Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul Read online

  Although it took Ron less than one minute to get the keys from my ignition, this kind stranger spent over an hour with us, taking the concept of Roadside Assistance to a whole new level.

  It’s been five years since Cole’s head surgery. Sometimes, Cole’s red hair parts so that I can see the thick scar that crisscrosses his head; otherwise there are no visual reminders of his surgery.

  Yet there are things unseen. The way I feel toward Cole is difficult to describe—it’s as though our hearts had been bound together during that surgery.

  Recently at the park, a Guatemalan woman asked me about the scar. She said, “The angels came into him while his head was open.” I don’t know if I believe that, but the thought makes me feel better.

  My younger son, Ry, fell from his bed one night when he was two years old and had to have stitches on his chin. I was with him as the nurses at the emergency room held him down while the doctor stitched. He clutched my hand and screamed, and it reminded me of Cole’s surgery.

  The room started to spin, and I was having trouble breathing. One of the nurses yelled, “Mom going down! Mom going down!” The next thing I knew, there was a wet towel on the back of my neck, and I was being instructed to put my head between my legs.

  Going through these difficult things with my children doesn’t end—whether it’s watching them get stitches or seeing them be teased by other children. My heart is constantly being ripped in unexpected ways, despite both children, ultimately, doing fine. The hard times usually end up bringing us closer together.

  Now four years old, Ry likes his scar. He points to it all the time. The other day, Cole complained that he didn’t have a scar to show off like Ry.

  “Yes, you do honey, I said, “Remember, you have that big zigzag scar that goes from ear to ear?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I guess I forgot.”

  I’m glad that he’s forgotten about the scar, and I hope all the trauma behind it—as long as he remembers the love we forged going through it together.

  Victoria Patterson

  A Misfortune—Not a Tragedy

  A lone we can do so little; together we can do so much.

  Helen Keller

  I was an ecstatically happy thirteen-year-old riding home for dinner on my new birthday present—a Fleet bicycle made by Schwinn, and it was a dandy. It even had a spring knee-action suspension in front. Better yet, it was the only one of its kind in the neighborhood.

  I polished its blue and white frame and fenders to a shiny brightness that could be seen for blocks away. I had been on cloud nine ever since I received it as a gift a few days before. One’s first bike is a milestone in any child’s life. Like any thirteen-year-old boy there was only one thing on my mind as I pedaled home around four-thirty that afternoon—dinner.

  I skidded my bike up to the front porch in a spectacular wheelie and bounded up the steps. As I ran through the hallway toward the kitchen I began to wonder. I didn’t smell any tantalizing aroma coming from Mom’s spic-and-span kitchen. Oh well, I thought, smiling to myself, maybe we are having cold cuts with pork and beans—my summer favorite.

  I opened the swinging doors to the kitchen expecting to hear, “Jimmy, wash your hands and help me set the table.” Instead, my young eyes focused on my mother, ghostly white, lying in a crumpled heap on the kitchen floor— blood oozing from a deep wound on her forehead. I tried to rouse her but to no avail. All I got were moans. Beginning to cry, I knelt beside her quiet form on the floor and asked soberly, “Mom, are you okay?” She answered in an almost unintelligible whisper, “Please help me, Jimmy.”

  Realizing we were alone, like most children would do, I ran to the phone. This was 1944 and there was no such thing as 911, only the operator’s friendly voice asking, “Number please.” I blurted out my grandmother’s phone number between sobs and said, “It’s an emergency, operator, please hurry.”

  I called Grandma because Dad was still at work, and I couldn’t remember his office number. The first words out of Grandma’s mouth were, “Jimmy why are you crying?” I could hardly speak through the tears by this time. Between sobs I explained to Grandma about Mom on the floor needing help. All she said was, “I’ll call the fire department, and I’ll be right there. Hang on.”

