好吧，”3.3英尺的距离“改作”3.3英尺的轮椅“更合适些。
没错。我要介绍的就是轮椅。这个有着光滑抛光的轮子，三英尺长3英寸高大小的发明，简直是一个奇迹。它的存在验证了一个悖论——即使是很小很普通的东西也会创造很大的价值。我始终都没法想象在短短的7个月里，我的人生观会发生如此巨大的改变。我也永远无法想象我的生活会跟轮椅有任何关系。
那还是在我上高二的时候，一个星期一的早晨，致命的警笛将我从梦中惊醒，暗示我新的一天到来了。随后我发现眼前的一幕不是发生在我温暖的房间里，换之而来的是冰冷的病床上。到处都布满了五颜六色的电线，连接的全是我的疑问。一台心脏监测器，不断的发出嗡嗡的噪声。一位护士看了看仪表，发现我已经苏醒了，弯下腰，抓紧了我的手，嘴里叽咕叽咕的，好像在说“对不起！上帝保佑！为什么是我来公布这个可怕的消息”从她的口中得知我的心脏手术失败了。我的主治医生更直接的告诉我，“你的生命在垂危时刻”因此，我随时都有可能面临死亡的威胁。也就是在那个时候我遇到了它——轮椅。
我记得第一次看到它，觉得它就像一个有形的另类的限制人身自由的怪物。随着时间的推移，一种新的障碍出现了。周围的人告诉我stop（停止）。停止上学、停止做运动、停止参加活动......因为，大夫告诉我，“猝死意味着生命的停止。”
没有人希望我再回到过去的生活里。但是，轮椅却不断的提醒我世界不会等着我康复，我必须想办法前进。就如它，不管承载的人是胖是瘦是高是矮，都必须前进一样，我也要想尽一切办法冲破阻碍一路向前。
如果，我永远都无法站起来，起码轮椅会长久的陪伴着我。
如果，没有一所学校愿意接纳我，我也要强迫自己早起。
如果没人愿意教我AP（微积分），我也会自觉自动。
如果有人认为我不能协调区域会议，我会证明我可以而且能行。
我这么做不是为了证明自己可以独立，可以自给自足。我只是想找到一个方法来战胜死神（the Grim Reaper）。其实，我是想告诉自己我可以生活得更好。
经过一系列的大小手术之后，我终于可以抛开轮椅站立起来，而它被我搁置在车库的角落里。每每我经过它，去学校或者是去找朋友的时候，我就会记起它曾经给予我的坚持与希望。那段时间，虽然我身体残疾，但是，心智却变得成熟。而相对的，轮椅并没有限制我的自由，而是给了我另一种对于生活追求的自由与向往。从这个三英尺三英寸的轮椅中，我体会到了更深的道理。
【分析】
就这篇ESSAY本身而言，题材很独特，讲的是一个将死之人的经历。作者把她过去的经历作为主线，描绘自己克服逆境迎难而上的勇气，这是全文的核心部分。作者很巧妙的通过护士与主治大夫之口将病情的严重性展现给读者，达到未见其态先闻其声的效果。虽然，在随后作者一系列的“如果”里，很明显有主观臆断，但是，丝毫不影响读者的评判。
这篇ESSAY令人印象深刻，不是因为作者遭受挫折的大小而是克服障碍的决心和经历。这篇ESSAY之所以强悍，不是因为人们看到一个多么生命垂危的人在重笔墨的写自己的苦难，而是她如何再一次的把握人生。她让人们看到了不可能发生的奇迹。读完后，即使未见过作者，人们也能看到她鲜明的性格与形象。
—Sanghyeon Park
原文：
AMANDA NGUYEN—“ITS NAME WAS WHEELIE”
Its name was Wheelie. Riding on slick, polished wheels, it was a three-foot-three-inch-high marvel of technology. Its existence and purpose formed a unique paradox—an ordinary object enabling its passengers to accomplish extraordinary things. I never thought that my seven months constrained to such a wonder could expand and change my outlook of life so drastically. Then again, I never thought I’d be bound to a wheelchair.
One Monday morning of my junior year, the subtle but persistent trill of my faithful alarm clock wrenched me awake from my dreams and signaled the start of a new day. But instead of my warm, familiar room, I found myself staring into the stark interior of a hospital. The room was decorated with colorful wires, some of which connected me to the source of my query: a heart monitor that kept beeping in error. A nurse rushed in to check the noise, and upon discovering that I was awake, bent over and clasped my hand. With an expression that read somewhere between I am sorry and God, why is it during my shift that I have to be the one to break to you the news, she informed me that my emergency heart surgery had failed. My cardiologist was much more forthright. “You are at a high risk of sudden death,” she stated matter-of-factly. The failed surgery had structurally damaged my heart, and I could die at any moment until the surgeons got a chance to correct their mistakes.
That’s when I met Wheelie.
I remember despising the wheelchair the first time I saw it—a tangible symbol of my newfound limitations. As time went on, less tangible but equally impairing barriers arose. I was told to stop. Stop school. Stop activities. Stop sports. Because, as my cardiologist phrased it, “Sudden death means that life stops.”
Not many people gave me much hope for maintaining my previous lifestyle. But Wheelie reminded me that while the world couldn’t and wouldn’t wait for me to get better, I had the choice to move forward. Just as a wheelchair must carry its passenger, no matter the weight, I learned to roll on, no matter the obstacles.
If my legs didn’t feel up to moving, Wheelie helped me along.
If there was no school bell to force me to go to school, I’d force myself to wake up early anyway.
If they wouldn’t teach me AP Calculus because there was no way I could possibly succeed, I’d research integrals myself.
If they said there was no way I could possibly coordinate a regional conference, I made it a point to show that I could and I would.
My efforts were not to prove my self-sufficiency. I did it as a way to get by, a method of dealing with what was supposed to be a monotonous wait for the Grim Reaper to knock on my door. In essence, by telling myself I could live, I found a way to live.
A couple successful surgeries later, Wheelie has now retired to a cozy corner of my garage. As I walk past it to join my friends for another day at school, I will never forget the sturdy little wheels that taught me the definition of persistence and hope. My physical immobility, while debilitating, led to an immeasurable shift in maturation. Wheelie didn’t confine me; it gave me the freedom of another perspective on life. I saw more from three feet, three inches off the ground than I ever did standing upright.
COMMENTARY
Most college applicants probably have not experienced anything as close to imminent death as the situation portrayed in this essay. The writer’s passages on attempting to maintain her past lifestyle serve as an effective vehicle for portraying her resolve in the face of adversity. The passages about her defiance while confronting a seemingly inescapable fate act as the compelling core of the essay, and she sets them up well by using the quotes from her nurse and cardiologist. While her descriptions of the different activities she engaged in during her time recovering may seem a bit self-serving, it would be difficult for any reader to fault her for a few references to achievements under such trying circumstances.
While this essay stands out for its uniquely harrowing experience, admissions officers will remember essays not for the size of the obstacle but for the applicant’s experience in overcoming the obstacle. What makes this essay powerful is not so much the author’s near-death experience as her determination to regain her grasp on life. The writer walks the reader through how she accomplished everyday activities that initially seemed impossible following the tragedy, and the story consequently leaves the reader with a resonating portrait of the author’s resolve and character.
—Sanghyeon Park
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