I scampered through the corridor, tears dampening my tomato-red cheeks as the IV clattered recklessly behind. Cloisters of nurses, attired in their purple scrubs, whipped their heads toward the commotion, perturbed by my racket. My feet slapped the floor as I ran; my heart was perched, precariously, within my throat, my mother’s expression flashing in my frenzied mind. The way her forehead crumpled like cardboard, her lips quivering, the look of desperation plastering her pallid face, puncturing my heart, bitterly…and all I did was run.

The fluorescent tubes dangled from the ceiling, illuminating my path as the hospital’s antiseptic stench engulfed my nose. I propelled my knobby legs further, dragging the IV in utter loathsomeness. I was blatantly determined to restrain my sobs despite the compelling urge to weep, but I never liked causing confrontations. After running aimlessly, I stumbled into the Children’s Art Room, my legs quaking as I slumped downward, collapsing onto the carpeted flooring.

The IV beeped incessantly, documenting my racketing heartbeat as I finally cried, screams of anguish, palpable fear, and pain, reverberated throughout the colorful room. Everything I had pent up within my emaciated frame was unleashed in that horrific moment. This is all your fault, this is all your fault, my mind shouted like a malevolent villain, fueling my utter despair. You did something to make this happen. You stupid girl! How could I know, at the age of ten, that I was not the cause of being afflicted with A.L.L Leukemia? That it was not my unintentional doing?

Alas I sat, glaring at the various Oncology posters plastering the walls, tears cascading down my cheeks. Everything seemed so surreal, so vivid, and so nightmarish. I wished to escape. In that moment, I promptly squeezed my eyes shut, tuning out the incessant madness of the world as I swallowed my cries. I racked my brain, seeking tranquility and solitude, and to my pleasure, my imagination aided me. It cradled my wary frame and relinquished it from the harrowing hospital, venturing into the depths of places I sought in storybooks. Unconcerned, I reached for a copy of The Hobbit precariously situated upon display, and thumbed through the chapters. No longer was I confined within the ghastly Art Room; I was situated in The Shire, attending an afternoon tea with Bilbo Baggins, The Middle Earth winds ruffling my bob of brown hair, chatting merrily alongside my robust host.

A grin blossomed upon my chapped lips for the first time that day of December.

Through the course of several months, my imagination assisted me through the tumultuous chemo treatment.  When the nurses prodded my veins with a plethora of needles, my imagination would morph the surplus of piercing metal into gargantuan swords clutched by vicious pirates attempting to seize my treasure.  Vacant, winding hospital corridors transfigured into labyrinths with thick, verdant ivy cloaking the monotonous walls. Chemo transmogrified into toxic waste, equipping my ten-year old self with super capabilities. The throng of nurses transmuted into benevolent witches, their purple cloaks traipsing the floor, brewing potions to feed my nettlesome IV. My imagination had simultaneously shaped and aided me, broadening my perception of the world and dwindling my fears into insignificant nothings, and I will forever be in debt to my creative thought.

In retrospect, I believe in the grandeur of having an imagination and its ability to aid individuals in surpassing the elements that they face through the turmoils of life. Now, seven years later, I lounge upon my deformed couch, a fleece blanket messily veiling my lower torso, my fingers pummeling the keys of my laptop’s keyboard. The television’s brilliance flashes within my peripheral vision, grasping my attention. A smile stretches my lips as I pause my typing, glimpsing at the movie. Willy Wonka encompasses the screen, his iconic top hat and purple waistcoat fitting his lanky frame. He spins, marveling at The Chocolate Factory’s grandeur, an expression of wonder plastering his face. There is no life I know to compare with pure imagination, he sang, the infamous Chocolate Waterfall cascading behind. He twirls his cane, gazing at his delectable feats, appreciating his creativity.  Living there you’ll be free if you truly wish to be. My grin widened, the same imaginative glint Willy Wonka portrayed, reflecting within my own eyes.

I, truthfully, could not agree more.