  Grandma didn’t own a car but lived nearby. True to her word, her running feet hit the porch at the same time the firemen arrived from the neighborhood station. We all converged on the kitchen to help Mom. She was still lying on the floor, not moving or making a sound. As the firemen worked over her in a huddled mass I heard one of the firemen say, “Get a gurney. She has to go to the hospital now.

  ” Once more I began to cry. Grandma immediately swept me into her massive, comforting grandma arms and said soothingly, “Hush child. Your mother is in good hands; she’ll be okay. God and the firemen are with her.” Grandma always knew just what to say.

  Little did we know as we watched the firemen wheel Mom out of the house, our family’s life would never be the same. We found out later Mom had slipped on the slick kitchen floor she was mopping. As she fell she hit her head on the sharp edge of the kitchen table, causing severe brain damage—resulting in paralysis to the left side of her body. This misfortune, not a tragedy, changed our lives and lifestyle in a matter of seconds.

  After weeks of convalescence in the hospital and extensive therapy she was still unable to use her left arm or left leg normally. She never would again, and she was only in her late thirties.

  I never will forget the day Mom came home. Dad got her settled in a makeshift bedroom downstairs in our two-story house. He then asked all of us children to gather in the living room. Dad, his usual strong voice filled with emotion, said, “Your Mother will never be the same. The fall damaged the right side of her brain. It is like a light-bulb that shatters and cannot be put back together—this caused the paralysis. She will never again be like the mom you have known. But she will still be your mom—don’t ever forget that.” We all nodded our heads in agreement.

  There were four of us children, myself, thirteen years old; an older sister, fifteen; a younger brother, eight; and a baby sister, three years old. Struggling with Dad’s words we all reached out and grasped each other’s hands as we gathered around him in prayer. We knew then that our family would not be the same, but it would survive—we were all very confident of that fact—Mom and God were still with us.

  After more physical therapy Mom soon was able to shuffle about and once again commence her household duties. She only had the use of her right hand and arm. Her left arm hung limply to her side. Her partially paralyzed left leg only allowed her to walk stiff legged.

  All of us children, and of course Dad, had increased work to do at home, but none of us really minded. After all, Mom was still with us, along with her happy, perky personality. In spite of this life-changing experience our family unit soon knitted. If anything, it was stronger than before. Yes, life was good once more for our family.

  Dad never faltered in his role as father, husband and part-time mom. They remained together as Mom and Dad, husband and wife for their forty-six remaining years until Mom—who was in a wheelchair by this time—passed away. We children in the family actually benefited immensely from this misfortune—I won’t say tragedy—in many ways for the rest of our lives.

  We learned compassion and how to look out for each other. We became a bonded team, working together for the good of the family and, most of all, we learned how to love one another.

  At seventy years old I can attest to this fact: No matter how bleak your future can look to you as a child when faced with a family misfortune—I still won’t say tragedy— life does get better. Our family found out quickly that even a shattered lightbulb can bring brightness to the end of a long, dark tunnel—all we had to do was reach out together, along with God, and turn it on.

  James A. Nelson

  My Son, the Street Person

  If you don’t like something, change it. If you can’t change it, change yo
ur attitude.

  Maya Angelou

  Let me start right off by confessing: my son lives on the streets. Of course, in response to casual inquiry about him, I usually say, “He’s doing great.” If pressed further I say, “He’s traveling.” No one can fault that. After all, many restless young men spend a year roaming before they settle down and go to college. Get it out of their systems, sow their wild oats, find themselves . . . you know. But questioners may remember that this is his second year out of high school. How many wild oats has he got?

  Most of the interrogators let it drop. They are too busy with their own lives, and perhaps they sense some great darkness lurking behind my answers. But some people are tenacious. “Where is he?” they want to know. A tale of fictional intrigue is on the tip of my tongue, but for some reason I am compelled to tell the truth, so I answer, “New York City.” I hear the wheels turning—how long can you be traveling in New York City? There are a lot of sights, a few good day trips, but hey, two weeks ought to do it. A writhing can of worms gapes open: “What’s he doing? Where’s he living?

