Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (23 page)

In high school, my friends and I were on the gymnastics team, and our bodies became even more important to us. There would be no fat, no bulges, only muscle. We would do grueling repetitions of a variation of the sit-up called a jackknife. Hands behind your head, legs straight, you'd bend in the middle bringing your knees up to your face—brutal but effective.

On the weekends, we would go to the beach in our bikinis, proud of our washboard stomachs. We were strong, but we had to be in order to negotiate all the moves required of the parallel bars. We looked good and had the bodies we wanted. God forbid anything would interfere with that.

We had no tolerance for anyone who appeared different. We would be critical to the point of cruelty to others, and even to ourselves, if we strayed from the path.

One summer day, all my friends were at my house swimming. It was hot, and we were enjoying some time away from the sweltering gym. One of our favorite things was to take tumbling runs off the diving board.

At one point I was running from the patio back to the deck of the pool. In between was an expansive stretch of lawn. It was summer and bees and butterflies were all over the place. I felt myself step on something and instantly a hot burning sensation ran up my leg. I had stepped on a bee, and while it was dying under my foot it stung me.

My head started to whirl, and I instantly started to feel sick. That night, I began to run a high fever and my leg and foot were red, hot and swollen. My uncle, who is a doctor, came over and gave me a shot of adrenaline, some Benadryl and put me to bed. He said I would be fine in the morning—I think all doctors are required to say that.

The next day I felt a little better, but my leg and foot were very swollen. I couldn't walk; I could barely stand. When my foot started to go numb, everyone became more concerned. My foot was not getting good blood supply, and I had red striations running up my leg.

I had to go into the hospital, and my leg had to be in traction as if it were badly broken. I couldn't move or exercise, and all I could do was think about how soft my middle was becoming. That depressed me more than any concern over my leg.

That would all change when I heard the word “amputation” being used. Were they kidding? This was just a bee sting! Apparently, my foot was still not getting the blood supply it needed, and it was bluish in color. They would have to accelerate their course of treatment if I was to avoid surgery.

Never before did I have such great appreciation for my foot. And walking seemed like a gift from the gods. Less and less would I want to hear from my friends who were visiting to talk about gymnastics and who was wearing what. More and more I anticipated visits from other kids on the ward, who were quickly becoming my friends.

One girl came to visit me regularly. Every time she came, she brought flowers that she had picked from right outside my window. She knew that I couldn't go outside to enjoy them myself, or even stand next to my window to see them. She was in remission from leukemia and felt compelled to come back and encourage everyone on the ward. She still had no hair, and she was swollen and bloated from medications that she had been taking. I would not have given this girl a second glance before; I now loved every inch of her and looked forward to her visits.

Finally, I was improving, and soon thereafter I went home. I was on crutches, my leg was still swollen and my foot felt more like a useless piece of meat on the end of my leg, but I was walking, and I had my foot! That funny-looking, shriveled little thing at the end of my leg was my pride and joy. I had new appreciation for my legs, and even my thighs, which I had always looked at with disdain before.

When I would go back to the hospital for physical therapy, I often saw my friend. She was still visiting people and spreading good cheer. I thought if ever there was an angel on this Earth, it had to be her.

My perspective changed that summer. I had newfound appreciation for my body, my health and the struggles others have with theirs. Sure, I still wanted to look good, but it would never be with the same kind of obsessive snobbery.

Years later I learned that my friend from the hospital had died and I was very sad. But I knew that any time anyone would think about her, their hearts would still be uplifted. Mine always is. I only wish I knew where she was buried . . . I would bring her some fresh flowers that I would pick, from just outside my window.

Zan Gaudioso

It's Just the Way We Are

We hold on to things the tightest,
when we are forced to let them go—
We always want things a certain way,
when we know they can't be so.

Dreams always last the longest,
when they are furthest from our reach—
And the lessons we can learn the most from,
are often the very ones we teach.

The grass is always the greenest,
when it lies on the other side—
And the truths we preach to others,
are often those we can't abide.

We hold fast to the things in a storm,
which are most likely to blow away—
And yet we neglect to wear sunscreen,
on a bright and sunny day.

We spend our time trying to see things,
when perspective is one thing we lack—
And we never appreciate what we've got,
until we can't get it back.

We expect the whole world to give us a break,
and yet ironically we'll find—
That when others come asking the same of us,
we tell them they're out of their mind.

We tell everyone what's wrong with this world,
and we do nothing to make it right—
We complain about families falling apart,
and yet do nothing to keep them tight.

We preach about loving our neighbors,
and we teach children right from wrong—
But we never set good examples for them,
when real chances come along.

We complain about not having enough time in our lives,
to do what we must do—
Yet if we were given more hours in the day,
we'd use up all that, too.

We desire to be close to all those we love,
yet all too often look on from afar—
And when it comes to the truth do we want to change,
or remain forever as we are?

Kristy Glassen

My Greatest Teacher

D
o not think of your faults; still less of others'
faults. Look for what is good and strong and try
to imitate it. Your faults will drop off like dead
leaves when their time comes.

John Ruskin

It seems like a lifetime since I returned the hat, but it was only seven years ago. I returned it to Dave, who had taken it from a lost-and-found box at school.

