When Your Eyeball Falls Out

If that didn't pike some interest, what kind of title would?  

To appreciate the heart of the dialogue that took ten seconds on a dog-walk last fall, you have to know the background.  So, for those who aren't familiar with eyeball history O'Neill style, a synopsis:

With Camille's micro prematurity came her Retinopathy of Prematurity, an eye disease that caused her vision loss.  ROP doesn't always rear its head in preemies, but the earlier in preemie, the more likely it will.  Severe forms of ROP that are unresponsive to a little laser therapy are rare.  Camille was among the chosen few.  

I liken ROP in it's worst form to a natural disaster such a tornado, a typhoon, a tsunami, a hurricane…take your pick.  The disease explodes in the eyes, wreaks havoc, creates a bunch of damage in a short amount of time, and then leaves, never to be seen again.   If you are lucky, a very proactive retinal specialist is on board from the beginning.  If not, you may be fortunate enough to find a good one to try to rebuild the eye after the damage has been done.  

We were fortunate enough to find Camille's amazing retinal specialist, Dr. Michael Trese, after much damage had occurred.  He did repair as much as he could, and his career passion affords the vision that she has today in her left eye.  Unfortunately, for her right eye, by the time we got to him, it was too late.  After the disease hit, she never regained any vision in her right eye.  Though he tried to provide "palliative care" for it, the anatomy inside was…well…a mess.  Between 18 months and 3 years of age, this led to increased pressure, struggles with the pain of glaucoma, and eventual enucleation (removal) of the right eye at the University of Iowa.  The oculoplastic surgeon there implanted a super cool acrylic ball which got sewn into her eye muscles to allow synchronicity of movement between her prosthetic eye and her real eye.  Six months post-enucleation, we met Vaugn, the master eye-maker extraordinaire, who has since been creating very intricate pieces of artwork disguised as eyeballs that have fooled many an ophthalmologist.  This removable piece is essentially shaped like a quarter moon.   Every couple of years as Camille grows, she gets a new one crafted.  It can be taken out, but we don't ever do it on purpose, unless for some reason it becomes irritated and needs to be washed off.  

It would follow, however, according to Murphy's law, that at least once every year during her youngest elementary school years, it would somehow work its way out of her head and into the middle of the floor when the class was gathered around for circle time.  It then followed that the teacher would have to conduct a debriefing session about why it wasn't bleeding as Camille plodded up to the nurses station, I would get a call to come slide it back in, and life would go back to normal…if that's what you call it.  Not kidding…this happened three years in a row.  

I'm getting there…the heart of the tale. 

Fast forward to Camille at age 10.  We are really fortunate to be at a great school, and Camille is really fortunate to have a lot of friends who don't really "see" her obvious differences.  To give her some credit, she's an easy kid to be around---generally fun, kind, bright, and easy-going.  However, there is one guy in particular who I just love.  I won't call him out, though his mom probably wouldn't care if I did.  Even when she was still physically less stable and pretty slow when she was 6-7, he would see her out on Halloween and shout, "Camille!!!  Wanna come with us??"  

Sometime last fall, when the weather was still nice, Camille and I had taken Vinny out for a short jaunt after dinner.  This friend of whom I speak doesn't live too far from us, and as we were walking by his house, I heard the door to his house burst open, and he ran out, joining Camille ahead of me for a bit.  They were chatting about their dogs, something about school--I guess 10-year-old things--when without even pausing, he said to her, "Hey, Camille, do you remember that time in school when your eye fell out and rolled onto the floor?"  She replied without pause, "YES!  That was HIL-ar-ious!" To which he said, "Yeah, that was so cool."  

And then they just kept talking about the rest of their night. 

Oh, that we all have friends who love our idiosyncrasies, and tell us that the things that make us so unique are, in fact, very cool.  

I'm happy to say that, as an adult, I have found friends who love me when, metaphorically, my eyeball falls out.  I wish this for all of my children as they grow in life.  The unique ability to be transparent is a true gift in a society where we often feel the pressure to hide our flaws, which can, in fact, be the things that make us beautiful.