Chicken Soup for the Preteen Soul II

by Jack Canfield

  The day the doctors took the machine off, we went to visit her. She was so much happier because she was finally a bit more comfortable after so many months of having that thing taped to her neck. Still, that visit was different. Deep inside, we all knew what was going to happen. This visit was full of tears from both her and us. When it was my turn to go to her, I held her hand and kissed it softly and caringly. I looked hard at her, for I knew that it might be the last time that I could. I looked at her cheeks because that is where I would always kiss her before I went to bed. I looked at her lips, and I remembered all the those times when I got hurt and only her soft loving kiss would make me better. Then I looked into her eyes and got that feeling of comfort. I put my arms around her, and she tried to do the same, but her body wouldn’t let her. I kissed her once more and went to the corner of the room where I could think of all our times together.

  Then the time came when we had to say good-bye. I didn’t want to believe it, but I knew what was going to happen. As we said our last good-byes, I saw that smile— the smile that could bring out the sun no matter how cloudy it is. And that’s exactly what it did for me. I will remember that smile for my lifetime, for my spirit’s existence—for eternity.

  As we left her hospital room, I turned around and saw her lying there looking so peaceful, her arms to her side and a fading smile on her face. I blew her one last kiss, then turned around.

  That same night, clouds flew into my heart and a thunderbolt burned a hole inside of me. She is now a part of the sunset. She is now a streak in the rainbow. She is one with the ocean. She is now my sun that cleared away the clouds.

  As much as I want to feel sorry for myself and not let my life move on and to always feel the pain she had to go through, I know that she would say to me, “Life is a gift, Amber, no matter what shape or form. Live it like it’s your last day. Live it to the fullest, and take nothing for granted!”

  Those words lead me every day. Those words are why I am still here. I want to cherish my gift of life for my mom. Every breath I breathe is for her. Every step I take is for her. Every smile I smile is for her. I dedicate my every day to her.

  And now, no matter what happens, I will remember that smile of hers, and I will smile in honor of her, knowing we both can take the clouds away and fill the world up with sunshine!

  Amber Kury, eleven

  Luann. Reprinted by permission of United Feature Syndicate.

  The Baseball Spirit

  Well, baseball was my whole life. Nothing’s ever been as fun as baseball.

  Mickey Mantle

  It was summer, and my parents sent me to spend time with my grandpa for my thirteenth birthday. He had been diagnosed with cancer the Christmas before. I was in this strange rebellious stage, and I decided to bring my skateboard and skates and not spend much time with him. I knew some kids down the street, and I was going to hang out with them. I was a major baseball fan (I strongly favored the Cardinals), so when I was packing, I slipped my baseball glove in my backpack, too, thinking I could maybe play a little catch. I had planned everything.

  Don’t get me wrong, I wasn’t trying to be mean or anything; I loved my grandparents, and it would be great to see my grandpa. I just wasn’t planning on hanging out with him; but then, I never thought the spirit of baseball could bring two people together the way that it did that summer.

  I was on the computer at my grandparent’s house when Grandpa asked me if I wanted to play catch.

  “Sure,” I said, reluctantly.

  We went outside to play catch, and at first I didn’t think much of it, but with every throw, I realized that I was feeling more and more connected to him. I felt like I could have played catch with my grandpa forever. Later that night, he showed me his Mark McGwire first-baseman’s mitt and his Mickey Mantle bat. I thought those were the coolest things in the world.

  On August 13, we went to a St. Louis Cardinals’ game at Busch Stadium. While I was watching my heroes, like Fernando Vina, Albert Pujols, Jim Edmonds and Mark McGwire, my grandpa was telling me all about his childhood heroes. Through that whole game, I felt even more connected to him.

  Toward the end of my time in Illinois, I found Grandpa’s book about Mark McGwire’s historic 1998 season. He caught me looking at it so much that he decided I could keep it, and he signed it to me:

  To: Caleb Mathewson

  From: Maynard Mathewson “MATTY”

  Remember the summer of 2001

  Grandpa

  I didn’t think much of the autograph then, but later, I treasured it more than anything.

  That night I had to get ready to go home, and we decided to go outside and play catch for what turned out to be one last time. My grandpa and I laughed and talked while I did my best imitation of the top Major League pitchers, not knowing how much I would treasure this moment later in life.

  I came back to Illinois the next summer with my family to see him. My grandpa was confined to his bed and barely able to walk. The cancer had spread to every bone in his body.

  The very last time I saw him was the last night I was there. I was in his room watching a Cardinals game on television with him. He struggled to sit up and said, “If anything happens to me, I want you to have my Mark McGwire first-baseman’s mitt and my Mickey Mantle bat.” It meant so much to me, I can’t explain it. I could barely hold back my tears.

  Two days later, his lungs filled up with fluid and on August 13, 2002, Maynard Mathewson died at 1:00 A.M., exactly one year to the day of attending that Cardinals game with me, which was still so fresh in my memory.

  When I went to his funeral, on his casket there were two baseball caps. One was a Yankees cap and the other was the same St. Louis Cardinals cap that he wore to the Cardinals game that we attended together.

