Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul (15 page)

Close Call

A few years ago, my mom went to the doctor to ask him about her neck. “Lately it’s been a little swollen,” she told him. He looked at her and then told her she needed to see a hematologist. It turned out there was something wrong with her lymph glands, and she would have to have a biopsy. Soon they had scheduled her for surgery on the seventh of September.

As soon as I found out, I was furious. September 7 is my birthday. I screamed and yelled at her and everyone else, too. I even yelled at the dog. I started begging her to reschedule. She gave me this look like she was about to cry and said, “I’m sorry, but I’ve done everything I can. There’s nothing else I can do.” Finally, I just yelled, “I hate you!” and ran into my room, crying. I sat on my bed thinking,
Why do things always have to happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?
I didn’t even think about how my mom, the one who was actually going to get cut open, was feeling.

For the next couple weeks, all I did was sulk. Deep down I knew I shouldn’t act that way, but I did anyway. Anyone could see how miserable I was making my mom. I knew it wasn’t her fault, but I had to have someone to blame.

Finally, my birthday came. My parents left early in the morning for the hospital in Salt Lake City, and my aunt came to look after my brother and me. All day we played games, opened presents and had a picnic in the yard. Everyone pretended to have fun, but the tension in the air was as thick as peanut butter, and you could tell no one was really having a good time.
This isn’t fair,
I thought.
This was supposed to be
my
day.

My parents came home late that night. My mom walked in with a bandage on her neck. She sat down and rested her head on my dad’s shoulder. It hurt so badly, she couldn’t even talk. My dad had to tell us what had happened. They had left the hospital all right, but after they had driven for just half an hour, the car broke down. My mom had to sit in a cold car while my dad walked to get help.

Later that night, Mom was in her room. She pulled out a bag and handed it to me. It was my birthday present, a Walkman.

“I’m sorry it’s not wrapped,” she said in a quiet, raspy voice. “And we didn’t have time to get batteries, but I’ll get some soon.”

“Thank you,” I said. That was all I could say.

About a week later the doctor called. It turned out that my mother’s condition was nothing serious. Everyone seemed relieved. Later my dad told me that the doctors had thought she might have cancer. I couldn’t believe it. My legs turned to Jell-O, and I had to sit down. Even though I knew she was all right, when I thought of what I had said and done, I felt sick. If she had gotten cancer, nothing in our lives would have ever been the same.

Less than a year later, my dad’s cousin, Nathan, was diagnosed with cancer. He had four kids and his wife was about to have another. He stayed alive just long enough to see his new baby’s birth, and then he died. Now his son will never be able to see or know his dad.

It’s scary to think how close I was to having the same thing happen to me and how selfish I had been. I will always regret the things I said. It is really true that you don’t appreciate something until you come close to losing it.

Diana Parker, age 12

The Flood

I woke up to the crash of thunder and the pitter-patter of rain. It was 3:43
A.M.
Boom! Boom!
Thunder was crashing as loud as a stereo with the volume turned up to the limit and the speaker held up to your ear. This didn’t alarm me, though, and I fell back to sleep. At 5:16
A.M.
, my father rushed into my room.

“Adam! Adam! Get up! We’re flooding! The basement is flooding!” he shouted.

Still groggy, I tried to ignore him, but he shook me by my shoulders. That got me up! Since I didn’t have time to change, I ran downstairs in my pajamas to the basement. It was a devastating sight.

The water had risen six inches already. My mother and I immediately started to pick things up off the floor and take them upstairs. I had no shoes on, and my feet were absolutely freezing.

My parents were quite upset, and they had a right to be. Within half an hour, the water was eighteen inches deep. Things would only get worse.

Within the next hour, we had moved everything that we could to the first floor. The computer, big-screen television and heavy boxes filled with our most valuable possessions were taken to safe ground. However, our piano, Ping-Pong table, sleeper sofa, laundry machine, dryer, furnace and water heater were all still down there—being destroyed.

During our final trip to the basement, we smelled a disgusting odor coming from the water near our bathroom. Our toilet downstairs looked like a geyser. Water was shooting out of the bowl at great speed. I rushed upstairs to try to call our neighbors, but the phones were dead. My mother waded over to their house, but soon returned, saying there was nothing we could do.

That was the hard part. Knowing that part of your home is being destroyed is bad enough, but realizing that you can’t do anything to stop it feels even worse. Most people don’t know how sickening the feeling of being totally helpless is. For the record, it’s horrible.

We all went out on the front porch. The water was rising outside, too. It was about four inches away from coming through our front door. When my parents saw this, they ran back inside. My mother told me to pack an overnight bag of clothes and valuables. With a lump in my throat, I knew what was happening.

I packed my stereo, CDs, baseball cards and a change of clothing. My mother rolled up her Oriental rugs and packed her china dishes. We carried everything out and put it on higher ground. My father was frantic. He had only enough time to pack clothes. It was really bad.

