Still Alive

When I was three, my mother abandoned me. She  gave me up to become  a stripper at the Clown’s Den in Denver, and then she became a hooker.  When I was five, she  went to prison for solicitation.   That same year, a man molested me  the first time.

About the time my mother left,  my father went to graduate school. That was when I lived with my grandparents.  I called them Mama and Papa Bear. I loved them. They had two Siamese cats, Romeo and Juliet.

I used to wear my grandmother’s silk nightgowns and stand on the balcony outside her bedroom and wait for someone.  Probably I waited for my father  because  I was in love with him.

I used to write notes to an old woman  who lived across the way. I used to play with trucks.

For a long time, my grandmother was the only person to speak to me about my mother. She saved pictures  and other stuff I lost on purpose.  The only thing I wished I had now was a statue my mother made of herself pregnant with me. My father kept it on display in our library for years. The statue  was faceless. And that was what she  was to me.  She could have been anyone.

This past July,  my grandmother had a stroke. And then she had another. She also  developed a blood infection called Merca.

Right now, my grandmother lies in a bed in a nursing home unconscious because they give her morphine for the pain. Half her body is paralyzed and she shits on herself and people who don’t love her  change her diaper.

Where’s the dignity? What kind of life is it?

Back in the day, my grandmother was hotter than Jane Russell. I’ve seen the photos. I always wished I looked like her.

Two years ago I had a  conversation with my grandmother  in which I told her I loved her (again) and then said, “I don’t  want anything to ever happen to you.”  I started sobbing.

Fifty times since her stroke, I’ve wanted to call my grandmother. I’m so afraid lately.

In 2001, I applied to graduate school and nobody—not my parents, not my writing mentors, not my friends—believed I’d get into one of the  most competitive MFA programs in the country.

I opened my “Letter of Intent” with a quote from James Allen. “I think it; therefore it is.”

Simply put, I was  fearless.  But I don’t  know who that person is now or  where she went. Once in a while I feel her  when  I write.  Hard-solid flinches.  Glimpses.

My grandmother  believed I’d get into the MFA program, and when  I did, she  paid for the move from Colorado to Oregon, which was  expensive. On our  way there, my five-year-old son drew with crayons on a notepad and sang with the Backstreet Boys. All you people can’t you see, can’t you see how your love’s affecting our reality?  Every time we’re down you can make it right. And that makes you larger than life.

I thought I’d finish my short story collection before my grandmother died. Here I thought  I had plenty of time. Years I’ve  imagined showing my published collection  to her then  pressing it into her hands.  “I did it, Granny. Thank you.”

I also thought I’d finish my first novel before my grandmother died.

Life since graduate school has been tough.

I didn’t end up where I thought I would.

It’s been years since I thought of  James Allen. Who is he?  A man  who published a book in 1903.

Jim Carrey once said creation required desperation.

Maybe I’ll finish my story collection before my grandmother dies. Depends on how long she decides to go on like this.