Brushstrokes

“Life is a picture; paint it well.” I have heard this said my entire life, a mantra by which my grandmother lived. Lately, I’ve come to take the term to heart. If my life were truly a picture I must create for myself, would a self-portrait be less accurate? If, as a society, we are excessively analytical of ourselves, are we truly the best judge of our own worth? I wrote this essay from my grandmother’s perspective, for she was not only one to tell it how it was, but she could love you for everything that made you different. I’d like to introduce you to Peyton Stanford through his grandmother’s eyes.
I stood underneath the hospital’s awning trying to smoke a cigarette without melting in the sun. My husband, Curley, came through the door motioning that they were putting my newest grandbaby in the hospital nursery. Peyton Zane Stanford was born on a hot day in August at the Jennings American Legion Hospital. I would always refer to him as my baker’s dozen; he was my thirteenth and last grandbaby. He referred to me as “Vera Mae” (my first name) because he was the baby and the only one who could get away with it. I never knew the impact this baby would have on my life, and I don’t …show more content…
Peyton was diagnosed with Obsessive Compulsive Disorder in sixth grade. He was afraid of germs so much that he washed his hands until they bled. You know, I think that his OCD had a positive side though. With medication and a lot of therapy, he found his own inner strength which helped him to overcome his compulsions and live a normal life. His OCD helped inspire his future plans to become a pharmacist. Because he benefitted greatly from the help of medication, he saw an opportunity to help others and to help create new medicines for people who have untreatable problems that could be drastically helped by a drug not yet created. But now, I used too much grease and I’m sliding ahead of