A monocular view of life – on World Sight Day

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.