  “My son is a street person,” I must respond.

  I glimpse the shocked response before it is politely stuffed away. “She’s a failure as a parent,” they’re thinking.

  The sociological data on street kids says that they come from divorced, alcoholic, abusive, unloving and often uneducated families. While that’s the classic profile, it’s no portrait of my son.

  My husband, Lee, and I have, amazingly enough, been married for twenty-one years. Despite attempts to cultivate the pleasure of a glass of wine now and then, I must admit the stuff puts me to sleep. We did scold our son and send him to his room on occasion, even grounded him once or twice. But he was an easy child and, in our family, yelling is something you do on the sidelines of a hockey game. We tend to talk things out.

  Unloved? This child has been adored, admired and cherished since he was conceived. To this day, he lights up a room when he walks in. There is an energy, a zest for life that can’t be missed. So, please, don’t say it’s lack of love. I did not do everything right. But love him? Yes, that I did.

  This kid’s so smart his high school teachers still talk about him. Education runs on both sides of the family. Our family tree is practically sprouting with doctors, lawyers and MBAs.

  Having eliminated all the usual criteria of homelessness, “mentally unbalanced” is the only one left. He must be crazy, right? Wrong. He’s the most rational, practical person you could hope to meet.

  My son has lived on the streets for almost a year now. He is not homeless or living out of a cardboard box. He is a squatter, living with a group of people in an abandoned building that is city-owned. There are many cities where street people take up residency, begin repairs and avoid authorities. Others link in, and soon there is a community of sorts, with rules, guidelines for joining and extended support.

  In the beginning, I actually imagined that he was planning to write a book, make a documentary or organize assistance for the homeless. I had it all worked out. My son the social activist, the do-gooder. But it turns out that he did not go to New York City to help those “poor people.” He claims that would be a form of manipulation, taking advantage of street people, standing apart and observing. This is his life. Though he comes home for occasional visits, he does not ask us for any money or help.

  My son has chosen this life. He is not a failure. It is not a last resort, a desperate attempt to survive or a dead end. He wants to be exactly where he is. Nor did he do this out of a romanticized notion of what it would be like. He knows the hunger, the fear, the violence, the disease.

  Day after day, I ask myself, why? Why did he end up in this place? I am not able to fully understand or accept it. I cannot change it, or approve it, or even explain it. Yet it doesn’t go away. That is my child out there. I have talked to many of my son’s friends. After overcoming my initial reaction to body piercing, multiple tattoos, ripped clothes, and dyed hair, I find them to be kind, intelligent, thoughtful people. They are searching for something.

  After my initial horror, I began to comprehend some of the appeal of the life he has chosen. It is a day-to-day existence in which there is no worry about career goals, or what the neighbors will think, or making your mark in the world. My son and his friends focus on the basics of survival. How are you going to eat today? Where will you sleep? Will you keep warm? Where will you relieve yourself? These are questions that inspire considerable passion and take up a major portion of each day. Then you are free to pursue your own daydreams. There is, in fact, a freedom in the squats. The price is danger, discomfort, bugs and ill health; the street beats you up and ages you quickly. But the freedom is there. It is not pretty or pastel or romantic, but beneath the dirt and desperation, I can sometimes see freedom shining through my son’s eyes.

  A strong sense of community exists among his friends. There are a few subgroups: the down-and-out families; the drug dealers and users; the desperate runaways; and the cases, like my son, who are there by choice. Some are old timers, others are new to the life. The group my son is part of has organized their places of shelter into a network of communication that could be a model for any revolutionary group. There is an excitement and purpose in their rejection of a world order they consider decadent and off-target. They are not abusing the earth or taking advantage of people or accumulating wealth. They may be more sure of what they do not want than what they do, but their intention is to do no harm.

