Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II (38 page)

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Authors: Jack Canfield,Mark Victor Hansen,Kimberly Kirberger

BOOK: Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul II
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Snowdrops
"Are they up yet?" Grandmother asks hopefully.
"No, not yet," Mother answers patiently, as if addressing an eager child. From her position on the edge of my grandmother's bed, I see her smile silently as she continues knitting. She is smiling because of the familiarity of the question. For the last few weeks of her illness, my grandmother has been living to see the snowdrops bloom in her garden. Sometimes I think the only reason she doesn't succumb to her cancer is so she will live to see the tiny, white flowers she so adores, one last time. I don't understand her strong feelings for the snowdrops, as they are, by far, not the most beautiful flowers growing in Grandmother's garden. I wish to ask why she is so drawn to them but Mother's presence stops me. For some reason, I feel the need to ask the question in private. I realize then that Grandmother's eagerness for such a simple thing is almost childlike, and this causes me to reflect. We come into this world as children, and exit in almost the same way.
"Grandmother, why do you like snowdrops so much?" I ask during a visit one day, once Mother has gone downstairs.

 

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She looks so fragile lying in her bed, I almost regret asking the question. Answering may prove to be too much exertion for her weak lungs to handle. However, she takes a breath and begins to talk, slowly and quietly.
"When your grandfather and I were married, around this time of year, the snowdrops were in bloom. I wore them in my hair at our wedding. Your grandfather adored them. Every year we planted them in our garden, and through some bizarre miracle, they always bloomed on our anniversary.
"After your grandfather died, I missed him terribly. All I had to do, though, was look at the snowdrops, and I felt close to him, as if he were with me again. Our snowdrops were what saved me on days I missed him so much I wanted to die." Grandmother finishes her story and stares silently into space, thinking. I don't want to interrupt her thoughts, so when she closes her eyes and drifts off to sleep, I still don't speak.
We visit Grandmother again, but on this day Mother asks me to stay downstairs. Grandmother's condition is worsening and she can't cope with any visitors except Mother. She no longer has the strength to talk, and I remember my most recent talk with Mother. She was in need of someone to confide in, and I was the only ear available; otherwise, I'm sure she wouldn't have burdened me with her pain. She told me of her visits alone with Grandmother, and how she wished Grandmother would just give up and allow herself to go, to end her own suffering. I could see Mother's pain, and how much she longed to cry; but for my sake, she would not. I imagine what my mother is doing upstairs right nowsitting on Grandmother's bed, holding her hand and encouraging her not to fight anymore.
My thoughts are interrupted as I notice a glossy, white album on a shelf across from where I am seated. On the

 

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binding there is a date printed in gold ink: April 13, 1937. I pull the large book from the shelf and gingerly open it. I am mesmerized by the black-and-white photo that greets my eyes. I recognize Grandmother and Grandfather, posing together happily, and I know this must be their wedding album. Grandmother's beautiful white gown draws my attention. Then my eye is attracted by the tiny white flowers perched in Grandmother's hair. They are her snowdrops, and for the first time, I can see just how beautiful they really are.
The telephone rings on the most gorgeous day of spring so far. When Mother answers it, I know right away what has happened. My first question is, "What day is it?" Through her tears, Mother answers, confirming my suspicions. She doesn't want me to come with her today, but I insist. There is something I need to see.
When we arrive at Grandmother's house I immediately run to the backyard. While the image of the snowdrops is blurred by my tears, they have bloomed just the same. I am upset that Grandmother didn't get to see them, but then I realize that this year she didn't need to. For the first time in many years, she won't miss Grandfather on their anniversary. Despite my sadness I smile, for I know they are celebrating together in heaven.
Sarah McCann

 

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My Most Memorable Christmas
The fall of 1978, our daughter Carol, age thirteen, was thrown from a motorcycle on which she had been a passenger. She sailed eighty-nine feet through the air and landed in a ditch, where she almost died. My wife and I were on a mission in Korea when we got the news that the doctors were in the process of amputating her left leg.
Our flight home took twenty-two hours. I suppose I did more crying on that flight than I ever have in my entire life. When my wife and I arrived at our daughter's side, unable to think of adequate words of comfort, surprisingly enough, Carol began the conversation.
''Dad," she said, "I think God has a special ministry for my life to help people who have been hurt as I have." She saw possibilitiespositive onesin tragedy! What a lift those words gave me. But we were just beginning what would prove to be a long, exhausting battle.
Carol's femur had broken in four places and plunged through the thigh bone into the ditch of an Iowa farm, next to a slaughterhouse. There it picked up a form of bacteria that had previously been resistant to any known antibiotics.

