A Grandparent's Gift of Love

by Edward Fays

  The men pulled Richie outside so they could smoke a celebratory cigar and the ladies in the family talked about all the wonderful baby outfits that were available.

  Before too long we were escorted down the hall to see the baby resting snugly in her crib. He was right: She was a miracle. Even some of the rugged men in our family couldn’t fight back the tears. When I poked fun at them they laughed and turned away. The doctor said Keri would be in the hospital for a couple of days before she and Amy, my new granddaughter, could go home.

  The two days flashed by as we prepared for Amy’s arrival. The house was decorated in pink and white balloons and ribbons. Our neighbors were bursting with anticipation and kept asking when they were due home. Many of them had seen Keri grow up and now that she was having a child, they felt like they were becoming grandparents, too.

  Shortly before it was time to leave, while the whole family gathered at the hospital to accompany Keri and Amy home, the doctor came with some disturbing news. They needed to run some tests. A joyous occasion turned into a frantic need for answers and a hush fell over everyone before they besieged the doctor with questions.

  After three tormenting days, the doctor arrived at a devastating conclusion: Amy had severe birth defects. As he dropped the news I felt like collapsing under the weight of his words. My family and I were in utter disbelief. And then I thought of my daughter. What could she possibly be feeling? I dashed through the hallway weaving through the gurneys parked along the wall and shelves stacked high with medical supplies. My shoes skidded abruptly as I reached her door. My heart raced in my chest as I cautiously pushed open the door and saw Keri and Richie hugging their little daughter and each other. All three of them were crying.

  Keri gazed up at me and said, “I’m scared, Mom.”

  We met in the middle of the room where I gave her an all-consuming embrace—the kind of hug where I wanted to squeeze out all the fear and pain and leave only the goodness behind. The high-pitched cry of my new granddaughter interrupted us, and Keri went back to hold her baby.

  I stood staring at them, feeling numb and helpless. All I wanted was to take the sadness and fear in their hearts, bottle it up, and bury it in the ground forever. But I knew I couldn’t do that, so I cried, too. I wrapped my arms around all three of them and buried my head along with theirs.

  A moment later I looked up and saw my daughter staring at the cross hanging on the wall above the hospital bed. The tears were trickling down her face but she possessed an aura of peacefulness she didn’t have a minute ago.

  It’s been seven years since that day. As a family, we have experienced many wonderful and painful moments. Amy has grown, but remains dependent on her parents for nearly everything. There were no first words or first steps to celebrate. Instead, we rejoice when she recognizes someone’s voice or a musical tune. You see, Amy is completely blind and deaf in one ear, so we work hard helping her distinguish sounds.

  My daughter and I don’t talk about the day in the hospital too often, but recently, when we escaped for some quiet time together, it came up. I asked about the serenity she exuded as we sat there holding each other that day, so long ago. She took my hand, peered into my eyes, and said, “Mom, on that day at that moment in time, God talked with me. When I looked up at that cross I was removed from everything. I realized God plans things for us that we don’t expect or want, but there is a purpose for it. We just have to go on faith. That’s the feeling that came over me. A profound faith that God blessed us with Amy because He felt that we could care for her. Special babies like Amy are born every day, and God chose us to be her family. On that day, at that moment in time, I didn’t feel sadness, I felt blessed.”

  Inspired by CLARE TALIA

  Eight Ingredients for a Wonderful Day

  What’s taking so long … My flight leaves in twenty minutes! … Come on already!”

  These were just a few of the remarks one man was boisterously making while in line at the Miami International Airport. I was standing two people behind him.

  He glanced around as he voiced his feelings, hoping to see others nodding their heads in agreement. The line was long and everyone was anxious to get checked in, but no one said anything. Exasperated, the man said to the gentleman standing in front of me, “Isn’t this ridiculous? We’ve been standing in this line for almost an hour.”

  The gentleman was chatting with his daughter, but paused for a second, looked at the man, and sarcastically said, “It’s terrible, isn’t it? They have some nerve actually making us wait.”

