My little brother Sal was given two days to live. I was given one.

I was 8 and he was 6, and we had been admitted to a Florida hospital in the summer of 1985. We had high fevers, red spots, sensitivity to light, were losing control of our bowels, and were so lethargic we slept through the days and could barely walk to the bathroom.

The doctors had run out of answers. All of the tests they’d run were inconclusive, and it looked like they weren’t going to be able to save us.

My grandma Beverly was not a medical professional. She was a secretary who had raised four kids and was an avid reader. She was one of a kind. She left such a lasting impression on my life, and she was the only person in the world I let call me Jenny.

She had been sitting at home reading one of her magazines when something stopped her: an article with a description of symptoms exactly like ours. She didn’t hesitate or talk herself out of saying something. She didn’t worry about looking foolish.…