Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (20 page)

Last winter, I made frequent visits to different doctors for several problems. I had a severe case of asthma and allergies and rashes on my legs. I had hip pains that kept me up at night. I was anemic, too. One afternoon, I went in to see my doctor about my hip pains and some swelling in my throat. We thought I had tonsillitis. My doctor took a few X rays and said everything looked fine. He looked inside my mouth and found a mild case of thrush, an infection, which he said would probably go away in a couple of weeks. When he felt my throat, he became concerned. I had several, hard-as-rocks lumps in my neck, chest and shoulders, where the lymph glands are. They weren't tender (if they were, that would have been because of a cold) and when I tilted my head, you could see lumps sticking out of my neck. He told my mother on the phone that night that he wanted me to be seen at Children's Hospital.

That night I went out to see a movie with my boyfriend at the time, Matt. I had a great time. I didn't even know that I was going to the hospital the next day. When I woke up the next morning, my mom told me to get ready. The whole way to the hospital, I had this weird feeling in my stomach, as if I were going up one of those tall roller-coaster hills.

It took us forever to find a parking space. When we made it inside, it didn't look like those hospitals in movies, all spic-and-span clean and wall-to-wall white. It was kind of warm and cozy, just like a hospital for small people should be.

When we went into the waiting room, a little bald girl with bright blue eyes and a smile walked out. I thought to myself,
Oh, how cute. I wonder what she is here for.
Then, I saw a boy from my school walk in who I didn't know very well. I knew he had cancer the year before. I knew his name was Matt, just like my boyfriend, and I knew that all the schools in the city we live in had heard about him and the disease he had. After he sat down, a little boy walked in wearing a black beanie hat. I eavesdropped on his conversation with his mother.

“Eric, wasn't it funny what Daddy told you to do this morning?” his mother asked.

“What did he tell me to do?” he responded.

“He said, ‘Go upstairs, get dressed, brush your teeth and brush your hair!' Remember what you told him?” she asked.

“I don't have any hair!” Eric said with a smile.

Just then I realized where I was and why I was there. I was in the cancer clinic because of the lumps on my neck. I knew from listening to my doctor's “Mmm-hmm”s and “Uh-huh”s that things weren't normal. After my mom filled out some papers, they finally called me in. This really pretty, blonde doctor named Jennifer felt around my neck, underarms, shoulders, stomach and pelvic area. She measured the lumps on my neck and wrote stuff down on a piece of paper.

She had this worried look on her face. “You have such pretty hair, nice skin and your weight is healthy. I'm worried about those lumps on your neck, though, Sweetie. We're going to have to do a biopsy on some of those lumps. It's a procedure where we make a small incision in your neck and take some out to do tests. I'd also like to do a bone-marrow test while we're at it.”

I started crying and looked at her. “Am I going to die?” I asked.

“I doubt it,” she said. “This cancer is 90 percent curable.”

She gave me a hug and helped us schedule the biopsy. All the way home, my mom and I cried. When I got home, I called all of my friends and told them.

I went back to the hospital for my biopsy, and they put a bracelet on me and put me in bed to watch some movies while I waited. I watched
Ever After, Clueless
and the beginning of
A Bug's Life
before they came in to tell me what was going to happen. They gave me a Valium to relax me, which made me pretty sleepy. I tried to go to the bathroom and, when I got out of bed, I tripped because I was so dopey. My speech was slurred, too.

They hooked me up to an I.V. and rolled my bed down a large hallway and into a small, white room. There were several doctors in there, all wearing funny hats. They put a mask on me and told me to breathe deeply. It seemed like I blinked and then realized I was in the recovery room. It wasn't like in those movies where the people just automatically flutter their eyes and wake up to see lots of people around their bedside, looking at them with presents, teddy bears and balloons. Waking up felt like trying to bench-press five hundred pounds with my eyelids. And I wasn't so glamorous, either. I remember saying, “Ow . . . Oww . . . OWW!” Then I heard people talking about morphine to take away the pain. It did make me feel a little better. My mom helped me put on my clothes and they wheeled me out to my mom's car. I crashed on the couch as soon as I got home.

The next day I went to our school's Winter Ball and my boyfriend, Matt, dedicated the song “Let's Get It On” by Marvin Gaye to me, just to make me laugh. I didn't really dance that night because I was still tired and I was in a lot of pain, but I had fun.

A couple of days later, I went back to the hospital to see how the biopsy turned out. I had this feeling in my stomach. I knew I had cancer. I was right. I did have cancer. I burst into tears again because I knew my life would never be the same. I knew my hair was going to fall out; I knew I was going to have to endure chemotherapy; I knew all of it. And I just wanted to pretend I was dreaming.

I'm halfway done with my cycles of chemotherapy now and I'm not bald yet, but my hair is incredibly thin and still falling out. Matt and I broke up a couple of months ago. I was going out with this guy, Lucas, for a while but then he broke up with me. I'm okay with it, though, because there will be new romances. I will have new relationships. There's lots of life to live. I've told all of the people who I love that I love them. I wrote letters to those people I had stopped writing to. I've tried things I was once scared to do. I pretty much have a normal, fourteen-year-old teenage girl's life. I've been able to go to school pretty regularly except I'm not there a few Mondays a month. I just keep on saying to myself, “I'm a fighter, not a victim of cancer.” People have complimented me on how strong I am. Now that I think of it, maybe they're right.

Christina Angeles

Go for the Gold

B
e generous with your joy. Give away what
you most want. Be generous with your insights
and delights. Instead of fearing that they're
going to slip away and holding on to them,
share them.

