It All Began with a Book

I was seventeen years old before I finally found out why I couldn’t see.  It wasn’t because the reason was kept from me, or that it happened as I grew up.  As far as I can tell, my vision never changed.  I get asked so many times when people find out how I was so old before anyone found out.  The answer on the surface is quite simple.  Nobody knew.  However, underneath there is a long intertwining series of events that led up to that moment in the back seat of the car on the way back from a trip to the school for the blind when my mom turned around from the front passenger seat and told me she finally knew why I was blind.

When I was thirteen and in my first year of jr. high school we had to read The Diary of Anne Frank.  The substitute teacher we had told us all about the book, and about what happened to Anne and her family and I was really looking forward to finding out more.  The next Language class we got our books and everyone was paired into groups.  We shuffled around, moving our desks together and spent the first class talking a bit more about the story before the teacher told us to continue on reading ourselves.  This is the moment where my whole life took a drastic turn…

As we sat in our groups panic started to quickly grow inside me as I pretended to read.  My palms got sweaty as I tried to convince myself that this was not the way the rest of the classes would go and made plans to chat with a few classmates to find out as much as I could about that day’s reading.  The first chapter couldn’t be that important right?  It was probably pretty mundane like most other books I’d heard.  Thoughts swirled around my pounding head until the bell finally rang.  What was I going to do if all of the other classes were like this?

A ball of tension began to grow in the pit of my stomach as the next Language class approached.  Beads of sweat appeared on my forehead and I suddenly felt like the room was getting smaller.  I wanted to be anywhere else.  I knew the only way to get out of the class was to call home sick, but I also knew the time for that had run out.  Besides, it was a long way for my mother or step-dad to drive and I knew my mom would know that I was lying.  I clenched my teeth, waiting for the seconds to tick by before the bell rang.  The only way I was getting out of Language class now was if someone set the science lab on fire again.  Why did that never happen at times when you really needed it to?

Class started and we all got into our groups.  We started talking about the first couple of chapters as a class, and I managed to bluff my way through it.  By this time I really did feel sick.  After a pretty lengthly discussion we were instructed to go back to reading on our own once again.

I don’t know if it was my trembling, white knuckled death grip on the book or the fact that I was a sickly shade of green that made the teacher do what she did next, but either way I’m still grateful for it.  She asked if everything was OK, and while I tried to untangle my tongue and figure out a way to answer it she said that if anyone was having trouble seeing the print to let her know because it was pretty small.

I was silent for a long couple of seconds.  My body seemed to be ahead of my brain because the next thing I knew I was standing up and turing towards her desk.  I knew I had to think of something to say fast because I was only a few feet away from where she sat.  My mouth felt like a desert it was so dry, but I managed to tell her that I couldn’t see it.  It was somehow OK to admit that now because she opened up the opportunity for me to do that.

I was relieved when she said that she would figure something out and that the class would take turns reading until the bell rang.  I melted back into my chair, my face burning and tried to relax and listen to my classmates read.  Things were suddenly back to the way they use to be, only this time I didn’t have to worry about being called on to read!