In an unfortunate accident, Matt Imhof, a 22-year-old Phillies minor-league pitcher had his right eye damaged when the mounted base of a resistance band in an exercise room broke off and hit him in the eye and nose. The damaged eye was removed and replaced with a prosthetic one. Trauma is a leading cause of monocular blindness in the United States.
Traumatic eye loss has both physical and emotional aspects. Monocular blindness reduces peripheral vision by about 25 percent; depth perception can be affected. Normally, the brain processes two different images from both eyes (stereopsis) to calculate distance, position and object size, similar to triangulation. In a two-dimensional world, going down stairs at night or on escalators can be treacherous. For his role in "True Grit," John Wayne wore a special eyepatch with a hole in the center covered by mesh, so he could see through it while avoiding all the attendant problems.
Fear of damage to the sighted eye becomes significant. Walking down a narrow sidewalk on a rainy day crowded with people carrying umbrellas still terrifies me. Eye loss is also marked by the emotional trauma of disfigurement, which is difficult at any age, but especially in a young person.
My left eye was shattered in an accident in October 1967 at age 19. While practicing for a drill team in college, a guidon hit me dead center in my left eye, quartering the eyeball back to the optic nerve. I spent 10 days in Philadelphia's Wills Eye Hospital. The postoperative result looked ghastly. Stitches covered the red suture lines that traversed the globe.
Unlike Imhof, I opted not to use an artificial eye. This is not meant as a criticism _ I have respect for and empathy with anyone dealing with eye loss. In my case, an artificial eye would not move synchronously with my sighted one. Mainly, I chose an eyepatch to mask the wound without pretending the accident hadn't happened by trying to look like everyone else.
People who think that wearing an eyepatch is just about looking "cool" probably don't consider that, when the patch is removed, the wound still stares back from the mirror. The eyepatch, however, gave me the confidence to start interacting again socially and actually started my acceptance of the situation.
But why does an eyepatch invite unsolicited commentary from strangers?
For me, it's not a party favor. I don't greet strangers with comments about any aspect of their appearance. Just because you wore one as a kid doesn't mean you've shared my experience. Most people don't comment; some comments over the years have been solicitous; many have been inappropriate. Don't you think that in 48 years I've heard every "aaaargh," pirate reference, or other "clever" remark before? They're not funny; they're just rude.
One recurrent comment (and one that I heard recently) is when some self-absorbed mother loudly tries to use me as an object lesson to her child:
"See what happens when you're not careful with sharp objects?"
Not that rudeness is restricted to either gender. As I was reading once, a man approached me with "Looks like you're doing pretty good for a one-armed paperhanger."
Interestingly, eye loss did not exempt me from my pre-induction (draft) physical, where I spent the day at the regional Army Induction Center wearing only undershorts and a black eyepatch, and often nothing but the eyepatch.
At the vision examination, a bored corpsman, more intent on reading a newspaper, held out his hand for my records without glancing at me.
"Cover your left eye and read the chart."
I did.
"Cover your right eye and read the chart."
"What chart?"
"The one on the wall."
"What wall?"
For the first time, he looked at me. "Back in line."
I was not accepted for military service. Another potential draftee there that day who had his leg in a brace told me it was his third time through the exam. I later heard that the local boards were more intent on filling quotas than worrying if the candidates would actually pass.
After college and graduate school, I spent my professional career as a writer and editor first, in publishing, and later, on the faculty at a teaching hospital. For the last 30 years, my office was located on the top floor of a medical office building. I've taken innumerable elevator rides and had countless children silently stare at me. I'll sometimes look back at them, smile and wink. Most immediately turn away. Occasionally, one will look back with one eye closed, and smile. That's the best reaction of all.