Pema Chödrön

I've had about seven surgeries already, and I am only twelve years old. I was born without a chin, and I really didn't have much cheekbones, so they redid those. My ears were just skin, and right now the doctors are working on them. They're using ribs. Ribs grow back until you're eighteen years old.

My mom told me what I had—Treacher Collins Syndrome—when I was little. She never tried to keep it a secret. She has the same birth defect as I do. She had to go to a special school for the hard of hearing, and she didn't want that to happen to me. I have a special hearing aid— a headband—called a “bone conduction hearing aid” that allows me to hear. I get to go to public school.

Mom and I went to different kinds of schools, but we both know about being teased. I don't get teased much. But, if I do, I stand up for myself. I'll say, “It doesn't matter. You can make fun of me. Tomorrow it could be you.” They usually stop laughing, and some even say they're sorry or they didn't mean it. I tell them to just not do it again. If someone has a problem with me, it's his or her problem, not mine.

I may not always fit in, but I try to stand up for what's right. I'm always trying to help someone else. I even postponed a surgery in 1995 because of the Oklahoma City bombing. I saw the bombing on TV and decided to do something.

I wanted to raise $20,000 to help the victims. My mom wanted to knock it down to $10,000, so I agreed. My mom asked my grandpa to help, and together they wanted to knock it down to $5,000. This time I said no—my goal was $10,000.

I planned a bowl-a-thon. To announce it, I made banners and started going out asking for sponsors. I got bored going house to house. I didn't raise very much money that way. So I told my mom I wanted to try car dealerships.

My mom and I walked into dealerships, and every time we went in, a salesperson said to my mom, “May I help you?”

She said, “No, talk to him.”

I told the salesperson my plan and asked for his or her help. I don't think anyone said no. The car dealerships provided a lot of money.

Lots of people came to the bowl-a-thon, and we had a big banner for everyone to sign. The governor of Colorado, Governor Romer, also signed it. Then I flew to Oklahoma and handed the governor of Oklahoma, Governor Keating, a check for $37,000 and the signed banner. We made $27,000 over our goal!

I have raised over $87,000 for different causes since then, and my goal is to raise $100,000 by the time I am thirteen years old. Why do I spend my time raising money? I believe everyone can make a difference, and it doesn't matter how old you are, or who you are, or if you feel you are different, because everyone is different in one way or another. Some differences are on the outside and other people can see them, but some differences are on the inside.

Michael Munds

The Walk That Changed Our Lives

I
t can be hard to break the friendship code of
secrecy and make your friend mad at you, but
you must do what you feel in your heart is
right.

Amanda Ford

The closer we came to the counselor's office, the more obvious it became that this walk would be one of the most important of our lives. It was one of the last days before school got out for the summer, and eighth grade was coming to an end. My friends and I were all thrilled. Everyone, that is, except our friend, Hannah.

It had started the previous summer, when Hannah had begun to keep to herself a lot. Whenever we would go out, she would insist on staying home by herself just to sit around. In fact, a lot of changes had come over Hannah ever since we had entered junior high. She obsessed about her weight, her complexion and how unpopular she was. She never seemed to focus on the good things she had to offer; it was always about what she didn't have or what she was lacking. We were all concerned that something was very wrong, but at thirteen we didn't exactly understand it or know what we could do to help her. Hannah seemed to be getting worse every day. She hated herself, and it was tearing our friendship apart.

Then one morning not long ago, Hannah came to school and told us she had almost committed suicide. She said she had thought about her friends and could not go through with it. We were in shock and had no idea what to do. Since she told no one else—not her parents or her sisters, just us—we tried to figure out what to do ourselves, feeling that no one else would understand. Though we didn't want to stop being there for her, we couldn't carry the burden by ourselves. We knew that if we made one wrong move, it could cost us our friend's life.

We walked into the counselor's office and waited for what seemed like an eternity until they called our names. We held hands as we walked in, each of us holding back tears. The counselor invited us to sit down, and we began to tell him about Hannah and all that had been going on. When we were finished, he told us that we had done the right thing. We waited as he called Hannah's mother. We were overwhelmed with a million questions. What would Hannah say when she found out that we had told? Would her parents be mad at her for not telling anyone sooner? What was going to happen?

When Hannah's mother arrived at school, she had obviously been crying and her face seemed full of questions. She began to ask about Hannah's behavior and what she had told us. It was awful to tell her how Hannah had been alone at home one day testing knives to see if they were sharp enough to take her life. We all cringed at the thought of not having her in our lives today.

We learned later that after we had gone back to class, Hannah had been called down to talk to her mother and her counselor. It turned out she was relieved and grateful that she didn't have to keep her secret any longer. She began counseling and has since gotten better. Since that day we are so grateful to see Hannah's smiling face, or even to simply be able to pass her a note in the hallway between classes.

If we had not taken that long, horrible walk to the counseling office, we may not have been able to share high-school memories with Hannah. I know now that when we took that walk, it gave us the ability to give her the greatest gift of all . . . her life.

Maggie McCarthy

8
LEARNING
DIFFICULT
LESSONS

E
xperience is a hard teacher because she
gives the test first, the lesson afterwards.

Vernon Saunders Law

What My Father Wore

What my father wore embarrassed me as a young man. I wanted him to dress like a doctor or lawyer, but on those muggy mornings when he rose before dawn to fry eggs for my mother and me, he always dressed like my father.

We lived in south Texas, and my father wore tattered jeans with the imprint of his pocketknife on the seat. He liked shirts that snapped more than those that buttoned, and kept his pencils, cigars, glasses, wrenches and screwdrivers in his breast pocket. My father's boots were government-issues with steel toes that made them difficult to pull off his feet, which I sometimes did when he returned from repairing air conditioners, his job that also shamed me.