Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul (23 page)

As I prepare to let her go, I reflect upon her first day of nursery school, when I, like countless mothers before me, said good-bye to a tearful child and went back to look in the school window a few minutes later. I needed to know if she was still crying. I believe that in September, when I leave this child at her college dorm, she will slip down to the parking lot and find me there, crying.

Seventeen years ago I watched her breathe. Tomorrow I will watch her fly.

Bonnie Feuer

Teddy Bear Tonic

It was my fortieth birthday, an event some women dread, but others celebrate. For me, it was time for my first mammogram. I always made sure I followed the guidelines for preventative health care. This year, the kind woman at my gynecologist’s office told me that it was time to add mammograms to the annual checkup.

As luck would have it, the first available appointment was on my birthday. I hesitated. After all, who wants to spend her birthday at the doctor’s office? Then I recalled some advice that I’d once heard: your birthday is a perfect reminder for annual physicals.

While I was feeling somewhat intimidated by my first mammogram, the staff made every effort to put me at ease. Just when I thought I was done, however, the nurse came in and told me they needed to repeat the films. There was a thickening, she said. Nothing to worry about though, large-breasted women sometimes needed to be repositioned.

I waited again. The nurse came back and told me that the doctor would be right in. I thought,
That’s nice—the doctor
takes the time to see everyone who comes in for a mammogram.
It gave me a feeling of confidence.

But my confidence vanished when the doctor informed me there was a suspicious area that required further study. “Not to worry,” she said. “Everything’s fine.”

So down the hall I marched for an ultrasound. The room was dark. The doctor was serious. Trying some humor, I said, “The last time I had an ultrasound, there was a baby.”

But there was no baby this time, and soon I was asking the dreaded question. “Is it cancer?”

The doctor was noncommittal, “This concerns me,” was all she said. She suggested a biopsy. Right then and there.

I was not ready for that. My simple mammogram had turned into a six-hour marathon session. I had been shuffled back and forth for one test after another, now culminating in the biopsy.

I drove home on automatic pilot. Luckily, the doctor’s office was a mere five minutes from my house. I drove through traffic wearing my sunglasses, which hid the tears pouring from my eyes. I stifled the screams I felt rising in my gut, as I thought,
I am forty years old, too young. It’s
my birthday. Why is this happening to me?

Unfortunately, my three kids were already home from school when I arrived. I didn’t know how I was going to deal with this cancer scare, but one thing I did know was that I could not deal with the kids at that moment.

I had to pass through the family room to go upstairs to the sanctuary of my bedroom. Hoping the kids were completely enthralled by the television, I went through the room quickly, then ran upstairs and threw myself on the bed, unleashing all my pent-up rage and fear.

A knock on the door heralded the arrival of my oldest daughter, fourteen-year-old Robyn. I couldn’t let her in because my distress was too obvious. “I’ll be right down,” I shouted through the door.

Robyn went away, and I breathed a sigh of thanks.

It seemed just a few minutes later when the door opened. My husband, Paul, walked in, and looked on helplessly as I dissolved into a puddle. He gathered me in his arms to offer what comfort he could.

“Robyn called me. She thinks you have breast cancer,” he said simply.

How could she possibly have known? It turned out that resourceful little Robyn had not been convinced by my assurances that I was okay. She had known something was wrong when I walked through the house with my sunglasses on. Evidently the sound of my wracking sobs had scared her. (I thought I’d muffled them so that no one would hear.) Young Detective Robyn then consulted my Day-Timer and noted that I had been to the doctor’s office. Not recognizing the name of my usual physician, she looked the name up in the phone book. The large advertisement for the breast center told her all she needed to know. Fearing the worst, she called her dad at work.

I told Paul the whole story of my six-hour ordeal, and he suggested we better face the troops. Letting their suspicions grow would be worse than the truth.

We both went downstairs, and Paul lined the kids up on the couch. It was our first family summit. I cleared my throat.
I can do this,
I told myself.

Then I looked at the fear plastered all over the young faces of my three children: Robyn, on the brink of womanhood; John, a brave soldier, not quite twelve; and Lisa, still my baby at ten.

I couldn’t do it. Paul took over. Sitting next to me, clutching my hand, he explained very succinctly that I was having a problem. Yes, breast cancer was suspected, but we wouldn’t know until the results of the tests came back.

Robyn, so resourceful and perceptive in spotting the problem, didn’t say a word. She has always been hard to read. John was full of questions; he needed the details. Lisa cried, clinging to me.

Somehow we got through a hastily prepared dinner. It was all I could do to retain my composure. Afterwards, I made an abrupt retreat to my room.

After a while, there was a timid knock on the door. Robyn, my quiet one, entered, clutching the teddy bear she’d had since childhood. She sat down next to me on the bed and handed me the teddy bear. “He’s always made me feel better,” she said.

Such simple words, such heartfelt sentiments. My daughter was trying to comfort me in the only way she knew. I opened my arms to receive the token of my daughter’s love. And yes, that teddy bear
did
make me feel better at the end of that long and difficult day.

During subsequent days, I traveled a tortuous road. The diagnosis was indeed cancer, but I made it through surgery, chemotherapy and radiation.

Although Robyn is now too old to give me teddy bears, Lisa, our youngest, still bestows familiar bear-shaped tokens of love on me, with pink ribbons attached.

I call it Teddy-Bear Power. It really does make everything all better.

Bonnie Walsh Davidson

The Day Mama Went on Strike

I knew something was wrong as soon as I opened my eyes that frosty Saturday morning. No one had turned up the heat for one thing. That is, Mama had not turned up the heat. And I did not smell any breakfast smells. Something was definitely wrong. So I ran to the hall, quick-switched the thermostat to sixty-five and jumped back into bed.

