A Grandparent's Gift of Love

by Edward Fays

  “I know I’m a few thousand miles away, but is there anything I can do for you, Gram?”

  “Just think of me honey,” she said. “When I know you’re thinking of me it makes things easier. I’m sorry I talk so slow. The vocal cord on my left side doesn’t work anymore so it’s hard to speak. I went to the beauty parlor today, though, got my hands and feet done. That was a nice treat.

  “Edward,” she said, “don’t feel sad for me. This is my time to be eighty years old but that’s just my body. My mind is much younger—twenty-four, I like to think. That’s when I married your grandpa, one of the happiest times in my life. I remember being young and seeing people the age that I am now. It seemed like another world, one I would never reach—but here I am. Many of the things I once had are gone now. Getting to this place in life meant I had to give up what I once possessed, my youth. But in return I have lived a full life, and if any of us could have one wish when we are born I’d say that would be it—to live a satisfying, happy life. I’ve got to go now, it’s time for me to do my exercises. Okay? I love you.”

  “I love you, Gram. I’ll see you soon.” Hanging u, I slouched back in my chair and stared at the man in the window. I’ve noticed a few signs of aging on him lately. A couple of gray hairs on his temples that he hastily plucks out and his skin, not as tight as it used to be. He blinks when I blink, mirrors my every move. It’s like looking at a stranger sometimes, when I stare at myself. The subtle signs of aging often catch me by surprise. The first gray hair, a tiny wrinkle—This can’t be me, I think, but it is me, experiencing life’s stages. I’m only thirty-four and have begun identifying the trade-off Gram had spoken about. I was in better shape at twenty-four, but looking back on the laundry list of mistakes I’ve made in the past ten years makes me realize that a few gray hairs and a couple of extra pounds are a worthwhile exchange for the wisdom I have gained. By my eightieth birthday I should be awfully smart—but what makes me gasp is thinking of all the mistakes I’ll make over the next fifty years. I’d better give Gram another call tomorrow. Maybe she can’t do forty-five minutes at level seven on the StairMaster, and maybe she talks slow these days, but she can tell me about life and some of what I may encounter over the next half century. And in that way she is vastly superior to me.

  Inspired by MARY COLUCCI

  Puddle Jumping

  Driving west on Bay Street in San Francisco toward the Golden Gate Bridge offers one of the most sumptuous views in the United States. To the right lies the icy cobalt water of the bay, with the cell block of Alcatraz perched atop a rocky foundation. Angel Island, a lush uninhabited retreat that is a preferred locale for hikers and picnickers, looms large in the distance. Ahead are the Marin Headlands—the rolling mountains that ascend above the west side of the Golden Gate Bridge and are the last bastion of solid ground before the vast Pacific.

  It’s a sight I’ve seen hundreds of times, and it never ceases to captivate me. But today, while rolling down Bay Street, my eyes were diverted from one form of natural beauty to another. It had rained that morning, and although the sun now cast a tepid glow over San Francisco, there were still plenty of puddles lingering on the street. While waiting for the light to turn green, I spied a woman wearing a thick blue sweater, black pants, and walking shoes. She was propelling an ivory-colored baby carriage. Marching alongside her and holding on to the carriage with his right hand was a little blond short-haired boy bundled up in a red jacket and black boots.

  They were approaching a dip in the sidewalk where a puddle had formed, and the woman put her hand on the boy’s shoulder as she steered the carriage to the right. Abruptly, the boy ducked out from under her hand and, with his head hung low, stomped through that puddle flat footed in a gallant attempt to splatter as much water as he could with each step. It was pure innocence, and I couldn’t keep from smiling.

  When the light flashed green I stepped on the gas and watched that little boy shrink away in my rearview mirror. I couldn’t help but think that children often have the best attitudes. As adults, why don’t we jump in a puddle when we’re in a bad mood? If we did it with a carefree attitude, like a child, it would change everything.

  The blond boy who stomped affably through that puddle reminded me of C. J., another little blond-haired boy who has faced things head-on and whose courageous attitude paints a smile on people’s faces. At six years old, C. J. was battling leukemia. I learned of this courageous boy from Nancy, C. J.’s devoted nurse and someone he came to see as a surrogate grandma.

  The wonder of children is that they are unaware of the impossible. For many of us, getting leukemia would be a death sentence. For C. J. and other kids his age who lived on the floor of the children’s cancer ward, it was a fight they didn’t know they could lose. Nancy describes the environment:

  The floors are cold and the distinct hospital smell, a dreary odor in anybody’s opinion, permeated the air—but the staff made every attempt to create an animated environment where children can feel normal, even though they are faced with a very abnormal and frightening disease. The walls are decorated with crayon sketches, and pictures of former child residents are posted in a glass display case in the main hallway. A towering stack of children’s movies is available in the playroom; dispersed on the rainbow-checkered carpet are toys, dolls, air-filled chairs, handheld video games, and building blocks.

  C. J., like most of the children there, was forced to wheel an IV pole with the bag of solution dangling from above. He knew what time I arrived each day, and if he wasn’t getting his treatments he’d wait for me in the hallway and run when he saw me enter the double doors at the far end of the corridor. It took all my might to hold back the tears as he clumsily hurried toward me, wheeling his IV pole behind him.

