Keratoconus Opened My Eyes
What is light? Sunshine, the weight of a feather, fire, electromagnetic radiation, righteous good triumphing over evil? To me, the word “light” holds a different meaning.
In 10th grade, when I asked about the ghosting I saw under every light, my ophthalmologist diagnosed me with keratoconus, an eye disease that deteriorates vision by making the surface of the eye uneven. Ironically, every light helped me to “see” a disease that ruins my vision. The diagnosis meant two preventative surgeries, but there is no cure. Although that may feel dire to some, for me, keratoconus brightened and broadened my perspective of the world.
My first surgery taught me to be adaptable. I was blind for a few days but still attending school. I had to ignore the constant pain in my eyes and sit closer to the board. Most of all, I panicked at my inability to assess depth and shades in art class because I could not work with graphite—the medium I am most comfortable with—until my eyes fully recovered. From scribbling crayon family portraits to drawing my sister’s favorite still life of her treasured violin, I’ve communicated with those around me through art. I sketch my emotions, from unbridled joy to overwhelming frustration, and shade in my hidden thoughts, from struggling with my sense of purpose to reflecting on my achievements. Drawing lets me expose thoughts and memories I would otherwise be unwilling to share. Art is an integral part of my identity. Being unable to draw made me feel talentless and incapable. To reclaim those parts of myself, I experimented with new media such as acrylic paint, pastels, and colored pencils, where edges can be distinguished by color. I was drawn to acrylic paint the most because, although mistakes are difficult to fix, the boldest strokes are also the best looking ones; apart from black and white, I began seeing in shades of red, green, and blue. Acrylic colored in another dimension of art, and of me. I became encouraged to take risks and find new solutions, from sharing my outlandish interpretations of Catullus’s poetry to engineering $5 camera stabilizers. Light is the state of becoming unbound by the unease of working in unfamiliar conditions and the fear of failure. Learning to adapt has illuminated that taking risks expands my worldview.
My second surgery taught me about communication. I thought I was well prepared after my first, but I’d taken on additional responsibilities: more AP classes, library volunteer hours, and teacher’s assistant work. As I was required to take recovery drugs, staying focused became challenging. I’d read words that weren’t on the page and was sometimes unsure whether I was awake or asleep. To address these obstacles, I worked out solutions with my teachers and bosses, such as increasing font sizes on assessments or having shortened work periods. I became comfortable with clarifying my difficulties and negotiating to meet in the middle. What I didn’t expect was how those skills of finding common ground and knowing when to ask for assistance have helped me in my interpersonal relationships, from mediating disagreements among my friends to learning tidbits of Chinese slang to connect more with my parents and their heritage. Furthermore, my increased focus on listening for specific details in conversation allowed me to become the Math Team Events Director, where I regularly survey for student interest in lesson plans and events and organize fundraisers with restaurants such as Chipotle. Light is the ability to communicate with clarity. Learning to communicate has illuminated my personal relationships.
Keratoconus was my diagnosis, but it also served as a catalyst for my growth. It darkened my vision for a while, but ultimately brightened my future. I now know that whatever problems I encounter, I will not fear risk, and will connect with others to find solutions. However, my enlightenment has just begun; my successful college career is on the horizon.