Blossoming flowers and the sunshine of spring birthed a story of hope. I started writing: a lonely woman got a call on Good Friday reporting that her daughter had been in a car accident. She was in critical condition. The woman was faced with loss but at the end of the story there would be hope, new life. I set the story aside and pondered. I didn’t know if I would prune it until it was ready to be shared or if I had written it for myself.

On Easter morning my story intertwined with real life. It wasn’t my daughter who was in the hospital, but my grandma. Like my character I wanted to jump in the car and drive to her. I wanted to sit by my grandma’s side and hold her hand, tell her how much she meant to me. But an ocean divided us.

I phoned home. The call wouldn’t go through. I tried over and again, my hand trembling as I dialled. Finally, I managed to place a call. A woman answered in a foreign tongue. Voices filled the background, half Cantonese, half English. I had mistakenly called Hong Kong. This only added to my anxiety.

When we decided to live overseas I had pictured this stage of life. After receiving the call that my grandparent was sick I would fly home, spend meaningful days with my family and together we would say good-bye. Real life is much more complicated. When my paternal grandpa became ill, months ago, I didn’t find out until he had already passed away. There was no way of being with him one last time. It had all happened so fast. Wanting to be a part of the funeral, I looked at plane tickets, but the money I had set aside would cover only one quarter of the inflated price.

I grieve this. Part of me still can’t believe he’s gone because I wasn’t there. Not until we go back to Canada can I kneel by his graveside and finally say good-bye.

And now my maternal grandma lies in the hospital. This was not what I wanted. Needing to know how my grandma was, I tried the phone call again, unsure. This time I got through. Hearing my dad’s voice, calm, steady, brought relief before the details came flooding in. Grandma had had a stroke. My mom had spent the night in the hospital with her. My grandma had thought she was going to die but pulled through and a few hours later was smiling and laughing. But she may never walk again.

I thought about my story. I had wanted to create a character who would find hope in a challenging situation. Could I find hope in mine? I searched for it. I thought it would come by being there, eliminating the pain of separation. But that couldn’t happen.

I did what I could to bring her closer. That afternoon I sat and wrote a letter to my grandma. I filled it with my heart, my desire to be with her. I said the things I hadn’t been able to tell my grandpa. Why is it that we don’t see the real impact our loved ones have had until their time draws near to a close? I took time to reflect on her life, on how she has influenced me. I let myself become immersed in the memories and then pulled out the most meaningful. As a child, I read scriptures that she had written on plain white paper and pasted on her wall. They went deep, became a part of me. I thanked her for this.

Sending my message, a part of myself, I envisioned my mom sitting by grandma’s bedside reading it, and grandma sitting up a bit, nodding, her infectious smile spreading across her face.

I treasure that smile. It appeared in the least likely moments, when life was hard. I saw it then, as I pictured my grandma. And I found the hope that I was looking for. She had given it to me years ago – through her smile, her laugh in the midst of trial.