Two-faced: Looking at my (different) identity after eye surgery

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.