Chicken Soup for Every Mom's Soul (9 page)

Taking a seat at the other end of the long couch, I curled icy toes and tucked my cold feet between the cushions before layering my blanket over hers. A companionable silence settled between us. I marveled at how deeply I had come to know this beautiful young lady over the past week.

What would I do without her? How would I manage when she flew back to Colorado in the morning?

On the other hand, I also recognized that, at twenty-two, she was definitely a member of the McDonald’s generation— expecting life to be neatly packaged in a Happy Meal. Made to order. Served on a platter. “Immediately, if not sooner,” as my daddy would have quipped.

Nothing about Kyle’s situation appeared to be that simple. This was not a quick fix, jiffy meal. Did Sara truly understand the gravity of all this? Whether Kyle lived or died, things would never be the same again—for any of us.

I worried that Sara was simply too naive, too young, too inexperienced to recognize the far-reaching ramifications of Kyle’s situation. What was best for her? For Kyle?

Was this the time to shatter her confidence, destroy her illusions, slap her with reality? A part of me felt that my own fragile faith depended upon the unwavering strength of hers.

Yet, at forty-seven, my jaded rung was higher on the ladder. I had dealt with loss—up close and personal. I had buried numerous friends, aunts, uncles, cousins, four sets of grandparents and, most recently, my own daddy. I was on a first-name basis with death.

And things worse than death. I had witnessed life with the wrappings torn away and knew there wasn’t always a prize inside. Glancing over at Kyle’s fiancée, I saw fresh tears pooling.

“Sara?”

“Oh, Carol, I don’t want to leave tomorrow.”

“I know, Sweetie. But the doctor said Kyle is stable. And this could go on for a long time yet. You need to finish your last semester of college. You and Kyle have a master plan, remember?”

“Y-yes.”

“The best thing you can do right now is carry it out. For yourself and for Kyle. For you and Kyle as a couple.”

“But it’s so hard to leave.” Sara pulled a tissue from the box on the side table.

“I know.”

“I finally found the only person that I love enough to marry. He’s my best friend. We talk about everything. I can’t lose him now. I just can’t!” Her shoulders shook beneath the thin blanket. “I love him so much.”

“Yes, I know you do.” I gathered her in my arms. “And he loves you, too.”

“It would be so much easier if he were aware. If he could know and remember that I was here.”

“Somehow, deep inside, I believe he does, Sara. I— well—I feel linked to him,” I revealed. “I send thought messages, and I think he receives them. Does that sound crazy to you?”

Sara listened intently with her seeing heart while I confided the sweet, sacred communion I had been sharing with Kyle. “We communicate, Sara. We really do.”

“I believe you.” She dabbed at her eyes. “It’s your own personal miracle. And I’m not surprised. I’ve always known that you and Kyle share something special.” She smiled.

“You should hear him talk about you, Carol. ‘My mom’ this, and ‘my mom’ that. He loves and admires you a lot.

That’s one of the things that attracted me to Kyle. His open respect for you and his dad.” Sara leaned her head on my shoulder.

And I held her, a fragile-strong woman-child. The one that Kyle had chosen above all others. Now I was seeing— under the worst circumstances—what he could have only glimpsed under the best. She had eased her way into my heart. I was beginning to love her, too.

No matter what the future held, she would always be part mine. No matter what.

Breathing in the flowered scent of her freshly shampooed hair, I smiled. There would never be mother-in-law problems between us. After weathering this, anything else would be trivial in comparison, even petty.

Look at us now. We were facing the unthinkable together. Shoulder to shoulder. Arm in arm. Hand in hand. I kissed the top of her head, drew her closer, sighed and smiled.

Just what I needed. Another child to love.

Carol McAdoo Rehme

Bound by Love

When my son was only five months old, he had to have major surgery on his head. My husband, Chris, and I were shocked and devastated. Cole’s skull had fused together prematurely; he had no “soft spot.” No one knows why this happens to some babies. The only remedy is surgery.