  The man was too absorbed in his own frustration to notice the gentleman’s chiding tone and said, “You’re absolutely right. I have a good mind to fly a different airline next time.”

  Ten minutes later the disgruntled man finally got his turn and approached the ticket counter. The gentleman and his daughter chuckled to each other, and that’s when I heard him say, “Sweetie, those bits of advice on attitude my grandfather gave me when I was a kid still come in handy today:

  Smile, because you can’t feel anything but happy when you’re smiling.

  Offer people compliments whenever you get the chance because it’s a nice gesture and you never know how they can help you.

  Always keep one or two jokes handy just in case you need to make someone laugh.

  Look for something beautiful no matter where you are because often the best things in life need to be discovered.

  Shrug off minor inconveniences because if you don’t they’ll only turn into major ones and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.

  Think of at least one reason why today is special because it will make you appreciate the good days even more and help you get through the bad ones.

  Turn up the radio and sing one of your favorite songs just because it’s a lot of fun.

  Judge someone else by looking for only the positive about them because even if you never tell them what you found, you’ll feel better about yourself.

  “I’ve always listened to my grandfather’s advice, and although it hasn’t worked for me every day, looking back so far I can honestly say it has served me well.”

  With that, the gentleman smiled, strolled up to the clerk at the ticket counter, and made her laugh. An hour later as I boarded my flight I saw that gentleman and his daughter lounging in first class, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d paid for those seats … or if his grandfathers advice had gotten him there.

  Inspired by a stranger at the airport

  She Had It All

  Who’s your friend, he’s cute,” she would say with a playful smile. It was a question she asked often, and I always called my friend over and introduced him to my grandmother. She loved men, especially young ones. Her spunky attitude and candid talk about sex and relationships caught people by surprise. Her dynamic sense of humor made her the life of the party. Everyone wanted to crowd into her spotlight.

  At seventy-five she was diagnosed with breast cancer. Despite the ordeal of having her right breast removed, she maintained a superb sense of humor. “I’ve been trying to lose weight for years and this is the first thing that actually worked,” she said gleefully.

  “I enjoy the simple things in life,” she says. “Hugs, kisses from my grandchildren, and any type of Entenmann’s cake. I have a sixth-grade education and spent my working years on my feet. I never traveled or learned to drive a car. My home is special not because of its elegance but for the memories it holds. I’ve had a good life, married a caring man, and raised a loving family. God has blessed me.”

  My grandmother’s sense of humor is genuine, that I knew for sure, but I couldn’t help but wonder if she felt like she’d missed out on a few things. Seeing the world, wearing nicer clothes, being able to afford some of life’s luxuries. I got my answer the day I bought a rose and gave it to her while she sat before the mirror, fixing her hair. “I just wanted to let you know I love you,” I said. Tears welled up in her eyes. She planted a kiss on my cheek and reached into a white bank
envelope on the table and slid out a crisp twenty-dollar bill. “Take this,” she said with a grateful look in her eyes.

  “But Grandma, I didn’t buy you a rose for you to give me money,” I said. “I bought you the rose because I love you.”

  “I know that, honey,” she replied, “this is just your tip for bringing me so much happiness.”

  Inspired by MARY COLUCCI

  Kindred Spirits

  I will never forget the day Johnny Sugarman came to occupy the vacant bed next to mine in room 314 of North Point Hospital. I had been laid up there for more than a month. My bones ached, even when I rolled over. Getting up to use the bathroom turned into a team effort with the help of a nurse and sometimes an orderly. It was embarrassing, not to mention downright frustrating.

  So when a spunky little kid was given the bed next to mine, I had no interest in making friendly conversation. I assumed he was there for a tonsillectomy and would be packing his bags for home the next day.

  I was incredibly bored. My only visitors were the doctors or nurses making their rounds, and I spent most days thinking of the past. I’d look at my hands that were once so strong, but were now weak and fragile. Sharing my room with a young boy didn’t help. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen and had his whole life ahead of him.

