See You Again

Most people live their lives to the fullest. Most people can enjoy the morning sunrise, see the faces of their children, grandchildren and everyone whom they love. They never have to fear if their next step could be their last. But I do.
I was born a healthy baby, and was a perfectly normal kid until I was six years old. A week before my seventh birthday, my father noticed that I was constantly bumping into things.
Usually, I would collide with minor obstacles and get away with a couple of bruises, but on a few occasions my father would rush into the house with me over his shoulder, yelling for my mother to call the ambulance because their daughter had been run over by a passing cyclist.
Sure, my parents could've assumed that I was a clumsy kid, but not even the clumsiest kid would walk straight onto a busy road with plenty of killer vehicles. So, three days before my seventh birthday, they took me to the hospital to get me checked out.
At first, the doctors thought that my obliviousness to nearby obstacles was due to a neuromotor disorder. I underwent hours worth of tests to confirm their hunch, but every single test came back negative.
On the second day in the hospital, one of the doctors suggested I get my vision checked. Scared as I was, I sat still in the chair while an ophthalmologist studied the inside of my eyes.
After the examination, the ophthalmologist sat my parents and I down and explained my diagnosis. She confirmed that I had a rare condition called retinitis pigmentosa, a genetically inherited eye disorder that causes the retina to become severely damaged.
The diagnosis explained my constant behavior of bumping into things for I lacked the ability of side vision. Unfortunately, there was no cure for the disorder and my vision would only become worse.
My parents were devastated with the news, but I took the news the hardest of all.
In that instant I was sucked into a dark hole filled with the dreaded realization that I would never be able to see my family, friends, or teachers with my own eyes ever again. On the day of my seventh birthday, doctors officially confirmed that I was legally blind. I was seven years old.

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    Life was strange for the next five years. Just as the ophthalmologist had warned, my vision grew worse. By the time I was twelve, I was almost completely blind.
Like other kids, I began middle school around that time, but of course, I was special. I entered middle school as the baby who needed to have an aid with her at all times, the loser who needed to take a special bus to school, the weirdo who couldn't go anywhere without her white cane, the "blind stick" as the kids called it.
I was never severely bullied at school as my aid would shoo kids away, but I was constantly left out. The other kids had no idea how privileged they were with their ability to perceive the world around them.
I knew that pitying myself wasn't the solution. I couldn't do anything to reverse my condition. Nobody could. That was what angered me the most. Why had it been me who had received the receptive gene, not my brother or any other kid besides me? I hadn't done anything to deserve being blind, but then again, no one else had either.
On most days, I spent the hours daydreaming about how life would be like if I could still see. I definitely wouldn't need an aid to follow me around all day, nor a "blind stick" to guide my path. These daydreams were always interrupted by the voices of teachers or family members, who would always ask:
    "Chloe? Are you with me?"
    I would nod in response and continue into my longing fantasy.
Since I didn't do any extracurricular activities, I would go home on the special bus after school, do homework, and daydream, an endless cycle that caged me within it. I was trapped with nobody on my side nor the strength to free myself on my own.

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     On the day of my thirteenth birthday, I wanted things to be different. I was officially a teenager and desired the ability to be autonomous.
    "We know you're an independent young lady, Chloe, but we just want to take caution." my parents would constantly tell me.
But on that day, they didn't mention a single word that held me back. They knew.
    When it was time to open presents, I was especially thrilled. I hadn't asked for much, but I knew I would get more than I had asked for. Being the special child in the family, I always did. This year was no different.
    I recognized each gift by carefully feeling it: a book in braille, a new guitar, some cash, an eyeshadow palette, and a pair of sneakers. I loved every gift and thanked my family gratefully.
    "Oh, that's not all. There's one more present for you." my mother said in an excited voice.
    I sat up straighter. I had already received so much, what could this last gift be? I realized what the gift was when I heard my brother squealing.
    "A doggy! Chloe got a doggy!"
    At that instant I felt a warm tongue lick my face and the wiggling body of a young Golden Retriever leap onto my lap. I shouted with joy and my heart swelled with love for the animal.
    "This isn't any ordinary dog, Chloe. Echo is a seeing eye dog. Echo will go everywhere with you and be your personal pair of eyes." my father explained.
    I heard my father's every word, but I was too busy weeping to respond. I clung on tightly to Echo as he continued to lick me. Not only had I received a pair of eyes to see for me, but I had met my first friend, a friend that would love me no matter what and stay with me forever.