How could this have happened to my baby? What did I do
wrong?
I had been so careful during my pregnancy, eating well and refusing caffeine. No matter how many doctors explained to me that the condition was not my fault, I felt responsible.

The surgery and the ensuing five days at the hospital were the scariest, darkest, most exhausting days of our lives. Cole lay in his tiny hospital bed, IVs poking from his perfect little body. My faith faltered with his every breath. If not for the kindness and sensitivity of people—family, friends and hospital staff—I do not know how we could have made it through.

Even Cole tried to help. When Cole’s head swelled so badly that his eyes fused shut and his eyelashes disappeared, I sang to him, my eyes never leaving his face. I was amazed to see him force a weak smile for me. To this day, I’m convinced he was trying to make me feel better.

After Cole’s surgery, his head was swollen and bruised, and he had a dramatic zigzag scar from one ear to the other. I was hesitant to go out in public with my sweet boy. I felt defensive and protective, as if I might snap if anyone asked me what was wrong with my baby.

A few days after coming home from the hospital, Cole and I ventured out to buy some groceries. Still on pain medication, Cole was unhappy and cranky. On the way home, I noticed the gas tank indicator was flashing red for empty, so I stopped for some gas. Cole whined as I tried to get the keys out of the ignition. I needed the keys to open the gas tank, and for some reason I could not manage this simple maneuver. For some minutes, I tried pulling and tugging, until finally I feared I might break the key. Trying to compose myself, I reached for Cole and headed for the pay phone. Chris was not home. My heart raced. Cole began crying, and tears welled up in my own eyes.

I found my AAA card and called for help. This, after all, qualified as an emergency. Minutes later, the AAA truck pulled up, and a burly man stepped down and walked toward our car. His eyes immediately focused on Cole’s head, the scar fresh and frightening. “You poor fellow,” he said, “what have you been through?”

His kind words directed toward Cole opened a flood of tears in me. I began to sob. The stranger, whose name tag read Ron, simply placed a hand on my shoulder until I calmed down. Then he said to me, “As parents we go through some very hard things. There’s nothing worse than seeing your child in pain. I have two kids of my own, and I know all about it. Even an earache can seem like the end of the world. The thing is—we simply get through it.” He reached for his wallet and pulled out numerous pictures of his son and daughter.

Cole and I sat with Ron as he talked about each picture. By the time he finished, Cole was sitting contently on my lap, and I felt a smile, the first in weeks, spontaneously come to my lips.

Although it took Ron less than one minute to get the keys from my ignition, this kind stranger spent over an hour with us, taking the concept of Roadside Assistance to a whole new level.

It’s been five years since Cole’s head surgery. Sometimes, Cole’s red hair parts so that I can see the thick scar that crisscrosses his head; otherwise there are no visual reminders of his surgery.

Yet there are things unseen. The way I feel toward Cole is difficult to describe—it’s as though our hearts had been bound together during that surgery.

Recently at the park, a Guatemalan woman asked me about the scar. She said, “The angels came into him while his head was open.” I don’t know if I believe that, but the thought makes me feel better.

My younger son, Ry, fell from his bed one night when he was two years old and had to have stitches on his chin. I was with him as the nurses at the emergency room held him down while the doctor stitched. He clutched my hand and screamed, and it reminded me of Cole’s surgery.

The room started to spin, and I was having trouble breathing. One of the nurses yelled, “Mom going down! Mom going down!” The next thing I knew, there was a wet towel on the back of my neck, and I was being instructed to put my head between my legs.

Going through these difficult things with my children doesn’t end—whether it’s watching them get stitches or seeing them be teased by other children. My heart is constantly being ripped in unexpected ways, despite both children, ultimately, doing fine. The hard times usually end up bringing us closer together.

Now four years old, Ry likes his scar. He points to it all the time. The other day, Cole complained that he didn’t have a scar to show off like Ry.

