I was beyond disappointment. Part of me felt like chucking it all. Make-a-Difference Day? Hummphh. Apparently, nothing made a difference. But I kept working at the arrangements anyway — halfheartedly.
A week later, I ran into Rick at the weekly meeting I sponsor in the prison. I was both happy and sad to see him. I greeted him with my standard big hug, and I told him how I felt.
“I was so sure you had made it! I was certain you were a success! What happened? I’m so disappointed.”
Rick’s answer surprised me: “But Tom, I am a success. In forty-four years, this is the longest time I have ever been out of jail. I was responsible! I paid my electric bills and phone bills — for two years! I have been clean, drug-free and sober for all this time. I did a stupid thing, yes. But that is nowhere near as stupid as the stuff I used to do. And I’m only sentenced to four months for a parole violation. Me? I can still walk with my head held high. I am a success.”
I’m not ashamed to tell you that the next thing he said brought tears to my eyes. “Please don’t be disappointed — so much of my success is because of you! The way you always showed up, week after week, and helped us put this program together. The way you always greeted me with a smile and genuine concern about how I was doing. The way you believed in me even when I couldn’t believe in myself. Maybe those couple of hours every week weren’t such a big deal to you, but to me, they were everything.”
He was right. He was a success. He was a success because he saw himself as one. Rick had changed.
The funny thing was, now that Rick was back inside the walls, I didn’t need any special permission to make him a speaker at the Make-a-Difference Day program. Maybe his parole violation actually served a greater purpose, after all. And as I listened to him, the truth dawned on me: Rick didn’t need to wait the four months of his sentence to regain his freedom. His perception of himself had already set him free.
~Tom Lagana
Fearing the Scar
Now my belly is as noble as my heart.
~Gabriela Mistral
I was pregnant with twin girls. My first pregnancy had ended in a miscarriage, so I was very apprehensive.
As the pregnancy progressed, my doctor brought up the fact that the practice preferred to deliver twins by C-section due to the possible complications that could arise from giving birth twice in a row. Naturally, I would do what it took to give my daughters the best possible chance at a healthy birth. But I was very worried about the C-section, and especially about the scar.
I was blessed with a wonderful husband who had seen past my insecurities and self-esteem issues surrounding my weight for fourteen years. Michael had always loved me for who I was and thought I was beautiful. However, would he feel the same after I had a large scar?
Someone (unfortunately I don’t remember who) gave me Chicken Soup for the New Mom’s Soul and I devoured it! I loved reading all the stories of women who had faced hardships, uncertainties and even humor during their own crazy pregnancies.
Then I found the story “Because He Loved Me” by Ginger LeBlanc. It spoke to my exact fears and described my exact feelings. I was reading my own story! As she described how her husband reacted to her after a C-section, my body shook as I sobbed. Michael read it. I confessed my fears to him. While he tried to reassure me, I couldn’t shake the fear.
Before dawn on the morning before Mother’s Day, at thirty-six weeks pregnant, my water broke. We knew that one of the girls was sitting in the breach position, so there was no way to avoid a C-section. When the doctor at the hospital confirmed that was the only option, I hesitated and looked helplessly at Michael. The doctor followed my gaze and asked him, “Do you want to take none of your girls home . . . or all three?”
“All three, of course,” he replied.
“Then we need to do a C-section. Now.”
And off we went.
On Monday I was told I could finally shower. This was the moment I had been dreading — the moment of truth. I shuffled to the bathroom while he pulled the girls’ cradles to the bathroom door so we could hear their tiny cries if they woke up. Slowly, Michael helped me bathe while telling me how beautiful I was and how much he loved me. He named specific things he loved about me, both in my physical appearance and in my personality, and thanked me for each little thing he could think of that I did to care for him and our adopted son. Finally, he addressed the real issue: “And your incision is beautiful because you worked so hard to care for our daughters.”
I sobbed. But it gave me a new perspective on my incision and what it represented. It was not a grotesque disfiguration, but a sign of love and life. Ginger LeBlanc’s story had given my husband guidance on how to encourage me in what he knew would be an unbelievably emotional time. She helped us prepare for something the mommy-to-be books don’t address. I am everlastingly grateful.
~Aletheia D. Lee
Because He Loved Me
If I know what love is, it is because of you.
~Herman Hesse
Jude had been out of my body for two days. He lay in his little clear plastic “case” next to me, sleeping mostly. I’d often slip my finger into his soft, tiny hand and stare at him when I wasn’t entertaining all the visitors we had.
And yet, the crushing bubble was already welling up inside me, the bubble that would burst soon after I came home. I could feel the pressure of emotions filling up my rib cage. It wasn’t just that I felt so fat and so exposed; I felt incapable. I felt more overwhelmed than I’d ever felt about anything — even the cancer I’d dealt with. At least with cancer it was just the disease and me. This time another person was thrown into the mix. A person that I would be responsible for, whose character I would be largely accountable for molding and shaping, who might or might not give me heartfelt Mother’s Day cards at some point in his life.