  C. J.’s favorite movie was The Lion King; we watched it every day. We’d plop down in an overstuffed chair cuddled up together with his head tucked snugly under my chin. “This is my favorite part,” he would say just before quoting a line from the movie, word for word, with his best character impersonations.

  When he laughed, I wanted to cry. When he gazed up at me with his cheerful blue eyes and little pug nose, I smiled and kissed his forehead. And when the harrowing sounds of a child screaming infiltrated our peaceful space, I turned up the volume of the movie.

  “Nurse Nancy,” he often said to me, “I’m going to get better. I promise you, I’m going to get better.” I wondered where he got the strength.

  I often found myself standing at the entrance to the playroom watching a dozen bald-headed kids with sunken cheeks and blotted skin play and cackle together as if they didn’t have a care or a worry in the world. Standing there I wondered, Where do these children find their faith? And then I realized it was because they are children, fortunate enough not to know their limitations. For some of them, that ignorance will save their lives.

  Nancy wasn’t just a surrogate grandma for C. J.; she was a part of his family. His parents looked to her for strength and support. She would accompany them to the chapel, where they prayed together for C. J.’s complete recovery.

  Tender love and prayers seem to have worked their magic. As of this writing, C. J.’s cancer has gone into remission. His hair has grown back, black and curly, and for now his prognosis is a good one. When the doctor announced the good news C. J. looked up and confidently declared, “Nurse Nancy, I told you I would get better. I made you a promise and I don’t break my promises.”

  A few days later C. J. left the hospital. Nancy drove the wheelchair, parking it on the sun-drenched sidewalk outside the hospital’s main entrance. She wished the family well and promised to remain close, but she knew that for now her job was becoming a surrogate grandma for another child who needed support and whose family had so many frightening questions that needed to be answered.

  The IV pole that C. J. had wheeled everywhere stood stoically in a corner with an empty bag hanging from the hook and the tube dangling a few feet above the ground. Sadly, within days a needle
would be inserted into the end of that tube and another young boy or girl would be wheeling it around.

  Children haven’t learned of their weaknesses yet, so they remain pillars of strength. As adults, we are often so aware of our weaknesses that our strength is inhibited. As adults, we know too much about ourselves, so maybe the best we can do is merrily flail through a puddle on the sidewalk and relish the feeling of immaturity for a moment. It’s okay to behave like a child sometimes. Kids are the most courageous and loving people in the world.

  Inspired by NANCY FOSTER

  A Search for Happiness

  The disease almost killed me. If it hadn’t been for the support of my loving family, it would have surely been my demise. Some days I felt good and eager to fight; other days I just wanted to throw up my hands and surrender.

  My mother had had it, and so did a few other people in my extended family. I remember being young and seeing the effect it had on them. But I never dreamed the same thing would happen to me. I didn’t understand how it could. I took good care of myself mentally and physically, so how could it creep up on me? But it did. I didn’t realize I had a problem until I was forced to look at the obvious. Like many people, I didn’t want to admit this was happening, afraid of what I would lose if I tried to treat it and scared of what I would sacrifice if I simply ignored it.

  Finally I could no longer deny it. I needed help—professional help. I was referred to experts in the field and met with others who’d lived through the same ordeal. At first we were strangers united by a common bond, but over time they became my friends. They helped me find within myself the courage to fight. They made me realize that hope for the future was the most important thing, and that if I didn’t take the necessary steps to remedy my problem, all would be lost.

  With the backing of my family and new friends, I took the necessary steps. I’m fifty-six years old and have been a recovered alcoholic for three years. Today I am blessed with a baby grandchild. I used to look for happiness in a bottle. I finally found it. These days the most precious moments for me are holding a bottle of formula for my granddaughter, Carly, at dinnertime.

  Inspired by JOSEPH SANTOS

  This One Day

  This was her day. She radiated in her glimmering white gown, and everyone was vying for just a twinkling of her attention. She’d married the man of her dreams, and her closest friends and family members were there to join in the celebration. Like an angel, she danced the night away, and when she spoke people hung on her every word.

  But there was one person her sparkling blue eyes returned to again and again—the one who spent the entire evening with a bashful smile beaming across his face. He sat at the number one table watching her, the memories spinning through his mind. He remembered the days when she was a baby, and he had cuddled her in his arms. He reflected on the times when she was a little girl and skinned her knee, and how he’d kissed it and made it all better. He reminisced about her teenage years when their relationship was strained because she wanted to spend time with her friends. And he thought about how, when those years had passed their relationship had flourished again. He was her grandpa.

  And now she was dancing in front of him, a full-grown woman embarking on a magnificent new experience. As she spun barefoot on the dance floor, her eyes passed him sitting at the table. With each twirl, she waved and smiled.

  A moment later, glistening and slightly out of breath, she took the seat next to him and laced her fingers into his.

  They looked deeply into each other’s eyes. Only the two of them fully understood the significance of that moment. “Do you think they see us?” she asked with childlike anticipation.

  “Somehow I think they’re here with us,” her grandpa said with a smile. “Don’t you feel the awesome presence of love in this room?”

