It’s 7.48am and I’m making school lunches. A Vegemite sandwich for one son and a hummus one for the other. I grab a couple of red apples and quickly wrap two muffins in beeswax.
Done. Next, I open the fridge and get a small bottle. I tilt my head back and put a cold splat of medicated eye drop in my right eye.
My eldest boy walks in. “Mum, is it library day?” he asks.
I turn to face him, my eye still glistening from the drop. It has a spider’s web of thick red veins covering the white part and the pupil is ghostly white, thanks to a heavy cataract. It also has a hard turn, making me appear to be looking sideways, even though my seeing eye is looking straight at my boy.
To strangers, my blind eye can look jarring. But to my son, it’s just how his mum looks first thing in the morning. He isn’t bothered by it at all, but he is about library day.
“Wednesday – yep, library day.” I trail off. He’s already disappeared to find the books.
It’s now 8.11am. Time to get a move on.
I quickly get dressed.
Then I go into the bathroom and slot in my “toy eye”.
The scleral shell, as it’s actually called – not what my kids have nicknamed it – has been soaking overnight in a container of clear solution to keep it moist. Now it’s in place, I feel better as the surface of my natural eye can get scratchy and irritated. But my comfort also runs much deeper than this.
Lana’s “toy eye”. Source: Supplied
The painted-on eye closely matches my seeing one, which is more green than blue, with flicks of yellow and light grey stripes. When I wear the fake one, my eye magically looks straight. It’s a work of art by the person who made it.
I now feel ready to face the world. Not too different with a “scary” eye.
It’s nothing to be ashamed of and I know what true beauty is. I know I am worthy in the ways that count
“Time to go!” I yelp as I clip my dog’s leash on his collar for the walk to school.
As well as having a blind eye I am also hearing impaired. This is all thanks to a tumour condition where I grow benign tumours in my retina, brain, ears and other places.
But this is my normal. It’s what I know, and it’s also what my family knows about me.
They know to talk one at a time, for instance, so I’m not confused by who is speaking, and also to tell me when my fake eye has wandered and looks wonky, as it sometimes does. Then they watch as I gently move it in a circle, telling me when it’s in a good position with a thumbs up sign.
They also know my feelings about it.
This is the moment it’s twigged for them that my eyes don’t move in synchrony
Although it’s an improvement cosmetically, my “toy eye” can still look disconcerting. It’s hard for fake eyes to move exactly the same as natural eyes. For example, I often notice a flash of, “Oh, that’s odd,” cross a person’s face during our first conversation and know this is the moment it’s twigged for them that my eyes don’t move in synchrony.
For this reason, I’m self-conscious about it. I hate seeing myself in photos, where that mis-synchrony is snapped in a single frame, one eye looking directly at the camera and the other a little off. So I often wear sunglasses, but I don’t want to be. It’s nothing to be ashamed of and I know what true beauty is. I know I am worthy in the ways that count.
Funnily, while adults are too polite to ask me about my eye when they notice it, kids aren’t.
A sunglasses day for Lana Hallowes. Source: Supplied
Often a small child will look at me quizzically, and then put a pudgy finger on their eyelid. If their Mum or Dad notice, that hand is quickly swept away in an attempt to silence them. But it’s too late. I’ve understood the curiosity and I actually welcome it.
Often a small child will look at me quizzically, and then put a pudgy finger on their eyelid. I’ve understood the curiosity and I actually welcome it
Children mean no offence and I personally believe that by being more open generally, about all of our experiences, we can help spread awareness and understanding, which can ultimately lead to more inclusion and less awkwardness all round. Normalise what is actually very normal. Everyone is unique.
For this reason, I love talking to my kids and their friends about my experiences. I give them tips all the time on how best to communicate with me and other people with hearing impairments: “Look at me, so I can read your lips, honey.” I’ll tell them.
I personally believe that by being more open generally, about all of our experiences, we can help spread awareness and understanding
And when it comes to my “toy eye”, I answer all their questions about it, too. I tap on it with my fingernail, which they find hilarious and fascinating, and then after we’ve had a nice open chat about it, they don’t tend to bring it up again. Their curiosity cup is filled, and I like to think I’ve also instilled in them an acceptance of disability and difference. Importantly, I’ll remind them not to exclude kids or adults who look different – we are all people with feelings and it is important to remember no one likes to feel singled out.
I hope the next time they see someone with a prosthetic, in a wheelchair, bald from cancer treatment or anything else, that this isn’t confronting. They won’t avert their gaze, like many adults do, or avoid saying good morning or flashing this person a friendly smile. Because they are as deserving of this as anyone else.
So yes, I am a mother with a “toy eye”, but I love what it’s teaching those around me.