  His parents visited each day. They seemed like nice people and always said hello to me. I’d nod in their direction, but was uninterested in small talk. Johnny’s friends also came by often, but at night, after visiting hours ended, it was just the three of us—Johnny, me, and the uncomfortable silence engulfing us. He tried initiating contact but I wasn’t interested. A young kid couldn’t fathom what I was experiencing. In a week he’d be gallivanting with friends and I couldn’t help feeling envious of what he possessed and what I so desperately desired … time.

  Johnny was in the hospital about five days when family and friends crammed the room in honor of his birthday. He even attracted the attention of the doctors and nurses. Everyone seemed drawn to this charismatic little boy—everyone except me. As I lay there listening to his animated personality and his witty jokes, I began feeling embarrassed about my behavior. Here I am alone and he has a duster of adoring fans hanging on his every word, I thought. So I started laughing at his jokes, hoping someone would notice and include me in the festivities. Johnny’s dad came over and, for the second time, asked if I’d like to indulge in a slice of birthday cake. This time I accepted, admitting it would be a welcome change from the hospital Jell-O. We talked, and I asked when Johnny would be going home. His happy face turned sour, as he whispered that Johnny would never be released and that his son would live out the rest of his days in that hospital bed.

  I lay there dumbfounded. I had assumed the boy was in for a simple procedure and couldn’t have been more wrong. Johnny had leukemia. Even though he preferred being home, staying at the hospital afforded him a little more time. Johnny felt special memories can be created anywhere and that home was where the family is. Now the hospital was his home.

  After an endless procession of hugs and kisses, the party ended, everyone left, and once again we were alone. Johnny was silent. Perhaps he was thinking about the party, knowing it would probably be his last birthday. The envy I once harbored for this boy turned to anger. I was angry with myself for being so wrong, so selfish. At thirteen Johnny knew what I was feeling, but I could never comprehend his situation. During the summer of my thirteenth year I was fishing with my father and playing baseball with the neighborhood kids. I glanced over at Johnny, lying there with his eyes closed, and I realized that in his thirteen years he knew some things about life that I had yet to learn at eighty-seven. I had always regretted never getting married and starting a family, but never more than during those moments of lonely silence in the hospital room that night.

  Suddenly I heard a whimper, which opened the gates to uncontrollable sobbing. And then I blurted out something I should have said the first night I met him: “Would you like to talk?” It was something I should have said to many people throughout the years.

  His crying stopped, and as he wiped the tears from his face he said, “Really, Mr. Connor?”

  “Johnny,” I said, “please, call me Larry.” So lying in our beds, our eyes staring at the ceiling, we floated through different topics, starting with how we each found the hospital food repulsive to more serious matters like life and better days.

  He asked me questions that rekindled thoughts of my early years. I asked him about school and the pretty girls in his class. Over the next few weeks, when the lights were out and stillness filled the air, we enjoyed midnight chat sessions. The youthful spirit of this boy gave me strength. I’d been a bachelor all my life and never experienced the joy of children. Johnny said his grandparents had passed away when he was a baby, and he’d missed out on building a relationship with them.

  So that was our routine, lying there in the darkness and talking and laughing until we both drifted to sleep. Lengthy hospital stays consist of routine and more routine. Eventually I came to feel a sense of responsibility for Johnny, and I think he felt one for me. He had the loving support of his family but we were facing the same fate—and that is a powerful factor in uniting two people.

  I hoped things would go on like that for a while, but nothing lasts forever. Johnny died in his sleep one morning. At least he died peacefully—his spirit flying up to heaven, remaining forever young and brave. I leaned over to touch his hand—a symbol of good-bye—and there, crumpled in his left hand, was a piece of paper. It eloquently said,

  Please let my family know that I love them and that the memories I shared with them over my thirteen years will be with me always.

