I’ve always had a fascination for eyes, as far back as I can remember
to me, they were so beautiful and unique,
showing the individuality of a face, even between siblings who were very similar appearing.
I remember the older people saying “the eyes are the windows to the soul” and didn’t really understand why they would say that. Sure, they were pretty, I thought, and I really loved how beautiful my grandmothers were
Deep chocolate brown with midnight blue rings

But I learned as I got older and entered into medical school that eyes are more unique than I realized. The iris, the cornea, the conjunctiva, rods and cones,
so many names for what had merely been a feature on a face for me.

It wasn’t until I saw my first death that I understood why people said the soul lived there.

It was on my first rotation, the bane of my life, internal medicine. I was exhausted, and had no power to do anything but as a student was first call. I couldn’t even order tylenol, let alone help treat anyone medically. We had a man who’d been on the ward for as long as I’d been there after a massive stroke, but he’d been doing better, and I thought in my naivety that he would go home and be ok.

But that night I was called to pronounce him. The nurse hadn’t been alarmed, matter of fact in her estimation of what had passed, obviously years more experienced than I was at that moment. I was uncertain of what to do but she said, “no rush”. I won’t forget that.

You see, it gets easier to tell if someone is dead the longer you wait, because all the humanity fades slowly. The body becomes cool, and most importantly to me,
The eyes change.

So that night, for the first time, I saw the eyes of a dead person. They were frosted over, like glass on a cold winter day. It was almost impossible to tell the eye colour,
sort of a cataract blue by the time I arrived.

Even in my ignorance, and my innocence that disappeared in that moment, I knew he was not in his body any more. Where he had gone, I didn’t know, but I could feel he was not there.

Through the years, that is something that I have felt every time I’ve seen a dead person, and there have been many. I remember all the faces, and sometimes they visit me at night, in my dreams.
Lately, I’ve seen it in the eyes of my patients with dementia. They are there sometimes on a good day, looking back at me from behind sparkling awake eyes.
But on a bad day, I see the eyes have glazed a little,
and the sign, “be back later”,
peeks out from behind the frosted glass.