It was a common plaid English cap, but for me, it was a special hat. I hid behind that hat for three years. It hid my pain. During the three years I wore that hat, I never took it off when there was another person in the room. Even now, I remember the agony, the pain, the self-hate—the isolation.

I wore the hat because of a hair transplant I got when I was twenty years old. A hair transplant is a lengthy process. Over the course of a year, I visited a plastic surgeon once a month. At each visit, he transplanted hair from one region of my scalp to another, which is a nice way of saying he drilled holes in my head and replaced the empty pits with hair grafts taken from other parts of my head.

“Before you know it,” he said, “the hair will be hanging in your eyes.” I clung desperately to that hope, which supported me until it slowly dissolved, leaving me alone with a self I hated.

Even now, it is hard for me to believe how far gone I was. I was “done,” as I sometimes say. I was like one of those clowns who has painted himself into a corner—I had nowhere to turn.

Day and night I walked around with that hat on, afraid to let people see me without it. I remember the absolute loneliness I felt while sitting in the plastic surgeon's office after he had drilled holes in my head. I could feel the drill against my head, hear and feel the tendons and skin ripping. I smelled the skin burning from the drill. I even felt the drill against my skull—when it would move no longer.

I gradually realized that the hair transplant wasn't working the way I thought it would.

I began to have fantasies about dying because I never thought I could be happy again. I didn't want to commit suicide, but each night when I went to bed, I prayed that my life would end. Sometimes I lay in bed wishing I were dead. I even imagined myself as a corpse, leaving the world and its troubles behind.

One day I found myself in a deep place. My sense of body or self had faded away. There was darkness all around, and I felt as though I barely existed. Gradually, I realized I wasn't alone: A presence was there in the darkness with me. I recognized that this presence was connected with God and that it was loving.

I expressed my suffering and lack of understanding to the presence because I wanted to know why I had to suffer so much. It assured me that
if I was honest and sincerely
tried,
it would show me.

After that experience, I started to come out of my depression. After three years, however, I still wore my hat.

In the summer heat, I wore the hat to hide my head, and since I thought a hat looked weird with a T-shirt, I wore a jacket. I thought my head would be less noticeable with a hat on it and the hat less noticeable with a jacket. I smoked a lot of marijuana in order to forget why I wore the jacket. One deception after another, designed to hide from myself.

After three years, I knew it was time to stop wearing my hat. I began to go for walks at night without my hat. In the darkness, no one could see me, and I could gradually learn to feel comfortable without it. Feeling the night breeze on my head was a new sensation. I felt elated and scared at the same time. I felt I was alive again.

Last year at my nephew's high-school graduation party, I remembered my high-school graduation party. There was a picture taken of me with my two best friends. Afterward, we told everyone about the law firm we would have someday. It would be called Elliott, Zachary and Harrington.

Although we were best friends, we were always competitive with each other. Because of that, I felt I could never let my guard down or show them my vulnerable side. I couldn't bear to let them see me after I flunked out of college and started losing my hair. I thought people liked me because of the image I presented. Now, I was depressed and insecure. The image was shattered. Since I didn't have it all together, I thought they would laugh at me.

So I moved away and didn't answer their phone calls. When they came over, I didn't answer the door. When my best friend, Ted, finally came over, I told him I didn't want to see him anymore.

“Bill,” he pleaded, “what's wrong? Are you depressed?”

“I just don't want to see you anymore,” I replied without looking at him. I never saw him again.

That night at my nephew's graduation party, I felt it was time to see Ted. After all this time, I could explain to him what had happened.

I hesitated. What if he were a rich and successful lawyer with a beautiful wife, big house and Mercedes? Could I handle that? After all, I lived in a mobile home. What if he saw I wasn't the hotshot anymore? Maybe
he
was the hotshot now. Even though the hat was gone, I realized I was still hiding.

I called the only Zachary in the phone book. It was his sister. “Hi,” I said. “I'm an old friend of Ted's.”

“I don't know where he is,” she replied. “You know about the trouble?”

“Trouble?” I asked. “What trouble?”

“He started having problems his second year in college . . .”

I hung up, and the terror made its way from my stomach to my throat. Although it was after eleven o'clock at night, I jumped in the car and drove to the house where he grew up.

Ted's mother explained about Ted. He had been diagnosed as a schizophrenic his sophomore year in college— six months after I had refused to see him anymore. He was in and out of hospitals during the time I had been wearing my hat.

That night when I got home I called Ted at the institution. “Ted, this is Bill Elliott.”

“Yes,” he said very matter-of-factly. After all those years, I expected more recognition or surprise in his voice.

“Bill Elliott,” I continued. “I was your best friend in high school.”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Do you remember me? I smashed up your dad's car. Remember?”

“Yes. You were known as ‘tenacious,'” he said. “I have to go now.” It was the voice of a robot. It was the same voice that Ted joked with in high school, but now he wasn't joking.

Ted had been a good student and athlete. While I had always just tried to get by, Ted had tried to excel.

“What happened at school, Ted?” I asked.

“I didn't finish.” Although his tone of voice hadn't changed, I could sense his shame.

“Are you married?” he asked.

“No.”

“Are you in trouble?” he asked, concerned.

“No,” I said, remembering all I had been through. “Not anymore.” I could feel his relief. Here he was, in a mental institution, and he was worried about me.