As the nurse gently lifts the dressings away from my eyes, I slowly open them, look at the painting on the wall opposite and blurt out: “Oh wow, I can see it. I can see all of it!” I’m in shock to discover that, although I’ve only just come round from the general anaesthetic and surgery, I can already notice a marked difference in how much I’m able to see. I have a full, very round – and very wonderful – picture of what’s in front of me for the first time in years.
Prior to the operation, medically termed a blepharoplasty but more commonly known as an eyelid lift, my upper eyelids were so droopy that – particularly on my left side – part of my iris was covered by the eyelid, meaning I didn’t have full vision unless I forcibly raised my forehead and consciously widened my eyes. From my late 40s it had been gradually getting worse, so that by my early 50s I was often noticing dull headaches by the evening because of constantly having to force my eyebrows up. The expression about needing matchsticks to keep your eyes open when tired was undoubtedly created by someone with similarly droopy eyelids, as I’d have felt very grateful to have little props to keep them prised open by the end of each day.
And that’s aside from how they looked. I think the last time I had noticeable eyelids was around the age of 45. In photos over the past few years, my eyes have grown smaller and smaller – in fact, in pictures where I’ve been smiling, all that’s been visible have been two slits. Over the course of my job as a journalist, most recently as editor of Good Housekeeping magazine for the past seven years, I needed byline photos and often had pictures done with the celebrities that we interviewed. The photographers would repeatedly tell me to open my eyes and would reject scores of frames because it looked like they were shut. Not the greatest confidence boost.
And neither, too, was having professional makeup done when it came to awards ceremonies or big presentations. A nice problem to have, I confess, but the poor makeup artists would have to use their forefingers to hold up my droopy eyelids while trying to apply eyeshadow, eyeliner and mascara, which inevitably ended up as a black half-moon on the excess skin which rested on my eyelashes. It was all a pointless exercise to try and make me look glamorous, and always ironically made me feel quite low afterwards.
Considering surgery
Not that any of this came as a surprise, droopy eyelids being a genetic condition. While I count my mother as my greatest role model and cheerleader and I’m hoping I’ll be in as good nick as her when I reach almost 90, inheriting her eyelids is something I’m not so grateful for. Indeed, such was the severity of her own droop – with almost flappy skin above both eyes impeding her vision and quality of life – that she had a blepharoplasty courtesy of the NHS in her early 80s. Ever since then, her mantra to me has been: “Don’t leave it as long as me. Get your eyes done as soon as you can.”
While my mum was right behind me, convincing my husband and two daughters (aged 23 and 20) that going through surgery was a smart move took a little more persuasion. My lovely husband, Mo, always told me I was beautiful to him and my daughters wondered why anyone would willingly put themselves through an operation – although they also rather anxiously asked whether I thought they’d inherit my droopy eyelids, or would instead end up with the forever-round Berber eyes of their dad. (Fortunately, they are both the spitting image of Mo!) But ultimately, when I explained that this was something I really wanted to do for myself, they left it up to me to decide.
And I am not alone. According to the British Association of Aesthetic Plastic Surgeons, blepharoplasty is the fourth most popular cosmetic procedure in the UK for women, behind breast augmentation, breast reduction and abdominoplasty, with 2,641 such operations taking place in 2022. Meanwhile, for men, blepharoplasty is the second most popular aesthetic procedure behind rhinoplasty, accounting for 308 operations in 2022.
Researching the best
Despite the frequency of this operation, however, I took my research into potential surgeons extremely seriously, wanting to ensure I had absolute trust in whomever I allowed access to my face with a scalpel. Thanks to my job, I spoke to numerous beauty editors and the same name was mentioned by almost everyone: Mr Naresh Joshi. Indeed, one beauty editor described him as “the eye surgeon’s eye surgeon”. A consultant oculoplastic surgeon at Chelsea and Westminster Hospital NHS Trust London, he also has a private practice at the Cromwell Hospital in London.
Having his name was one thing, but getting an appointment with Mr Joshi was another. Such is his prowess at blepharoplasty that he has an exceptionally full diary and a packed waiting list – even bagging an initial consultation with him required several months’ patience. Still, wait I did, and sitting opposite him in April I almost wept when he took one look at me and said: “Oh yes, I can see you have severe hooding on both eyes. Slightly worse on your left side.” Admittedly, not the best chat-up line ever. But as the leading expert in his field, I wanted to hug him for acknowledging that I had a noticeable issue that would benefit from surgical intervention.
During the appointment, Mr Joshi very gently explained what would happen if I went ahead with a blepharoplasty. He would make a cut along the eyelid crease in the natural skin fold of the eyelid, then remove the excess skin above and close the incision with a few small stitches that he would remove about a week later. “The result will be quite subtle and very natural looking, but you will be left with a visible eyelid on both sides,” he promised.