  I held the note in my hands and wept a sea of tears. His lifeless body was resting comfortably. That’s when I noticed a pencil lying on top of his blanket and couldn’t help but wonder, Did he write this note just before he died? Did he decide that it was his time to go? I guess he was tired of being in this hospital bed and longed to be a normal thirteen-year-old. There is no sickness in heaven, so he headed for his final destination, a place where he can be free to run, jump, and leave his earthly worries and fears behind. I understand, my young friend, and I’ll see you soon. I know I’ll see you soon.

  Inspired by KEVIN CONNOR

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  UNDERSTANDING OTHERS

  Learning to open our hearts and notice the differences in others with genuine admiration and acceptance

  We share the world with people who look different from us in every way. They speak a different language, dress differently, like different foods, and have different ambitions than we do. Is that wrong? The penetrating insights and wide-ranging viewpoints contained in these stories shed light on the similarities common to everyone and enable us to be more accepting of all the people with whom we share the world.

  Feelings Unknown

  I was thirteen when my grandmother died. To be honest, I wasn’t that sad to see her go. I know that sounds cruel, but we didn’t have a close relationship. At the time I was a typical thirteen-year-old, self-centered and interested only in spending time with my friends. I felt like my grandma and I were from different worlds. Mine was unfolding and hers was ancient history.

  A few days after the funeral, her personal effects were packed in boxes, most of which were stored in the attic of my parents’ house. It wasn’t long before those boxes and my grandmother herself were a faint memory. I was preparing for high school and battling with an identity crisis—at least that’s how I felt at the time. I was invariably thinking about the present or the future—never giving a thought to the past.

  Time slipped by and I was about to enter my junior year in college. That summer I came home to do an internship at an advertising agency. I was assisting on a campaign for a product targeting senior citizens. I admitted knowing nothing about seniors, so my boss suggested I talk to my grandparents. I remembered the boxes that I’d helped store in the attic seven years earlier and
thought going through them might be the next best thing. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  I found a stack of Grandma’s belongings behind a giant box of Christmas ornaments. My last time in the attic was the day I’d helped store those boxes. The distinct attic smell, like a place that time had forgotten, reminded me of that afternoon. Sifting through the boxes, I stumbled upon some old photos and knickknacks no one wanted. And then I unearthed a book titled Grandma’s Diary. I knew a person’s diary was typically off-limits, but I hoped it would give me some insight into what seniors were all about. As it turned out, it exposed me to a world of feelings I never knew existed.

  The cover was dusty and frayed and the binding creaked as I carefully folded back the cover, revealing the words:

  Written with love for: Mary Ann Bontonovich By: Henrietta Bontonovich

  It was a diary my grandmother had kept about our relationship together. I didn’t think we had a relationship, but her writings told a different story. She began the journal the day I was born and described in detail her feelings when she saw me and held me for the first time.

  There were at least six babies in the ward that morning, but my eyes gravitated to the angel with the soft gold locks. I knew she was my granddaughter. She was so helpless and yet so beautiful I couldn’t stop smiling and had no intention of stopping. When I held her for the first time, my left hand sustaining her fragile head and my right cupping her tender bottom, I was so proud. For me it was a perfect moment in time.

  Reading through the diary was like taking a nostalgic stroll through my childhood. Memories that had slipped away from me were written about in vivid detail. Boating at the lake with my father during his only week of vacation. I never knew my grandma watched us from the shoreline and captured her feelings on paper. The words she used to describe our card games demonstrated that for her it was a splendid occasion. I often lost on purpose to end the game so I could go visit my friends. Through her words I saw how much she loved me. Painfully, I came to realize how much I had misjudged her. As I leafed through the last few withered pages I read how she’d wished we had a closer relationship and how much it hurt that I didn’t call more often. She’d hoped to tell me about my family history and the grandfather I’d never met. Her final entry chronicled the time my parents went to visit her but, after much pleading, let me visit a friend instead. I can’t remember what friend I saw that day, but I certainly disappointed my grandma by not showing up at her home.