My fictional heroes seem to skip one of the steps on the classical hero’s journey: refusing the call. Instead of demurring and waiting for the reassurance of a mentor, they tend to boldly go; the mentor becomes more limiter than accelerator, keeping the hero from burning out too fast. And yet, heroes always seem to burn.
My mom and I sent my dad into a memory care facility this month. The man who was my greatest real-life hero is a rapidly emptying shell. Dementia is a terrible disease, delivering a constant grief that withholds closure for 10, 20 years, or more. Zero stars; do not recommend.
The same week that dad moved, I started my own hero’s journey. I’m an athlete, a runner. But my lower legs and feet suddenly stopped working. The neurologist thinks it’s a temporary thing, reversible with time. But my latest heroine uses a wheelchair because fiction is a safe place to quickly explore ‘what ifs’ that take too long to manifest in the ordinary world. She is strong and capable and brave, and she doesn’t mind looking like a total dork when she needs to leave her chair to ambulate with a floppy, awkward gait. I, however, have been using an electric cart at the grocery store.
For stress relief, mom and I have been watching movies. Our goal: Experience the whole Marvel Cinematic Universe in one fell swoop. Last night I described our vigil as a Marvel advent calendar. We laugh and swoon a lot. Critically, it’s giving both of us a couple of hours every night to completely escape our mundane lives and imagine a universe where even the most beautiful heroes are flawed—and still worthy of healthy relationships with other intelligent beings.
