When I was very little, my grandma inspired me to listen to my imagination. My mom was busy with my new baby sister and my dad was constantly working, so I was primarily raised by her. She would listen to little two year old me make up stories about the characters on my cereal box. No matter how much I ranted, she would always tilt her head on her palm and kindly smile.
She encouraged me to write down my imagination and that never ceases to thrill me, even today. She said if I could dream it, I could live it. So, I continued to day dream. I dreamed so much, fiction became my reality.
I would write down anything that came to mind on a piece of notebook paper then stuff it in a plastic drawer, meant for my sweaters, but folding was overrated; I had no idea that words could also bring me immense sorrow- Progressive Supra-nuclear Palsy.
My grandma was diagnosed when I was ten. Slowly, it consumed her. The doctors accepted the fate of her bedridden life. But I could not see her go from my lively hero, to a helpless vessel. I had always seen my grandma as someone who was so strong. Nothing could hurt her.
But reality had its way with me as my grandma could no longer speak or move and we saw her less and less until she was completely in the hospital. I looked to imagination as a cure. I thought I could save her with my dreams. I wrote selfishly. She was a hero who fought off a villain, who embodied PSP. I wanted to show everyone that she was not powerless....
I remember getting the news in the car after school. My mom was on the phone with my grandma's sister. She began to tell me about how grandma had a stomach infection and how she passed away that morning. I remember screaming so loudly. My mom left that night to go to the funeral with my uncle and aunt.
That night I tossed and turned. It must have been around the middle of the night, but I turned on my little flashlight. I went to that plastic drawer and wanted to crumple it all. I wanted to throw away the papers, the memories, all of it. They were useless now. I ripped out the drawer and carried it downstairs to the basement.
I went through sophomore and junior year not wanting to write at all. I felt like it was useless. Writing could not bring her back. Junior year, I read a book called The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien. Here is the excerpt that changed my life:
“I’m not dead. But when I am, it’s like . . . I don’t know, I guess it’s like being inside a book that nobody’s reading.”
“A book?” I said.
“An old one. It’s up on a library shelf, so you’re safe and everything, but the book hasn’t been checked out for a long, long time. All you can do is wait. Just hope somebody’ll pick it up and start reading.”
I will not spoil the plot too much but through this experience the main character recognized the power of stories. And with him, I did too. Through writing my grandma could still live. She can continue to inspire others like she inspired me.