 

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In November, Carol went back into the hospital for surgery that would, hopefully, release muscles in her knee that might make her leg more usable. The doctor was delighted when he opened her thigh and knee and discovered no pus pockets. But the hidden bacteria, which until that time had remained dormant, erupted like a prairie fire when exposed to the open air. Three days after surgery, she was the sickest little girl I've ever seen.
Each passing day, the bacteria multiplied with increasing impatience. Carol's fever soared to 104 degrees and lingered there day after day, night after night. Her leg continued to swell and the infection raged out of control.
About that time, we were blessed with a minor miracle. With no knowledge of my daughter's need, the Federal Drug Administration released, for the first time, an antibiotic that was declared significantly effective against the specific strain of bacteria that Carol contracted while lying in that Iowa ditch. She was the first human being in Children's Hospital, Orange County, California, to receive it. In a matter of hours after the first dosage, her temperature went down. Each successive culture reading showed fewer and fewer bacteria. Finally, about three weeks before Christmas, a culture came back that showed no bacteria growth.
Lying in her hospital bed with the intravenous tubes still in her hands, Carol asked the visiting doctor, who was standing in for her own surgeon, when she would be released. "Will I be home for Christmas, Doctor?" she asked.
"I don't know," he replied cautiously.
"Will I be able to get my new prosthesis?" she asked.
"Well," the doctor cautioned, "I don't believe you can get it yet."
But when her own doctor returned, he checked her over. That same day Carol called me at my office. "Daddy,

 

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I have good news," she announced.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Doctor Masters is an angel," she exclaimed. "He said I can come home for Christmas!"
On December 16, a Saturday night, Carol was released from the hospital. I was told to stay home and await a surprise. My wife went to pick her up. I saw the lights of the car as it rolled up the driveway, and I ran to the front door. My wife barred my way and said, "Bob, you have to go back in and wait. Carol wants you to wait by the Christmas tree."
So I waited nervously by the Christmas tree, counting the seemingly interminable seconds. Then I heard the front door open and the squeak of rubber on the wooden floor. I knew the sound came from the rubber tips of Carol's crutches. She stepped into the open door, ten feet away from my seat by the Christmas tree. She had gone straight from the hospital to the beauty parlor, where her hair stylist gave her a beautiful permanent. There she stood with lovely curls framing her face. Then I looked down and saw two shoes, two ankles, two legs and a beautiful girl.
She had come home and, because of it, made that Christmas my most memorable.
Reverend Robert Schuller

 

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My Real Father
I came across a quotation the other day: "He who raises a child is to be called its father, not the man who only gave it birth." How true this is! I only wish I had realized it sooner, for my failure to do so caused every person in my family a lot of unnecessary grief, including me.
My mom married the man I knew as Dad when I was four years old, and even then I felt this animosity toward him that was incredible, especially for a child so young. My dad tried so hard to be a good father to me, and I responded with spite and anger. He showered me with love, and I spit in his eye. Oh, he legally adopted me, and I called him Dad, but in my heart, I was a fatherless child. This incredible anger only grew when we moved from Ohio, where I had relatives on every street corner, to South Dakota, where I knew nobody. When I reflect now on my terrible behavior, I feel such shame. Just because he loved my mother, he was stuck with a little brat whose every move was calculated to bring him grief. But he didn't give up on me as a lesser man might have.
The strange thing is, I had come to love this man, but I didn't know how to stop my hateful behavior. I can only

 

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be glad that eventually, I grew out of it.
When people find out I'm adopted, their first question is always, "Who's your real father? Do you know him?" My answer is, "Yes, I know him. I live with him."
My dad is the man who refused to spank me, even though I deserved it. He's fed me and clothed me and loved me for thirteen years. He's there when I cry, and when I feel sick. Dad can always fix it with something out of his magical medicine collection. He worries about me if I'm out late. He bought me my first car, my first prom dress. He's the one who is proud of me when I get a good report card or win an honor or just handle a difficult situation in a mature way. He's my father, my dad and my daddy in every way except the one that doesn't count.
And as soon as my daddy gets home, I'm going to tell him, for the first time, how much I love him and how much I appreciate that he didn't give up on me . . .  even when I had given up on myself.
Anonymous

 

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