Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff (28 page)

Greg's appearance changed from time to time because of the chemotherapy. His thick, curly black hair would come out, and he would look like a ripe peach covered with fuzz. Sometimes he would lose large amounts of weight and become skinny like a toothpick. The physical changes would never affect his character, though. He always kept his upbeat attitude, and he never showed any signs of fear or sadness.

Earlier this year, Greg's condition took a turn for the worse. His doctor told him that he had to come to the hospital every day for antibiotics, potassium and platelets. Since Greg's foster mom lived a good hour from the hospital, the daily hospital visit was going to pose a problem. Greg's foster mom was trying to find him a foster home closer to the hospital, so my dad applied to become a foster parent so we could take Greg under our roof. We lived less than a mile from the hospital so we thought it would be perfect. Unfortunately, the foster-care people didn't see my father as financially stable enough, and Greg ended up staying with a Russian couple who already had two foster kids.

I brought my Sony Playstation along with me when I visited him during his daily four-hour stays at the hospital. One time when I was keeping him company, I asked about his prognosis. He told me, “They've tried everything there is to try, and I might die.” I couldn't believe how honest he was with me.

He was really thin, just under one hundred pounds, but I felt confident that he would be all right. After some strong antibiotics and other medications he was taking, he eventually did get better. He packed on a few pounds, grew some hair, and soon we were back to hanging out and playing video games together. We went to see
The
Matrix,
which Greg decided was his all-time favorite movie. We were at the apex of happiness, and things couldn't have been better. Then,
bam!
Like a sniper's bullet, Greg was suddenly hit with a nasty infection. The chemo had affected his immune system, making him vulnerable to bacteria that was looking for a place to set up shop. Greg was once again hospitalized and bedridden. I prayed for him every time I visited.

First he lost his ability to play video games, then his ability to speak, and finally he started to slip in and out of a coma-like sleep throughout the course of the day. This continued until one Sunday night, when I went upstairs to visit Greg after receiving my blood transfusion. As I entered his room, a great sadness hit me as I saw him lying in the small bed covered in pink blankets. His eyes were closed, and every breath he took seemed as though it may be his last. He had about six tubes connected to him and four machines all around him. I wanted to push the button on the machine that administered morphine because he appeared to be in tremendous pain. I felt scared because he didn't look as if he would recover. I took his hand, which was as cold as ice, and said a prayer. I prayed for divine action and for Greg's soul to do whatever it needed to do, even if that meant going back to the other side. My dad then came to take me home, so we said our good-byes and headed back to the house. I got a good night's sleep, but the next day we got a call and found out that Greg had passed away about two hours after we left.

Knowing Greg changed my life. Greg's struggle with leukemia made me realize that no matter how bad I feel sometimes, there are people who have it worse. Even though I have to go through life with a blood disease, Greg's death taught me to be thankful for what I have rather than sad for what I do not.

Cassius Weathersby III

Timeless Friendship

Growing up, I often found myself living with my grandmother for indefinite periods of time while my mother was in and out of treatment centers for drug and alcohol addiction. My parents divorced when I was two. My father (my custodial parent), being a firefighter, had to be away for twenty-four-hour shifts. This was when I stayed with my Gram. I was old enough to somewhat understand what was going on with my mom but still young enough to see it as an opportunity to spend as much time as possible with my grandma. To me, it was an endless slumber party, full of Tile Rummy, staying up past my bedtime and playing with the boy across the street, Matt Luke.

Matt was three years older than I, but we were always able to find something to do together. In the winter, we would sled on the giant hill behind my grandma's house. In the summer, we enjoyed games of tag and hide-and-seek with the other neighborhood kids. Boys didn't yet have cooties, nor were they creatures to be admired. Life wasn't that complicated. I didn't see him as a boy, but as a friend.

On the days I was at my grandma's, I would casually sun myself on the porch, waiting for Matt to notice I was there and saunter over. If it was just the two of us, we'd sit and chat for a while then gradually make our way into the house so we could race each other down the stairs— our favorite pastime. We'd sit, we'd run, we'd lie on our stomachs. Stair races became a very creative—and competitive—event. However, they never lasted long. My grandmother would eventually chase us off the stairs (something about ruining the carpet; grandmothers are funny that way) and into the living room, where we would settle down with a quiet game of bingo.

No one has the perfect childhood, and Matt and I were certainly no exceptions to that rule. Even now, I couldn't tell you exactly what his problems were; we never discussed them in detail. I just knew they existed. There was no need to tell each other sob stories. Words weren't necessary. Just being able to sit there in mutual understanding was enough.

Inevitably, time moved on, and both of us grew older. I was living with my grandmother less and less, and eventually Matt moved away from the house across the street. Time passed, and our friendship became virtually nonexistent.

My thoughts drifted to Matt only occasionally, as my life became occupied with the endless hassles of middle school, and eventually high school. What had once been a thriving friendship had been reduced to a few faded photographs in a dusty album under my bed.

Then, less than a month after my seventeenth birthday, I found myself in a position I had dreaded all my life: preparing for the funeral of my beloved Gram.

Her passing wasn't sudden; she had been in and out of the hospital for some time. But to me it never seemed quite real. Not until I was faced with the harsh reality of looking into the now forever-closed eyes of the woman who had been my best friend.

During the visitation, I was thanking the other mourners for coming when I saw Matt's Aunt Kathy coming over to me. Kathy and her family had lived in the house that once belonged to Matt, and she, too, had become like a daughter to my grandmother. A flash of Matt came to my mind and I said more to myself than to her, “I wonder if Matt knows.”