  They live in the buildings abandoned by society, eat the vast quantities of food society throws out, and scrounge for clothing and comforts of life from the discarded piles on the curbstone. Books on revolution and philosophy are passed around and discussed late into the night. They offer each other protection and help, often giving their only dollar to one whose need is greater. They are proud of their ability to survive. Sometimes I think they are telling us something about the dysfunction of our nation of unhappy, out-of-control consumers.

  I know the dangers of his life. On those long nights when fear grabs hold of me and will not let go, the fears parade beneath my closed eyes. I imagine all the guns in New York City. I see berserk crackheads pursuing my son. I picture him caught in crossfire, or poking his head in the wrong Dumpster, or simply ticking off some hothead. I see him cold and shivering, dirty and lice covered, his immune system weakened, disease ready to ambush him. I see him falling in love and wanting to settle down but unprepared for a “normal” life. I see these things, and for all my attempts at understanding, I am simply a frightened mother.

  All this pensive philosophy falls away and is replaced by excited anticipation when he returns for a visit. The one form of assistance that he accepts other than spare building supplies, is a round-trip bus ticket home. We cook a big meal, stock up on a supply of his favorite foods, and expect a late night filled with descriptions of the people in his life: the local hotdog vendor, the Puerto Rican brothers who own the corner bodega, the hovering drug dealer, the young squatter couple from Ohio, the artist with AIDS, the old communist who has been living like this for twenty-five years, the guy who taught him plumbing. There are so many stories.

  In the daylight, I surreptitiously examine his skin sores, listen to his cough, and check out his cuts and bruises. He plays with his little brother, rests, showers and takes his sisters out for coffee. Soon the local grapevine carries word of his arrival in town. By the second evening a jam session is underway in the back room, the pulsating bass notes lull me into a contented sleep.

  What is the price he will pay for this lifestyle? I don’t know; I can try to guess. I know that he is young, and he will change. I know that the college graduate we once imagined is a dream deferred. I am much more clear about my cost: the endless days of worry, the incessant wondering about what we could have done differently, the hesitant greeting I give him while I look at the sores on his face with a growing dread. Yet, is this so different from any parent? Maybe my case is more dramatic
and extreme than many, but in the end, we mothers all worry and pray for our children whatever their age or whereabouts. Our inability to insure safety and happiness never changes the longing.

  Yes, I feel embarrassed when I am questioned, and sometimes I believe I am the failed parent others perceive me to be. Yet I am also proud. This handsome, vibrant young man to whom I gave birth has courage. He is on a quest, even if his goal is not the Holy Grail. He is learning, seeking and questioning everything. What will be his future? In the old days he might have gone west or searched for a river’s source; today the cities have become our wilderness. Perhaps he, more than I in my frenetic, practical life, has found what it is all about. Who can say for sure?

  So now you will better understand my request. If you pass a strange, grungy kid on the street, wherever you may be, don’t look away or grimace in disgust. Look him in the eyes, talk to him, at least give him a greeting—he might be my son, or he could be yours.

  Eva Nagel

  Postscript: My son is now a trained professional, married and a father himself. He met his wife in New York city. The only sign of their former life is a framed collage of the squat that hangs on their bedroom wall.

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  ON MOTHER-

  Nothingelse will ever make you as happy or as sad, as proud or as tired, as motherhood.

  Elia Parsons

  “It’s a new workout video. It shows a mother chasing

  around three little children all day.”

  Reprinted by permission of Dan Rosanadich. ©2000.

  Motherhood: A Transformation

  Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the walk before it stops snowing.

  Phyllis Diller

  Once upon a time I was a nurse, a writer and a wife. Then one day, I had a child. I became a mother.

  Added to the list of things I previously was, I became: a chauffeur, a cook, a dresser, a wiper of dirty faces, a cleaner of soiled diapers, a retriever of thrown socks, a finder of lost shoes, a doer of homework, an insomniac. I was a referee in toy wars, a slayer of nighttime dragons, a soother of nervous school jitters. I was a room mother, a den mother, a leader of Girl Scouts, and one day, mother of the bride. I calmed tantrums and bolstered fragile egos.