“Yes, you do honey, I said, “Remember, you have that big zigzag scar that goes from ear to ear?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “I guess I forgot.”

I’m glad that he’s forgotten about the scar, and I hope all the trauma behind it—as long as he remembers the love we forged going through it together.

Victoria Patterson

A Misfortune—Not a Tragedy

A
lone we can do so little; together we can do so
much.

Helen Keller

I was an ecstatically happy thirteen-year-old riding home for dinner on my new birthday present—a Fleet bicycle made by Schwinn, and it was a dandy. It even had a spring knee-action suspension in front. Better yet, it was the only one of its kind in the neighborhood.

I polished its blue and white frame and fenders to a shiny brightness that could be seen for blocks away. I had been on cloud nine ever since I received it as a gift a few days before. One’s first bike is a milestone in any child’s life. Like any thirteen-year-old boy there was only one thing on my mind as I pedaled home around four-thirty that afternoon—dinner.

I skidded my bike up to the front porch in a spectacular wheelie and bounded up the steps. As I ran through the hallway toward the kitchen I began to wonder. I didn’t smell any tantalizing aroma coming from Mom’s spic-and-span kitchen.
Oh well,
I thought, smiling to myself,
maybe we are having cold cuts with pork and beans
—my summer favorite.

I opened the swinging doors to the kitchen expecting to hear, “Jimmy, wash your hands and help me set the table.” Instead, my young eyes focused on my mother, ghostly white, lying in a crumpled heap on the kitchen floor— blood oozing from a deep wound on her forehead. I tried to rouse her but to no avail. All I got were moans. Beginning to cry, I knelt beside her quiet form on the floor and asked soberly, “Mom, are you okay?” She answered in an almost unintelligible whisper, “Please help me, Jimmy.”

Realizing we were alone, like most children would do, I ran to the phone. This was 1944 and there was no such thing as 911, only the operator’s friendly voice asking, “Number please.” I blurted out my grandmother’s phone number between sobs and said, “It’s an emergency, operator, please hurry.”

I called Grandma because Dad was still at work, and I couldn’t remember his office number. The first words out of Grandma’s mouth were, “Jimmy why are you crying?” I could hardly speak through the tears by this time. Between sobs I explained to Grandma about Mom on the floor needing help. All she said was, “I’ll call the fire department, and I’ll be right there. Hang on.”

Grandma didn’t own a car but lived nearby. True to her word, her running feet hit the porch at the same time the firemen arrived from the neighborhood station. We all converged on the kitchen to help Mom. She was still lying on the floor, not moving or making a sound. As the firemen worked over her in a huddled mass I heard one of the firemen say, “Get a gurney. She has to go to the hospital
now
.

” Once more I began to cry. Grandma immediately swept me into her massive, comforting grandma arms and said soothingly, “Hush child. Your mother is in good hands; she’ll be okay. God and the firemen are with her.” Grandma always knew just what to say.

Little did we know as we watched the firemen wheel Mom out of the house, our family’s life would never be the same. We found out later Mom had slipped on the slick kitchen floor she was mopping. As she fell she hit her head on the sharp edge of the kitchen table, causing severe brain damage—resulting in paralysis to the left side of her body. This misfortune, not a tragedy, changed our lives and lifestyle in a matter of seconds.

After weeks of convalescence in the hospital and extensive therapy she was still unable to use her left arm or left leg normally. She never would again, and she was only in her late thirties.

I never will forget the day Mom came home. Dad got her settled in a makeshift bedroom downstairs in our two-story house. He then asked all of us children to gather in the living room. Dad, his usual strong voice filled with emotion, said, “Your Mother will never be the same. The fall damaged the right side of her brain. It is like a light-bulb that shatters and cannot be put back together—this caused the paralysis. She will never again be like the mom you have known. But she will still be your mom—don’t ever forget that.” We all nodded our heads in agreement.