But I couldn’t stop wondering what was wrong. I jumped out again and went to the kitchen. Nothing. No crumbs, no coffee.

Even if it was Saturday, Mama always got up early anyway. My sister, Althea, was still asleep in our room. I knew this because no one was in the bathroom, and Althea was always either asleep or in the bathroom. That was her whole life.

So I went to look for Mama. And there she was on the living-room sofa. That’s where she always slept because we had only one bedroom. Sometimes Althea or I said, “Mama, you come on and sleep in here, and we’ll take turns sleeping on the couch,” and Mama said, “With all that giggling and snoring in there? Uh-uh. No thanks.”

Anyway, I went to look at Mama. Mama was not asleep. She was looking back at me. She was looking at me with both eyes. “Don’t bother me,” she said. “I am on strike.”

“What do you mean, Mama?”

“I mean I am on strike, girl, and you better leave me alone.” She threw back the covers. She picked up this sign, you know, like you see people on TV marching around with that say ON STRIKE.

“That’s not funny, Mama,” I said. “Where’d you get it?”

“No, it isn’t funny, and I made it myself.”

“Are you going out somewhere on strike then?” I gave a little laugh.

“No,” she said. “I am on strike right here.”

I went to wake up Althea. I didn’t know what else to do.

Althea was older, but she mostly didn’t know anything.

Still, maybe together we would have an idea.

We went to the kitchen, and I told Althea what Mama said. “And I’m hungry,” I finished.

“So,” Althea said, “eat.” She looked at herself in the mirror, rearranging her bangs.

I stuck my head into the living room. “Mama,” I said, “are you going to make corn cakes this morning?”

“Definitely . . .” Mama said.

“Oh, good,” said Althea.

“. . . not,” Mama finished.

“Are you going to make anything at all?”

“I am going to make tracks. Nothing but tracks.”

She stood up and started slowly circling the room, carrying her sign and chanting.

“What’s Mama saying?” Althea asked.

We listened hard. It sounded like: “I don’t know, and I don’t care. Going to spend the day in my underwear.”

“Man,” I said. “Mama has gone bananas.”

Althea looked scared. “What’ll we do?” she asked.

“We’ll have to bring her to her senses,” I said. I sat down at the table and wrote a note:

Dear Mama,

Now cut that out. We will make our bed, if that’s what you
want . . . right after we eat. But you should not go on strike.
It could be bad for us. We are only little children and we need
a mama to take care of us.

Lilly and Althea,
Your only daughters

I took the note to Mama. Mama read it. She took a pencil out of her pocket and wrote an answer. She folded it and gave it to me. In the kitchen Althea bent over my shoulder, and I unfolded the note and read what Mama had written.

“HA!” it said.

“Is that all?” asked Althea.

“That is all,” I said.

“What is the matter with Mama? I didn’t do anything.” Althea looked around, waving her hands over the dishes in the sink, her books and papers on the floor, her left boot under the table.

I said, “Neither did I. Except that night when I wouldn’t set the table, and we had to eat on the floor.”

Althea said, “I liked it. It was like a picnic. And all I did was, I was late for dinner.”

“Five times.”

“Well, that’s better than six.”

“Mama sure got tired of sending me down the street looking for you,” I said. “And I sure got tired of going too.”

“So what are we going to do?”

“I don’t know.” I pushed the laundry basket aside and sat down. “First, let’s eat.”

We poured milk over cereal, and I spilled some, and Althea put her finger in it and wrote a bad word on the table, and I told her to stop that, and we had a very small fight right there.

Mama started chanting louder and louder and stamping her feet while she was walking around on strike.

“Man,” Althea whispered. “We better be quiet.”

So we went into our room to think about things. Well, I did. Althea went into the bathroom and looked into the mirror. When she opened the door it was all steamy and a big cloud followed her out and she said, “Is Mama still— you know?”

“Yeah,” I said. Althea had her hair in this new ’do, and she asked me if I liked it.

“I don’t know,” I said, and Althea said, “You can never make up your mind about anything,” and we had another very small fight.

And then Mama started chanting again. Louder. And with new words: “I don’t care, and I don’t know. I’m on strike and ready to blow.”

I peeked out into the living room. “Wow,” I said. I turned to Althea. “She has on the green dress!”

“Oh, man,” Althea said. “This is serious.”

This green dress was one Mama got from a friend, and it was so shiny you could almost see yourself in it, and Mama had green shoes too, and you could see your face in them if you bent over, and she was leaving.

“Mama,” I said, “where are you going?”

“Out,” she said.

I was cool. “Out where?” I asked. “In case someone calls.”

“No one will call. But I left a note just in case.”

“Oh. What does it say?”

“It says I went out.” She pulled on her wooly gloves.

“That’s not telling us very much, Mama.”

“Strikers do not have to tell everything they know.”

“I don’t want to know everything you know, Mama. I only want to know where you are going.”

“I told you. I am going out. Do not worry. I’ve checked with Mrs. Watkins upstairs. She will be home all day if you need her. The icebox is full of food, and the drawer is full of socks. You’ll be okay.” She went out. And she slammed the door.

I looked at Althea. Althea looked at me. Althea looked in the mirror. We looked at television. There was nothing good on, but we watched till we couldn’t stand it any more.

“Well?” I said.

“Well, what?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I feel lonely, and you’re right here.”

“Me too,” Althea said. “I feel lonely and awful. In my stomach, right here.” She put her hand on her chest, right where mine was hurting.