgery. I had specific vision field tests at the opticians. Apparently, I have a higher score than many people on the road. And I overcompensate to make sure no-one is in my blind spot. Perhaps it’s made me more careful – as my husband says, my driving has improved since surgery.

Seeing things clearly

On this World Sight Day – 2026 – I feel deeply sorry for those who can’t see. And I am deeply grateful I still can. It’s forced me to contemplate what life would be like without vision. As I grow older, the reality that I face is that I only have my myopic ‘good’ eye to rely on.

My message to anyone reading this is: value your eyes above all else. To see opticians for eye checks frequently, to question if anything seems different or unusual – immediately. To not leave a niggle because it’s inconvenient, or because you’re worried. And to always seek a second opinion if something doesn’t sound quite right.

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Do reach out…

Any questions about monocular vision or living with ocular melanoma, please do ping me an email. And do follow my story on Instagram: seeing_life_clearly.