Grandma's Not-for-Paper Scissors

Life doesn’t always go the way you planned it. That’s just something people say. Like, you know, when I didn’t get accepted to Berkely. That was life, “not going how I planned it.” Right? Wrong. Life not going how you planned it was ending up living in your grandmother’s house four months after she died because – because… “it was already set up for a wheelchair.” That was life not going how you planned it. Life not going how you planned it was being 24, in April, planning a graduation party, and applying to all the social work and humanitarian jobs on Indeed, Glassdoor, and any other website you could find… only to never graduate, never get a job as a social worker or a humanitarian, never… never WALK! That was life not going how you planned it. That’s where I was, in Grandma’s house, in running into everything and wondering how Grandma had made it seem so easy all those years after she had her feet amputated from diabetes. All alone. My sister had had to go back to work, and her kids. My parents thought it best I learned how to do for myself. My friends all had graduation parties, job interviews, or summer plans to get to. While I had nothing. Not a thing. A disabled early twenty-something victim of a drunk driver sitting in her grandmother’s house feeling sorry for herself. First, I cried. Then I shouted. I didn’t care if the neighbors heard me, I didn’t care if they didn’t. I just wanted to scream because it felt good. It was the only thing I could do just as well now as I could before the accident, and it felt good. So there.

Then, of course, I had to get a drink, shouting at the Powers That Be is exhausting work, and bound to leave one parched. My sister had wheeled me into the dining room before she left, because there was a big picture window there that I could look out of and watch the world go by – the world I was no longer a part of - that’s what had started this shouting round - the woman pushing the stroller by the window. This was the first time I had been left alone to be alone all night since the accident. I can’t say for certain if I was scared, feeling abandoned, or just enjoying wallowing in self-pity, but I was extremely unhappy. I sat there, tired, thirsty and alone, thinking about all the plans I had had to make a difference, all the things I had planned to do with my life after graduation. I wanted to do something to change the world; or at least to change the world for a few people. Social work was my passion, helping people in my community find a better life. Now here I was, stuck to a chair, and all alone, barely able to help myself, let alone help anyone else. I wanted a drink, but the kitchen seemed so far away. I wheeled my chair around the dining table. It was rather conveniently set up, Grandma’s house, she had always made it seem like there was nothing special about navigating around in her wheelchair, but now that I was trying it, I began to understand that she had had more skill and gumption than any of us had given her credit for.

I got my drink, with some difficulty. Everything had been put in the lower cupboards in the kitchen but navigating around so you could open them was a challenge. I got it eventually, and then had to figure out how to get to the sink with my glass. I wasn’t about to attempt to get to the table with a full glass, that could wait for another day. I decided to explore a little, my sister had been staying in the spare room, and I hadn’t been in there in over a year. It was my grandmother’s workroom, when she didn’t have company. I navigated my way around, only bumping one corner. It took some extra effort to reach the light switch, but I managed it eventually. Along the wall to my right was a long, low bench, just the right height for a wheelchair, it was neatly organized with drawers and boxes.

“Quilting,” I said to myself. “Grandma was always quilting.”

It occurred to me that I had never asked about her quilt making. She had made me a quilt for my high school graduation, and I still had it, and loved it. I was wheeling forward and got a little excited about the sewing machine. I gave myself a good hard shove forward, and one of my sister’s forgotten shoes stopped my left wheel dead in its tracks. It was like a Hollywood slow motion rollover. The wheelchair stopped, I slid forward, tried to catch myself on everything, grasping at the bench, reaching for the bed, and pulling everything down on top of me, workbox from the bench, blanket from the bed, somehow the wheelchair flipped over too. Everything came to a halt, and I lay there, panting, tangled in the blanket from the bed with a clutter of workbox items on top of and around me. For the first time since the accident I laughed, really laughed. It was all so ridiculous, I wished I had someone to laugh with me. Of course with that thought came the thought of how I would probably always be alone, and the laughter died on my lips. As I heaved a sigh of regret at the passing mirth, something slid off my right shoulder and hit the floor with a light thud. I looked to see what it was and it was my grandmother’s orange handled scissors. I smiled again, self-pity forgotten for another moment as I recalled the day I had used Grandma’s orange handled scissors to cut out a picture from a magazine for a school project. I only did it once.

The whole incident was so far to the ludicrous that I couldn’t even feel sorry for myself. I smiled at the recollection of my grandmother’s lecture about how the orange handled scissors were for fabric, and fabric only. NEVER ever for paper. I began carefully to unwind myself from the blanket, trying to collect up the bits and pieces of quilting materials scattered about me, and crawling, like a mermaid on land, righted things as best I could. I got back into my wheelchair with a lot of effort, and sat there, staring at those orange handled scissors. I started to think about my grandmother, and what she had done all those years to keep herself from going mad, or from becoming bitter, or from… shouting like I had just a few hours before. Quilting. I began to rummage through the drawers and boxes, looking at the paraphernalia, wondering what some of the things were for, wishing I had taken the time to learn from my grandmother. I opened a bottom drawer, a small unobtrusive little drawer. Inside were newspaper clippings, about half a dozen of them. Photos of car accidents. Flashes of my own accident darted through my mind, and I struggled to look at the pictures. Then I saw them, each picture had a quilt, brightly colored, and beautifully made. In some photos mothers were wrapping their children in them, one photo was of a child clutching the quilt like it was his salvation. I stared at it, and stared at it, and stared at it. That photo was my salvation. I wanted to help children the way my grandmother had.

As I looked at the newspaper clippings a memory far back in the past was jogged. My grandmother made quilts and donated them to police and emergency responders to carry and distribute to children. She made them in beautiful patterns and bright colors, to add hope and comfort to the worst day of these kids’ lives. Suddenly I knew what I was going to do. I could still make a difference to children, just as I had wanted to as Social Worker. I could still brighten their bad days. I could still make a difference. Those orange handled scissors and I were going to brighten the darkest days and bring comfort to cold nights. I blessed my grandmother, and her love of humanity. I blessed my sister’s forgotten shoe for throwing me out of my own morose state. More than anything I blessed those not-for-paper orange handled scissors for waking me from my self-absorbed stupor, and giving me back my life, my purpose, and my hope.

Because of those orange handled scissors I went from being a victim, to being a Victim Advocate, I make quilts and donate them to emergency service and police departments, and I speak out for victims of accidents and violence.