Robert

I was too young, less than a year old in 1938, to remember anything about my diagnosis with retinoblastoma and the subsequent decision to enucleate my right eye. Dad had noticed that I was turning away from the light, and wisely had Dr. Joseph Dessoff, an ophthalmologist and family friend, examine me. Dr. Dessoff spotted the tumor and then had me examined by a group of doctors at Johns Hopkins, who confirmed his diagnosis. The doctors at Hopkins told my parents that they would miss my eye far more than I would. The doctors were right.

My parents, married during the Great Depression, had waited eight years to have me, making the diagnosis that much more difficult for them. When it was clear that the cancer had not spread, they breathed a lot easier. I have no idea what it is like to see out of two eyes, so this is the way I have always seen the world. I thought as a very little boy that I had been born with an artificial eye. Children, more than adults, frequently accept what they have been dealt and go on with their lives as best they can.

Nonetheless, children born in the late 1930’s, as I was, came into a far different world than the one today. People were far less open about things, including illnesses, and far less tolerant. As I grew up, I kept the fact that I had an artificial eye as much of a secret as I could. I was afraid, foolishly I later learned, that the other kids would make fun of me. Being Jewish in the 1940’s, when anti-Semitism was much more prevalent, was enough a badge of being different. I didn’t want another one.

As the years went by, having an artificial eye became less of an issue for me and my parents. I had a very happy and normal childhood. My parents wisely avoided feeling sorry for me, held me to high expectations, and never used my artificial eye as an excuse for anything. For that, I remain forever grateful to them, and, of course, for so many other things as well. I went about my life like any other kid. Looking back, my lack of adequate depth perception may have contributed to being unable to hit a fastball or return a fast tennis serve, but so what. Many others with vision in both eyes have the same trouble.

Over time even my fears that having an artificial eye would be an object of ridicule, were put to rest. In my high school and college years, I gained enough courage to confide in close friends, including a few girl friends. Their reaction was almost the same—surprise and then they put the matter aside. I was so relieved and grateful to these friends because I did not want my loss of an eye to be what defined me. Even today, many people, including a few good friends, do not know I have an artificial eye. And in fact, this is the first time I have ever mentioned it in public.

As I have managed my journey through life—a boyhood in the relatively innocent 1940’s and 50’s, college, graduate school, a wife, children, grandchildren, numerous friends and family, a long and rewarding academic career—I think having a slight handicap has turned into a blessing. I am more aware of others’ fragility and vulnerability. Having impaired vision or no vision at all does not prevent one from understanding the human heart.

To the children of this fine group, I will tell you, “Don’t let anyone pity you. Demand to be treated like any other child.” There are wonderful things awaiting you in life.

Robert J. Bresler is currently a Visiting Professor of Government at Franklin and Marshall College in Lancaster, PA. He is also Professor Emeritus at Penn State University, where he has taught for over 30 years. He resides in Lancaster with his wife, Lin. He has a married daughter, three grandchildren, and two step-sons.