By the time we were ready to leave, water had come in our front door. Rescue rafts were floating in our streets. The basement was like a swimming pool—six feet of water, we would later learn. My parents weren’t crying, but they
were
praying. About half an hour later, our prayers were answered. It finally stopped pouring. We learned that the National Weather Service had declared the storm a flash flood.

When it was finally safe to walk outside, all the people in the neighborhood gathered at the street corner. The only positive thing that day was the corner gathering. Everybody bonded. Acquaintances became friends, friends became like family. People comforted each other. Everyone was saying, “We have suffered enough!” That was definitely true.

For the next month, my family had to live at our friends’ houses, where we could shower, eat, do laundry and have a good time together.

I really have learned something from this flood. I’ve learned what devastation is. I’ve learned what family is. During the past few weeks, I’ve learned what true friends are. In the future, when I watch people’s lives affected by natural disasters, I will not laugh. Instead, I will pity them. I will feel more compassion. I will relive my own sadness and remember the flood.

Adam Edelman, age 12

The Man Who Had Plenty

R
emember, happiness doesn’t depend on who you are or what you have; it depends solely upon what you think.

Dale Carnegie

Once there was a family that was not rich and not poor. They lived in Ohio in a small country house. One night they all sat down for dinner, and there was a knock at the door. The father went to the door and opened it.

There stood an old man in tattered clothes, with ripped pants and missing buttons. He was carrying a basket full of vegetables. He asked the family if they wanted to buy some vegetables from him. They quickly did because they wanted him to leave.

Over time, the family and the old man became friends. The man brought vegetables to the family every week. They soon found out that he was almost blind and had cataracts on his eyes. But he was so friendly that they learned to look forward to his visits and started to enjoy his company.

One day as he was delivering the vegetables, he said, “I had the greatest blessing yesterday! I found a basket of clothes outside my house that someone had left for me.”

The family, knowing that he needed clothes, said, “How wonderful!”

The old blind man said, “The most wonderful part is that I found a family that really needed the clothes.”

Reverend Mark Tidd
As told by Jerry Ullman

The Perfect Dog

During summer vacations, I would volunteer at the vet’s, so I’d seen a lot of dogs. Minnie was by far the funniest-looking dog I’d ever seen. Thin curly hair barely covered her sausage-shaped body. Her bugged-out eyes always seemed surprised. And her tail looked like a rat’s tail.

She was brought to the vet to be put to sleep because her owners didn’t want her anymore. I thought Minnie had a sweet personality, though.
No one should judge her by her looks,
I thought. So the vet spayed her and gave her the necessary shots. Finally, I advertised Minnie in the local paper: “Funny-looking dog, well behaved, needs loving family.”

When a young man called, I warned him that Minnie was strange looking. The boy on the phone told me that his grandfather’s sixteen-year-old dog had just died. They wanted Minnie no matter what. I gave Minnie a good bath and fluffed up what was left of her scraggly hair. Then we waited for them to arrive.

At last, an old car drove up in front of the vet’s. Two kids raced to the door. They scooped Minnie into their arms and rushed her out to their grandfather, who was waiting in the car. I hurried behind them to see his reaction to Minnie.

Inside the car, the grandfather cradled Minnie in his arms and stroked her soft hair. She licked his face. Her rattail wagged around so quickly that it looked like it might fly off her body. It was love at first lick.

“She’s perfect!” the old man exclaimed.

I was thankful that Minnie had found the good home that she deserved.

That’s when I saw that the grandfather’s eyes were a milky white color—he was blind.

Jan Peck

The little woman who lived in a
plain old sneaker.

IN THE BLEACHERS. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

To Be Enormously Gorgeous

My dad says I am ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS. I wonder if I really am.

To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS . . . Sarah says you need to have beautiful long, curly hair like she has. I don’t.

To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS . . . Justin says you must have perfectly straight white teeth like he has. I don’t.

To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS . . . Jessica says you can’t have any of those little brown dots on your face called freckles. I do.

To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS . . . Mark says you have to be the smartest kid in the seventh-grade class. I’m not.

To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS . . . Stephen says you have to be able to tell the funniest jokes in the school. I don’t.

To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS . . . Lauren says you need to live in the nicest neighborhood in town and in the prettiest house. I don’t.

To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS . . . Matthew says you can only wear the coolest clothes and the most popular shoes. I don’t.

To be ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS . . . Samantha says you need to come from a perfect family. I don’t.

But every night at bedtime my dad gives me a big hug and says, “You are ENORMOUSLY GORGEOUS, and I love you.”

My dad must know something my friends don’t.

Carla O’Brien

5
ON DEATH
AND DYING

D
eath.
What a great teacher you are.
Yet few of us elect to learn from you, About life.
That is the essence of death’s teaching, Life.
Death is not an elective.
One day we all will take the class.
The wise students audit the class in early years And find enlightenment.
They are prepared when graduation day comes.

Bernie S. Siegel, M.D.