What’s it like to have a prosthetic eye? And how does it work, anyway?
This is a question I am asked a lot. So, I thought it worth writing about. The quick answer is – it doesn’t work at all. But here I divulge what I’ve experienced when I lost an eye to rare eye cancer – and eyesight on one side – and gained a prosthetic one.
I went on a steep learning curve when I found out I had ocular melanoma and had to have my left eye whipped out in its entirety just two weeks’ later. Think Everest-like incline. I didn’t have much time to prep; I certainly learnt on the job, at meteoric speed. A little too quick for my liking. But no choice. Life and death stuff.
No choice. Life and death stuff.
I’d never met anyone with eye cancer before. Anyone with an eye prosthetic. Anyone with monocular vision. I simply had no reference point.
Many friends were swift to verbally rescue me.
“My mum’s sister knows someone who she sees at the supermarket who has a fake eye. And you never could tell!”
“Technology is amazing these days. It’s incredible what they can do with prosthetics.”
Neither statement turned out to be true. But that, in a moment.
The eye must come out. Soon.
Enucleation is the type of surgery I had. Such a macabre word. And a bit Chernobyl-esque. My eye was removed – but my eyelids and lashes remain. And an implant was placed in the socket, with my eye muscles attached to it, so a prosthetic can move. A bit. Not as much as I’d yearned for and still do.
When I awoke from the surgery, I had flashing lights on my left – an urgent signal of mourning, a sign of loss. I’ve written about it here in The Times. And when the anaesthetic wore off, a flinching, tugging pain persisted – as the muscles got used to their new roommate: a small acrylic ball.
I had flashing lights on my left – an urgent signal of mourning, a sign of loss.
Sevens weeks of no eye at all. An eery see-through conformer lens kept my eye socket in place. That was a bleak time indeed. Very big, very sunglasses became my new BFF. Inseparable, from dawn to dusk.
Have you ever heard of an ocularist? No, me neither…
I was then invited into the weird and wonderful – and I can say weird as this is now my life – world of ocular prosthetics. An old fashion dentist chair awaits. And the kindest man; thank God. An ‘ocularist’. Who knew such a word existed?
He opened a draw full of prosthetics. The ‘blue’ drawer. 10 acrylic (yes, more acrylic; I’m quite synthetic these days) eyes stared up at me and at all corners of the room. Rattling around. A ‘WTF has happened to my actual life?’ moment. He picked a few up, compared them to my real eye, and sighed. ‘I’m sorry, we don’t quite have your blue. But this is the closest match.’ A bit of carpentry-like re-sizing later, and he popped the prosthesis in my eye for the first time.
10 acrylic eyes stared up at me and at all corners of the room. A ‘WTF has happened to my actual life?’ moment.
I wasn’t prepared, as I looked in the mirror. The blue was icy and bright; my blue is puddle grey. The iris felt huge and goggly. Like the Halloween stick on ones for biscuits. Cirque du Soleil might welcome me with open arms. But I couldn’t accept myself; it was simply too different. And different isn’t freaky. But I did feel like a freak. My loved ones had dubbed this moment ‘Liberation Day’ – and yet, I felt locked in a world I didn’t belong. And although just cosmetic, it was seriously dampening my normal cheery demeanour.
Sunglasses back on
Seven weeks later – healing all the way – I was ready for my new eye. That’s entirely untrue. I would never be ready. But it was awaiting me.
Was it the product of whizzy 21st century technology? Unfortunately, not. Artisan in nature, prosthetic eye making, I’m told, hasn’t really changed in half a century. Oh joy! More sucker punch news.
Prosthetic eye making, I’m told, hasn’t really changed in half a century. Oh joy!
You see, pardon the pun, a fake eye is an acrylic shell. Not glass. A little like a giant contact lens. Complete with mini red blood vessels, my ocularist hand painted my iris and pupil on. In this respect, it was a work of art. If it wasn’t intended to replace a living part of my body, and I could admire it objectively, I would say it’s extraordinary. So life-like. He captured so much of the nuance of my iris colour, the flickers of yellow.
But it wasn’t living. And it could only move slightly; maximum 50 per cent.
Changing faces – and behaviours
Gawping in the mirror at weird angles, I knew straight away this was going to get some getting used to. About a year, in fact, of not being shocked and sad when I looked at my reflection.
Communications is the line of work I am in. And I’ve had to learn to communicate completely differently. I lock people’s stare front on. I no longer gesticulate, which would result in me flinging my head – and eyes – akimbo. That would reveal the lack of movement in an instance. I am still, measured and calculated. Which is at total odds with my normal M.O.
I no longer gesticulate, which would result in me flinging my head – and eyes – akimbo.
Does this all boil down to vanity? Perhaps so. As a broadcast journalist, on the telly, you could say I’ve always worked in an aesthetic- oriented industry. But my fake eye is also a permanent reminder of the sinister turn my life suddenly took. And the scary future I face – now one-eyed and blind on the left.
Seeing life differently
To answer the question someone asked me: “Can you see through it?” That’s a definite no. And you can read here about what life with monocular vision is like. But I do read with great interest, news reports about improving the eyesight of visually impaired people. It won’t benefit me. But it means the future might ‘look’ different – perhaps someday, some sight can be saved, while a life is also saved.
For me, having my eye enucleated means I am alive today. And there would be a very big question mark over that, had I not noticed my eyesight go slightly wonky. So me, myself and m-eye fake eye must push on – with gratitude and a big dollop of resilience.