I’ve always seen his artificial eye as tangible proof of the suffering he’s endured. A souvenir from hell. Of course, it’s amazing what they can make these days, but no matter how beautiful it is, I always associate it immediately with that awful disease.
Not Milan. He never has. He’s always talking about his special eye. For Milan, his artificial eye is tangible proof of a battle he’s won. And why wouldn’t you show that off?
I asked him the other day if he’d want to see with that eye if he could. He thought about it for a moment. “Maybe for a little while, Dad,” he said. “But not forever.” “Why not, son?” I asked. “Isn’t it nice to be able to see better?” He looked at me intently. “I’d still want to,” he said after a while. “But then I’d want a gray eye.” I looked at him in surprise. “Gray?”
“Yes,” he said confidently. “Because then I’ll still be special.”
I’ve been thinking a lot about what Milan actually said here. You could chalk it up to his age. When you’re 9 years old, you often see yourself as the center of the universe. By definition, you think you’re special. Yet it feels different. When he spoke those words, I didn’t hear a 9-year-old boy. I was listening to someone who, in all his wisdom, was telling his father that he’s proud of who he is—not in spite of everything, but because of everything. Where Superman wears a cape, he has a prosthetic eye.
With these thoughts in mind, I reread the first part of my story.
Yes, it was a dark period. And yes, Milan has been through a lot.
But by viewing only the artificial eye as tangible evidence, I’m doing the hero behind it a great disservice.
Jan Burger