What if I messed it all up? A million and one scenarios raced through my mind, which was growing ever manic.
And, as if my mind weren’t in enough pain, my body had discovered a whole new level of anguish. I would complain. And then I would feel guilty, because, after all, I did get a baby out of the deal, and women didn’t always have it so “easy.” And then time would pass and I’d repeat that cycle of complaining and guilt.
So it was on day two, around 7:00 p.m., that one of the crabbier nurses on staff came in and announced very flatly that I had to take a shower. That night. I could sense a hint of disgust in her voice, and I, of course, took that very personally to mean that I especially had to hurry up and shower because of my size.
The bubble of panic inside me grew ever larger.
My stepmom, Sara, was staying with me that night so that Chad could go home and get some real rest. Before I could even think about crying, the tears were streaming down my face. I began to choke back sobs. The nurse looked at me, expressionless, and left the room.
I knew I couldn’t shower by myself. I could barely walk. Someone would have to help me, and I didn’t want anyone to see me looking this enormous, swollen, bruised, and disgusting, my lower abdomen stained dark orange from the Betadine covering my C-section incision. I only wanted the help of one person, and he’d just left.
My head was exploding with protests: I’ll just refuse! They can’t make me! They can’t! I can’t let anyone see me like this. I’ll die of shame. I’ll never stop crying. And then I remembered that the walk from my hospital room to the parking garage was quite a long one. Maybe Chad hadn’t made it to the car yet. Maybe he’d come back and help me.
I frantically dialed his cell phone from my hospital line. I could hear the echo of the parking garage in his voice, and he could hear the panic and sorrow in mine. He hadn’t left yet and he’d be right back. I was flooded with relief.
I started crying again the minute I saw his face.
Sara said she’d watch the baby while he helped me take my shower.
Chad helped me to the bathroom. I hobbled more with each step, my breath hissing out of me. He helped get my go
wn off. I grimaced and apologized, but he only shook his head and told me not to worry about anything.
I didn’t really want him to have to see me like this, but I couldn’t think of anyone else I needed more.
“It’s going to be okay,” he whispered. “I’m going to help you. Don’t worry.”
But I worried in spite of myself. I wondered if he’d ever be able to put the horrific picture of what I looked like at that moment out of his mind. I wondered if this moment would forever taint our love life.
He literally had to lift each of my legs into the shower, one at a time, because I was so weak. The warm water felt surprisingly good, but I was terrified of doing anything with my incision. The nurses had told me that I had to soap up the stapled gash and softly scrub it with a washcloth. I didn’t even want to know how painful that was going to be. I was shaking from weakness and fear.
“Just tell me what to do,” he said softly.
And so I guided him. He gently washed my hair first and for a moment, I felt like a little girl again. Then he slowly lathered the rest of my body, avoiding the incision until I was ready.
He was standing outside of the shower and his shirt was soaked.
“You’re getting all wet,” I said, my voice shaking.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about me.”
“I guess we need to wash my incision,” I said weakly.
Our eyes locked and I began sobbing. I was so afraid and felt so wounded and exhausted. He put his arms around me as I sobbed on his soaking wet shoulder.
“I didn’t want you to have to see me like this. I can’t believe you have to help me like this. I didn’t think that. . .”
“I love you,” he said. “You’re so beautiful to me. I’d do anything for you. No matter what.”
I sobbed even harder. I’d never felt so loved in all my life.
Moments later, he very gently cleaned my incision and surprisingly, the pain was minimal. It was something I didn’t think a husband should ever have to do, but he did it with such love and compassion. He uttered not one complaint.
He helped me ease out of the shower and wrapped me in a towel. We stood there just holding each other for what seemed like a million years.
I knew having the baby would change our lives forever, but this moment changed our love forever. In those moments, we developed a bond so deep it takes my breath away just thinking about it.
~Ginger LeBlanc
Good Morning, Grandma
Nobody grows old merely by living a number of years. We grow old by deserting our ideals. Years may wrinkle the skin, but to give up enthusiasm wrinkles the soul.
~Samuel Ullman
In 2011, Chicken Soup for the Soul published Chicken Soup for the Soul: Inspiration for the Young at Heart. I jumped at the chance to contribute a story. I so wanted to help get the word out that gray hair and wrinkles do not an old soul make. We’re as young as we feel, and it’s time the world knows it. No more birthday cards making fun of a person for getting a year older. No more of those condescending looks.
I wrote about doing my first marathon at sixty-five and was thrilled when my story was accepted. Little did I realize how much more thrilled I’d be when reading through my copy of the book and finding Robert Tell’s poem, “Mushy Face Is No Disgrace.” It changed my outlook forever.
I’m not sure when it started, but I do remember my shock one morning when I glanced in the bathroom mirror and saw my long-dead grandmother staring out at me. What was she doing in my mirror?
I didn’t feel old. I was still physically active and had all my marbles. I traveled, volunteered, wrote and taught writing. My days were crammed with new and interesting things to do. I wasn’t like my old stay-at-home Grandma, who in my childhood had seemed ancient to me. How could I look like her?
