As Luck Would Have It

Shelbie Draper
16 September 2014

As Luck Would Have It

I walk a tightrope in my life, with even the smallest lick of wind ready to tip me over. It sways from side to side with my uncertainty. I teeter with each step as I struggle to overcome a quality that can never be erased. I've known about it since I was a baby when my parents took me to the ophthalmologist. Glasses graced my face at eighteen months. For years I hoped and waited for that yes to get contacts. I lived for that eye doctor appointment in sixth grade. But then I was tripped up with a strong gust. He didn't say no directly; rather he recited the risks of wearing contacts instead of glasses. No soothing hand on my arm nor gentle explanation could save me though.
I was born with a condition called amblyopia, meaning I am legally blind in one eye. But I had a long way to go on the tightrope to think this evenly about it. To a little girl, having to wear a patch over her good eye to strengthen her bad one, was the worst possible predicament; I cried every day for the four hours I had to wear it. How could I not? I hated it. Why did I have to wear it? Why did I have this condition? I let amblyopia define me.
More problems ensued inside of me when I started elementary school. Kids notice differences - both in others and themselves. My nonexistent sense of depth perception made me the last pick in sports. Schoolmates noticed every time I'd bump into a wall. Anyone who visits Las Sendas Elementary and goes down the sixth grade hallway will see a chip around the corner of the purple wall nearly a decade later. Yep, that was me.
My hardest tribulation, though, was my bulky glasses. They made me feel self-conscious. I never wanted to look at others for fear they would notice how my right eye wouldn't look back. This cosmetic reason may seem a bit petty, but to me it was horrible. And this is why that day when I was twelve hit me so hard. I was tired of the stares and, even worse, my own cringing at every picture taken. But then my parents turned to me as I sobbed noisily in the backseat of the car, and told me to stop. "Don't you realize how lucky you are?" That shut me up. I sat there bewildered because it made no sense. I was pretty sure that having amblyopia was not a stroke of luck.
Then a few weeks later, at a follow-up appointment, I wandered into a group of kids in a small, bright room with a young woman weaving through them. She looked up from helping a little girl wearing a patch. She stood at the end of my swinging tightrope and beckoned me over. She knew my condition, but also knew that I didn't need the extensive eye therapy the other children here required. "You need anything, sweetie?" I just shook my head and looked at the kids who were struggling to read. As it turns out, many with eye troubles, including amblyopia, have difficulties reading and learning because of the strain it puts on the good eye. But reading came easily to me, and I loved it, which the lady thought unusual, plus I was fond of school. Searching through the familiar scene of patched eyes in the room that struggled to find clarity in the blobs on the page, I made a decision.
Seeing those other children, who couldn't do the things I could, made me realize how lucky I was. I am lucky. I am more than my amblyopia. I am lucky to be a hard worker and a sister. I am lucky to be such a dedicated*cough*obsessed*cough* fan of the band One Direction and a believer in hot chocolate no matter the temperature. I am lucky to have these carefree personas. I'm so fortunate to have only amblyopia. There are kids who are completely blind, who are starving, who can't walk. From that window-seat in the car to the encounter with the eye therapist, I came to my own conclusion on luck: everyone is lucky. I regained my footing on the thin rope, or rather, the rope got thicker. Most people would ask things like "How can being in a wheelchair be lucky?" The reason is because they are. There are worse situations depending on our viewpoint, or there is some part of a person's life that makes it better than another's. Some of us have an amazingly supportive family or a passion that we would die for. We all have something that makes us lucky despite our adversities. And that something, simple or complex, is so important.
I'd be lying if I said there weren't days when I continue to curse this eye of mine, when my eyes are the first features I look at when viewing a picture. But now the wind is no longer pushing at me or swaying my rope. Rather, it's gentle breeze encourages me to keep myself on the tightrope after these self-induced fumbles. Being born with amblyopia is my good luck that keeps me from the ravine below. I have to thank my bad eye for letting me become me. After all, there is so much more in life, so much more to see and accomplish. And this bit of luck I have, that everyone has, makes it possible.