The operation
At no point did I ever feel pressured to go ahead with the op. But by the time I had my initial consultation, I’d already made up my mind and was keen to check in, so booked the first available slot of May 20. My only slight surprise was being told by Mr Joshi that I’d be under a general anaesthetic for the procedure, as my mother had a local anaesthetic when she’d had her eyes done. “It’s such a delicate operation with such precise measurements that I prefer my patients to be under a general anaesthetic so there’s no risk of any movement whatsoever,” he explained. “With older patients in their 80s, we wouldn’t risk a general anaesthetic but that’s not the case with someone in their 50s. In all honesty, it’s just a bit of a pain to have to deal with a correction if there’s movement of the head during the operation.”
And so, on the day of the op, arriving at the Cromwell Hospital at 7am and waiting in my private room, my first visit is from the consultant anaesthetist, who comes by about 7.30am to check that I have normal blood pressure and ask whether I have any questions or concerns. Like Mr Joshi, she is really kind and confides that she would like the op done by him in a few years’ time, too.
It turns out that I am the first of three blepharoplasties that Mr Joshi will be performing that day, so I’m walked down to the theatre at 8.30am. I hop up onto a bed before he comes to confirm that I’m happy for him to go ahead and makes various marks around my eyes with a surgical pen. Soon after, I’m put to sleep through a cannula in my hand and the first thing I know is when the dressings are taken off my eyes a couple of hours later.
The recovery
Once the dressings are removed, the nurse sits me up in bed and gives me two bags of ice to hold on my eyes for a few minutes at a time about every quarter of an hour. I do this for about an hour and then feel brave enough to hop out of bed to go to the loo – and most importantly, to look in the mirror, intrigued at how bashed-up I’ll look. I prepare myself for the worst so I am pleasantly surprised to see that, while my eyes are a little swollen and the eyelids are dark red, overall, it’s not especially dramatic. Not a drop of blood in sight.
Mr Joshi visits soon after 1pm to say he’s pleased with how the operation went and to share instructions for my homecare routine for the next eight days until my follow-up appointment with him – some eye drops to prevent dry eyes, and antibiotic ointment to gently apply to the wounds, plus advice on using ice packs between four to 10 times a day to reduce swelling.
He asks how I’m feeling and, once I’ve confirmed I feel absolutely no pain (“you shouldn’t experience any pain, but take paracetamol if you do”), he says I’m free to leave. So, by 1.30pm, giant sunglasses on to avoid shocking anyone outside, I’m flagging down a taxi and heading home.
For the next couple of days I’m a little sleepier than usual and allow myself an afternoon nap, but otherwise feel absolutely fine and have no discomfort at all. I follow the aftercare regime to the letter and each day there’s a noticeable reduction in swelling, and the colour around the wound changes from purple to yellow, just like any other bruise. When I go to the shops, I simply pop on my sunglasses and nobody is any the wiser to my wounds underneath.
By day three after the op, I’m back at my desk working from home, and by the time I visit Mr Joshi, there’s very little to indicate that I’ve had an operation – especially once he’s removed the four tiny remaining stitches on each eyelid.
I feel quite emotional as I tell him how thrilled I am with the result of the surgery – how not only do my eyes look better but I can see much more – and he’s clearly delighted, too. “I do get more ‘thank you’ cards for blepharoplasties than for any other surgery,” he says. “Although I do lots of work on people with facial cancers and burns victims, they can never look entirely as they did before so are never truly happy with the outcome. But with eyelid lifts, it’s possible to give people the result they really want.”
The cost
If anyone says I’m looking good or fresher or younger, I’m happy to share the reason why. I used to think I’d want to keep the operation private, but I feel no sense of shame in having saved up hard to correct something that was making me unhappy and affecting my quality of life – hence writing about it here.
The sting is certainly the cost – with the initial consultation (£345), surgeon’s fee (£5,445), anaesthetist’s fee (£1,200) and hospital charges (£2,200), it’s all come in at a little over £9,000. A pricey intervention for something I could have waited 30 years to get corrected on the NHS. But for me it feels like money well spent. I can see more clearly, the evening headaches are gone, I can once again wear eye makeup without it smudging everywhere and I can smile without my eyes disappearing to nothing. I truly feel proud of my peepers.
Disclaimer: The copyright of this article belongs to the original author. Reposting this article is solely for the purpose of information dissemination and does not constitute any investment advice. If there is any infringement, please contact us immediately. We will make corrections or deletions as necessary. Thank you.