  “Yes, I do, Grandpa.”

  He whispered in her ear, “Well, then, that’s how you know they’re here. This is your day and they wouldn’t miss it for anything in the world.”

  She kissed her grandpa delicately on the cheek and whispered “I love you” in his ear. Then, with a bridesmaid on either side, she promenaded back to the festivities on the dance floor. Grandpa smiled sadly and reminisced about that part of their history.

  She had been spending the weekend at his house while her mom and dad escaped to the seclusion and comfort of a bed-and-breakfast nestled deep in the Blue Ridge Mountains. On the drive home after a sun-drenched weekend, the rain began to fall lightly, casting a thin sheen of water on the roadway. The two-lane mountain road they were traveling on grew slick; a truck barreling the other way lost traction and careened across the double yellow line, hitting them head-on. Her father was killed instantly, and her mom died in the life flight helicopter en route to the hospital.

  Grandpa’s house turned into her permanent new home. She was six years old. Grandpa was there to support her, and she became a pillar for him to lean on, too. Together they helped each other cope with the catastrophic loss of their family. She had lost her mom and dad, and he’d lost a son and a daughter-in-law.

  Over the years the anniversary of that tragic day took on a special significance. Each year they traveled to the scene of the accident and planted fresh flowers. Afterward they’d visit the cemetery to pray and talk with the family they had lost. During the first few years it was a sad, very painful tradition, but as their emptiness diminished and their love for each other grew stronger, it took on a different meaning. Instead of crying and reminiscing about the times they’d missed, they came to feel it was the one day of the year all four of them could be together.

  So when this young girl grew up and met the man of her dreams, there was only one day of the year she could get married—the day she knew her parents would be there. That afternoon, as her grandpa walked her down the aisle and more than two hundred pairs of radiant eyes studied their every move, only the two of them could understand the true significance of that day and that moment in time. For there, among all those friends and loved ones, were the presence and love of her parents. The tragic anniversary date of their death became the one day of the year when all four of them could be together, and so it became her wedding day.

  Inspired by VERONICA WHITE

  Strength of Spirit

  What if you could never get out of the seat you’re lounging in right now? How would you feel if the bones and muscles in your feet and legs never supported your body weight again? What would it be like to lie in bed glaring at the lifeless stems extending from your hip sockets and terminating at the tips of your toes?

  Those are the questions I pondered the first time I saw Shane Gailey midway between two stainless-steel parallel bars, cautiously letting the weight shift from his arms to his atrophied legs and feet dangling an inch above the floor. He flexed his arms, inching his body lower until the cold rubber mat kissed his toes, signaling the boundary line. The strength in his arms was assured, but he felt that his legs would buckle with just an ounce of pressure applied to them.

  I watched his face grimace as his body weight exhausted his arm muscles. After a few seconds, the therapist rescued him from that rickety position and eased him back into the wheelchair. After catching his breath, Shane rolled through the parallel bars and swung a hard left at the far end. That’s when he saw me standing in the doorway.

  “Alex,” he said, “I didn’t know you were here. But now that you are, I’m gonna make you an offer you can’t refuse. How about taking me to lunch in the cafeteria? The food is terrible, the prices are too high, and the place has a funky smell. Whad-dya say?”

  I laughed and said, “Now that is an offer I can’t refuse.” Shane’s favorite movie was The Godfather, and he quoted it often.

  I offered to wheel him to the elevator but he insisted on maintaining his independence. “My legs are like string beans so I’ve got to keep my arms muscular,” he said jokingly. I forced a laugh, hoping it would keep me from crying. Shane had been my dearest friend since we’d fought over
a Tonka truck in the first grade and our teacher forced us to share it.

  While boarding the elevator, Shane’s therapist came running over, her arms flailing and a manila folder braced in her right hand. “Shane, you need to sign off on this,” she said, drawing out the a in his name.

  As she explained the form, I thought about the day of Shane’s accident. He was helping his uncle move an armoire. They got it into the hallway and were sliding it on a blanket across the slate floor when Shane’s uncle went to answer the telephone. Shane decided to surprise his uncle by pulling the armoire onto the elevator himself. When he heard the familiar ding signaling that the elevator had arrived on his floor, he stepped back—and tumbled three stories down to the basement. An electrical malfunction had caused the doors to open when the elevator car was on a different floor. Ironically, there I was holding the elevator door open as Shane signed off on some paperwork.

  A few minutes later Shane and I arrived in the cafeteria for some bad food and good conversation. His sprightly disposition amazed me. I had other friends who were irritable when it rained or when the pizza delivery guy was ten minutes late. Shane couldn’t walk and he still maintained a positive attitude. That day, over dry roast beef sandwiches and lukewarm iced tea, he told me where he’d acquired such a heroic outlook on life.

  “Right after the accident I was devastated. I’d spend days writing out lists of all the things I’d forfeited to fate,” he said. “I felt trapped in cement boots … as if the world was zipping past me and I was reaching out trying to latch on with my fingertips, but was left behind. I’d lie in bed at night hyperventilating as my heart raced from the panic-stricken realization that everything I cared about was gone.