My name is Willie Paul  Granger.  I am thirteen years old; I live in Hope, Arkansas, with my family. 

I used to walk, run around, play sports --  your typical boy -- , but then, when I was six, I started having problems.  At first it was nothing more than a few stumbles or falls; then it went into trouble climbing stairs, and I was falling a lot more often.  When I did fall, I couldn't get back up.  It was beyond terrifying; I didn't know what was going on.

I was put into the hospital, where I had a whole slew of tests:  I felt like a human pincushon!!  I hated it!!  When the diagnosis finally came, it was bad news:  I had the beginnings of Duchenne muscular dystrophy, a serious neromuscular disorder that meant increasing disability and ultimately death by the age of twenty. 

That was only fourteen years worth of living left. 

Not much time. 

By the time I was to be ten, I'd more than likely be in a wheelchair, with braces strapped to my legs; before then, I'd be walking on crutches if I was lucky. 

Sure enough, not even after a year after I was told I had MD,  I was walking on a pair of crutches strapped to my elbows, and also sporting ugly leg braces, which were heavy.  The effort of walking soon came to be too much; by the time I was nine,  I was, indeed, using a wheelchair part of the time; by ten,  I had lost the ability to walk altogether.

I now use a wheelchair exclusively all the time.  If I need to go to the toilet or elsewhere, my parents (usually my dad) have (has) to carry me around, as if I were a big baby.  It's very degrading, especially when they have to fool around with my catheter bag every few hours to empty it or shove a tube up my butt so I can poop. 

I  will eventually have to breathe with a respirator, but for now, I can breathe on my own.  Not looking forward to that:  I already feel I've caused more than enough heartache for my family, in particular, my little brother, Mason, who used to be my sports playmate until I got this stupid MD.  (He's 11.)  Also, my sister, Meagan, who's fifteen, is angry because I no longer can go on our walks together; she has to do it by herself or with her mom when she can get out of the house and isn't dealing with me.

My cousin, Reagan Laura Patterson, who's ten, also has had a hard time.  She was another one I used to fool around with, kicking a soccer ball, fielding line drives, and swimming in the creek every summer.  Now if she wants to see me she has to come to our house, or if I go to her house,  it's always a big production, because her house isn't handicapped-accessable for my wheelchair.

Well,  I've managed to bum myself out, so I will go.  I will write more when I am feeling better.  Writing is getting to be a chore; it doesn't take much for me to get tired, even after doing simple things like taking pen to paper or typing on the computer keyboard.  I will write again another day; take care!

~Willie  P.  Granger,  Hope, Arkansas, aged 13.