  Because of my grandpa and the love for the game that we shared, I know that I’ll always have the baseball spirit in me. The bat, the glove and the book that he gave me are always with me to remind me that my grandpa, Maynard Mathewson, and I will forever be connected by the spirit of baseball and the summer we spent together.

  Caleb Mathewson, fourteen

  “I think grandpas are just overgrown kids, Joey.”

  Dennis the Menace®. Used by permission of Hank Ketcham Enterprises and © by North America Syndicate.

  Forever in My Heart

  The only cure for grief is action.

  George Henry Lewis

  When my brother Nathan was only five months old, he was diagnosed with an extremely rare kidney disease called Denys-Drash Syndrome. At about the age of one, my brother’s kidneys weren’t good anymore and he was going to need a new one. He went on home dialysis, and then my dad ended up giving my brother one of his kidneys. Children who have organ transplants need to take medicine to keep their bodies from rejecting the new organ, and this medicine also weakens their immune systems. So, Nathan had a lot of trouble fighting off infections after the organ transplant and was often sick.

  When Nathan was two-and-a-half years old, he caught pneumonia and was in the hospital. Finally, he was able to come home, but, two nights later, he died. Even though I was devastated, I knew that our family could make it through and everything would all be okay if we just stuck together.

  About six months after Nathan died, his third birthday came around, July 24. My birthday is a couple of days later, on July 29. Usually my family celebrated our birthdays together, but that year I really didn’t feel like celebrating mine without him. So, we decided to go ahead and celebrate both of our birthdays and give the gifts that we would have given to Nathan to other kids.

  That was Nathan’s first toy drive. We gave all the toys to the children at the Cardinal Glennon Children’s Hospital in St. Louis, where Nathan had stayed when he was in and out of the hospital. The following year, during the now-annual Nathan Weilbacher Toy Drive, I was able to donate $3,000 and over nine hundred new toys to the children at Cardinal Glennon. The toy drive that I started to honor my brother’s memory gets bigger and
better each year.

  I once heard a saying that some lives go on forever in the hearts and the lives of the people they touch, and I know that this is true with my brother Nathan. I still miss him very much. I will always miss him. He touched my family and my life in so many ways. Recently, he sent me a healthy little brother that we named Nicholas Nathan. I know that my new little brother is a gift from Nathan, because I can see it every time I look into his eyes.

  I want to thank Nathan for everything he has taught me and given to me, and I want him to know I love him. I realize that where he is now there is no more suffering and that he is at peace. Nathan, I will always remember you and I will always love you. You will forever be my little angel!

  Lauren Ashley Weilbacher, thirteen

  Guardian Angel

  My dad’s side of the family always meets on Christmas Eve to exchange gifts. My Uncle Terry and my Aunt Vikki and their kids, Colin, Maggie, Nolan, Ian and Jenal would come to celebrate Christmas at my dad’s house. The December of 1995 was the last time I ever saw my cousin Colin.

  I was staying with my dad for the weekend, about a week after Christmas. I was watching television in the bedroom, when he told me to come into the living room and asked me to sit down on the couch. Then he explained to me that my cousin Colin had died.

  Colin had been at a friend’s house and decided to go home. He called Jenal, his older sister, telling her that he was on his way. Colin never arrived, so on his way home from work Uncle Terry went looking for him and found Colin lying in the snow.

  Uncle Terry called my Aunt Vikki, and they rushed Colin to the hospital. The doctors told them that Colin had had a stroke, and they put him on a life support machine. He would be able to live, but he would be a vegetable. My Uncle Terry held Colin in his arms while he and my Aunt Vikki made the hardest decision of their lives: to keep him on the machines or not. They felt Colin shouldn’t live that way and decided to let him go. Colin Timothy O’Brien died on December 27, 1995, in Memorial Hospital. He was only eight years old.

  I took it pretty hard. Colin and I were about the same age, and our birthdays were only three weeks apart. His viewing, when you go see the person in the casket, was about three or four days after his death. It was extremely sad. Everyone was crying. I still remember seeing him, lying there, so lifeless and peaceful. At his funeral, Father Cam, the priest at Corpus Christi where Colin went to school, said a few words and we all put flowers on top of his casket.

  Afterwards, Uncle Terry and Aunt Vikki threw a huge memorial service for Colin at the Corpus Christi school gym. Uncle Terry said a few words, and I asked him if he missed Colin. His reply was, “Yes, I do. A lot.” I remember thinking to myself, so do I . . . a lot.

  After awhile, I couldn’t take the fact that Colin was really gone. I couldn’t seem to get it out of my mind. So, my mom and dad sent me to a place called hospice. It’s a place where they help kids like me deal with the fact of death. I counseled with a lady named Michelle every Wednesday for about a month. We played with things like dolls and Play-Doh while I acted out how I felt about death and my other feelings. Michelle was very nice to me.

  I also met with a group of other kids who had lost a family member or friend. We each made a book, which included a letter that we wrote to the loved one, a picture of us with our loved one and other things. The other kids were nice, and I made friends with one girl named Nicole, who had lost her grandma.