I washed up in a grumpy mood. I felt depressed, then angry. I railed against Mother Nature. Why should I look like my years instead of how I felt inside? I started to feel irritated when people offered me help with a heavy package or a hand to step up into their SUV. I’d tell myself, “They see my wrinkles so they think I’m old. They think I can’t do it myself.”
Looking back, I feel ashamed at how I allowed that angry, defensive mood to persist so long. I was slowing down, but I refused to see it. I gritted my teeth at the airport employee returning with an empty wheelchair who offered me a ride. “It’s a long way to baggage from here and we’re going the same way. Hop in,” he said. I smiled lamely, shook my head and kept walking, dragging my heavy carry-on behind me. “You may have trouble with that suitcase on the escalator. I’m headed for the elevator. You’ll find it easier.”
He was right, but he couldn’t convince me. I didn’t want to act like the little old lady he thought I was. I’d show him he was wrong. “No, thanks. I always use the escalator. It’s not a problem,” I said and hurried on.
I was lying. The escalator was always a problem for me. With my vertigo, getting on without being able to immediately grab the rail was scary. I’d hesitate, while people behind me grew impatient. If someone said, “Let me help you with that bag,” and pulled it on for me, I’d mumble a thank you but inwardly wince. I’d want to turn around and say, “Don’t judge me by a few wrinkles. I’m as young as you are inside.”
When I began reading Robert Tell’s delightful poem, I found it comforting. I wasn’t alone! This guy looked in his mirror and was just as shocked as I was. As I read on, I found affirmation in this verse:
In the mirror is a face
Of a man you can’t replace;
Though it sags from ear to ear,
Not yet will it disappear.
At first, I nodded in agreement. He’s right, I thought. I am in my eighties and wrinkled, but I’m still here. He too is here and shocked at what he sees in the mirror because he doesn’t feel old and useless either. He still feels like himself. He’s defiant about those wrinkles, just like me.
Then I realized: no, not like me. Not at all like me. I’ve been defiantly angry, but he’s defiant in an affirmative way. He sees his aging face and graying hair and accepts them as a small price to pay for the blessing of still being able to wake each morning to life. Another day to enjoy friends, play with a grandchild, glory at the sunset, tell someone you love them. He is thankful where I have been vain. He’s right. I’m wrong. It’s not my appearance that needs a facelift. It’s my attitude.
I continued reading and found myself laughing out loud by the end of the poem. Humor. How could I have forgotten its healing power? How could I have slipped into such a black mood over resembling my grandmother? How could I have not noticed the wonderful fact that I was alive to see myself turn into my grandmother?
I have a new morning ritual for washing up now. I start with a look in the mirror, a look long enough to begin my day with a cheerful, “Good morning, Grandma,” as the faucet starts to run.
~Marcia Rudoff
Mushy Face Is No Disgrace
Inside every older person is a younger person wondering what happened.
~Jennifer Yane
In the mirror is a face,
Oh my goodness what a face!
Used to be so firm and full.
Hair as coarse as new clipped wool;
Now it’s gone from black to gray,
Incremental, day by day.
Mushy face is no disgrace;
Loss of tone is commonplace.
Still, it’s interesting to see
My youth vanish by degree.
In the mirror is a face
Of a man you can’t replace;
Though it sags from ear to ear,
Not yet will it disappear.
Droopy cheeks and widow’s peaks,
Older than valued antiques;
Strange that this image I see
Represents reality.
Really now, how can it be
That this old fossil face is me?
~Robert Tell
Detours
Happiness i
s a form of courage.
~Holbrook Jackson
It was hard not to notice her sitting at the table. Not only was she beautiful, but she had a sweet, gentle aura about her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, motioning towards the man seated next to her. “I didn’t know the Chicken Soup for the Soul author lunch was for contributors only.” I am not sure anyone would have thought twice about the handsome man, who looked to be in his late twenties, except that he was the only man at a table full of women. Like mother hens, the rest of us all reassured her that it was not a problem. We especially didn’t want her to feel bad because it was obvious that her guest had some physical challenges, not unlike someone who might have suffered a stroke. She went on to introduce him as her husband.
I wondered what had happened. They both seemed so young — him, too young to be a stroke victim, and her, too young to be a caretaker. I watched as she lovingly prepared a plate of food for him, watched the way she included him in conversation, checking every so often to be sure all his needs were met. We learned her name was Penelope and that her husband didn’t have a stroke, but suffered several aneurysms that left him physically impaired and with many needs.
“What book are you in?” I asked her.
“Chicken Soup for the Soul: Family Caregivers,” she said.
“Me, too! What’s your story title? I can’t wait to read it.” I was excited that I already had a copy of the book and vowed to read her story as soon as the luncheon was over. It was hard not to be impressed with Penelope, even without knowing her full story yet. She exuded an air of peace and joy, in spite of what must have been a serious trial in her life.
As the luncheon began to come to an end, Penelope graciously rose from her chair, helping her husband with his cane.
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reader's Choice 20th Anniversary Edition Page 6