  Later, I went to camp Evergreen, which was just like a regular camp, only we met in groups to talk about our loved ones, and death. Each camper has a counselor, or a “buddy,” that they do almost everything with. My buddy was named Rebecca. On the first day, we all made a necklace with our name on the front and our buddy’s name on the back.

  I learned a lot from hospice. I understood that Colin was in a better place now and that he was happy. I still miss him every once in a while, and I get a little teary-eyed. But, life goes on. I turned thirteen this year, and I visited Colin’s grave. I cried hard because he only got to live eight years of his life. He will never graduate from high school, get married or have kids.

  I try to visit Colin’s grave whenever I need to talk. I tell him what’s going on with me, my friends, school, family, and even boyfriends. It makes me feel better. I believe that Colin is my guardian angel. Doesn’t everyone need one?

  Colleen O’Brien, thirteen

  Dapples

  When I first saw her, I knew we were perfect for each other.

  And we were.

  I had loved horses since I was six and having one changed my life. When I received her as a Christmas gift, I couldn’t have been happier. Though she had been neglected and abused her whole life, over the next nine months, she gained trust with me. She soon followed me without my having to lead her, and we became the best of friends. I loved her.

  Then, one day, I was riding her in the round pen when she suddenly bucked about four times. Birgit and Arnold, the people we boarded her with, thought that she was too high-strung for me. I cried as Birgit told me that there was a woman who was interested in buying her and would take care of her. The only words I could choke out were, “I don’t want to sell her.” The words they said after that were a blur because I was so upset I couldn’t concentrate on what they were telling me. As I dismounted, I hugged her sweaty neck and cried. I’ll never forget what Arnold told me next.

  “She ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  He said it to assure me they wouldn’t sell her without my permission. Dapples nudged me apologetically. I left the round pen still crying. Over the next few weeks, she still bucked every time I rode her. However, I knew she wasn’t trying to get me off intentionally, but she was bucking for some other reason I didn’t know about. It made me sick inside that everyone was jumping to conclusions without considering what was going on with Dapples. My own mom even tried to talk me into selling her. I knew my mom was only concerned about my safety, and I also knew she didn’t want to sell her any more than I did. My simple answer was always, “No.” I would leave the room angry and upset all at once.

  Then the unexpected happened. One morning at 5:00, I woke up to my mom talking on the phone to her work. All I can remember her saying is . . .

  “Yes, I have a sick child.” But I wasn’t sick. Who in my family was so sick that Mom would miss work for the day?

  Mom came into my room and gently shook me to wake me up. “I just got a call from Birgit,” Mom said. “She said Dapples just doesn’t seem like herself.”

  I panicked. Colic was the only thing I could think of. It was a horrible stomach sickness that can kill a horse within hours. There are lots of ways it can be caused, but not so many ways to make it go away. If the horse gets cramps, he wants to roll over on the ground to ease the pain. However, in the process, his intestines get twisted up, preventing his body from moving waste through correctly. This kills him if a vet cannot perform surgery and be successful in “untwisting” his gut. Also, if the horse eats dirt along with eating grass or hay, a stone will build up in his stomach and literally block his bowels.

  When my sister, mom and I arrived at Birgit’s house about an hour later, all I can remember is walking Dapples around in the arena for the next nine hours, trying to help move things through. We left that night exhausted and confused.

  The next morning, my mom and I went out there, knowing that if there was no manure in her stall, we had to call the vet out for his last visit to her. I ran to her stall. I screamed as I saw the clean stall with Dapples lying in the corner. I picked up her head. She knew her time was near.

  I didn’t know what to do. How could I help her? She lay there in the wet dirt with her head in my lap. Her eyes were closed and her stomach was bloated. Two of her friends whinnied from other stalls close to hers. They knew her time was coming soon, too. My beautiful Arabian angel was suffering from colic, and no one could help her. When I looked into her eyes, the spunky Dapples I once knew was gone. All that was left was a helpless little mar
e, struggling to breathe. I stroked her beautiful face and as much as it killed me inside, I talked to her.

  “Don’t worry, Dap, you’ll never be in a stall again. No more gates. No more saddle. You’ll be a free Pegasus. Free to roam the skies. You’ll forever live in peace. It’ll be okay, Dapples. I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine. Just think about your wings. Think about your wings.” I repeated myself many times. Not just for her, but for my own comfort. I must have told her I loved her a zillion times. I could hardly speak, because my throat felt as though it had closed in. I promised her that she would live in a big green pasture with no fences. I also told her that I would watch for a new star that night—a big, bright star.

  While I told her this, she seemed to calm down a bit. I took her out in the arena and prayed for a miracle. She lay in the dirt, and I sat next to her, holding her head. About thirty minutes later the vet arrived, and it was time for Dapples to stop suffering. The vet took the lead rope and said it would be best if I didn’t see this. I kissed her on the mane. I could smell the wet dirt in her tangled hair. It was sprinkling outside. Perfect weather for the worst day. “I love you, Dapples,” I said before running to the barn.

  About two minutes later, I heard her crash to the ground. My mom and I covered her with a blue tarp and then cried together until a truck that hauls away dead animals arrived. I couldn’t watch. I sat on a bench at the front of the house.