She put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Andrea, I honestly don't know. I haven't talked to him, and I know he is in school, but I'll try and call.”

I didn't hold out much hope of seeing him at the funeral. I hadn't spoken to him in almost ten years. So when I walked into the church that night and saw Kathy sitting alone, I wasn't surprised.

Near the end of the service, there was a time for sharing memories about my grandmother. Many people spoke. Clutching the microphone, voice shaking, I did my best to share a couple of the countless memories I had of her. Then at the end, a voice rose from the back of the sanctuary. The words will forever remain engraved in my heart.

“Ahem . . . well, I don't know if Andrea remembers me . . . but I'm little Matt Luke. . . .” He went on to tell a beautiful story about the times the three of us had shared, and how my grandmother had always felt like a grandmother to him.

After the service, I buried my face in his chest and cried. No words were spoken. They weren't needed. The connection had been restored. This was a boy, now a man, whom I had not seen nor spoken to in ten years. He had found out about the funeral the night before. He had his own commitments—school and work—but he came anyway because he knew it was important to me. Knowing that he had put his life on hold to be there for me still brings tears to my eyes.

Matt and I have only talked a handful of times since the funeral, but he is a constant presence in my heart. He is not only a friend, but an angel sent by my Gram at a time I needed one most.

Andrea Wellman

Grandma's Words of Wisdom

The little girl's grandma lies dying in bed,
She stands nearby listening to what is said.
Her eyes hold tears she tries hard not to show,
Her grandma smiles, for there isn't much she doesn't
know.

“Sweetheart, don't you worry at all about me,
Forever you will hold me in your memory.
I have lived to a rather ripe, old age,
Compare it to a storybook, each day has a new page.

“You will end up facing challenges, don't give up hope,
Just use your heart to make decisions, and you will always
   cope.
One must be strong to live with successes and strife,
I know this now from my experiences in life.

“You'll have many choices you'll have to make,
And yes, dear, many times your heart will break.
Despite the pain and tears, your heart will always heal,
Never give into temptation, don't let yourself steal.

“Listen to my words, my dear child, they are true,
These are the things when I was your age I wish I knew.”
With a slight smile and a squeeze of her hand,
Grandma hoped she helped the little girl to understand.

She kissed her grandma gently as she slowly closed her
   eyes,
And with Grandma's wisdom in her heart, she said her
   last good-bye.

Heather Deederly

Smiles in My Heart

One of my first memories is of my Gramma cuddling with me in the rocking chair in her kitchen. She would sing in my ear and call me Dolly, and tell me how much she loved me, her first-born grandchild. Whenever I stayed overnight, she would give me a bath with warm, white bubbles and then wrap me in the fluffiest towels she had. She made me feel safe.

She would peel the skin off apples, cut the apples into little pieces and sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on them because that was the way I loved them. She let me put as many different kinds of sprinkles and syrups on my ice cream as I wanted. She would buy root beer when I was coming to visit and always made sure the glass was at least half-full of foam because that was my favorite part. And then she would refill it again and again until I was full of root-beer foam. She made me feel special.

I remember sitting on her bed watching her get ready to go out and being amazed by her rituals. She smelled of Dove soap and Noxzema cream. She wore a red shade of lipstick that came in a green tube. On Saturday nights she would wash her hair in the kitchen sink, twist her hair into little waves, and hold them together with bobby pins so that in the morning she would have curls in her hair. She was beautiful.

Her voice was warm and made me feel safe, like fireplace fires and hot chocolate on snowy days. Her laugh was strong and clear; when she laughed with me the rest of the world didn't exist. I felt like I was the only thing she cared about. In the same way, her tears when I was sad made me feel like I would never be alone. She yelled at me once when I was mad at my mom. When I went storming out the door, all she said was, “I love you.”

She let me ruin those tubes of lipstick when I'd play dress-up in her clothes and shoes. She taught me how to play bingo, and when I sat with her, staying up way past my bedtime, playing with her in a smoke-filled room of old ladies, I felt so cool. When I was seventeen, I knew she was dying. I would spend the night at her house, and she would still wait up for me to get in, half-asleep and snoring on the couch. When she lay dying in her hospital bed, she called me to come to her from where I stood hiding in the corner, and though her grip was weak and her lips pale, she held my hand and kissed me. She was dying, yet she comforted me.

She passed away four years ago. Sometimes it feels like it was yesterday. Entering her house, I sometimes expect to find her sitting at the table. There are times when it occurs to me that I have skipped thinking of her for one day or that I have misplaced the sound of her laugh or the healing of her touch, and it frightens me. I thank God when I remember. I thank God when I am able to cry because that means I have not forgotten her. I thank God that she was my Gramma, and I will always love her.

Sara Tylutki

Let's Go Dancing in the Rain

Spring break of 1999 was perfect—I got to spend the entire time with my friends just vegging and hanging out. Of course, there was that English project due the day I got back, which I put off until the Sunday before. I was sitting at my computer furiously making up an essay when my little sister walked in from softball practice eating a snow cone and laughing with a sticky smile.

“Whatcha working on?” she asked lightheartedly.

I smiled at her appearance and told her that it was just an English essay. I turned back and continued clacking away. From behind my shoulder she tried to start a conversation.

“So . . .” she began. “You know a kid in your grade named Justin? Justin Schultz?” She licked at a drip on her snow cone.

“Yeah, I know him,” I replied. I had gone to elementary school with Justin. He had to be the greatest guy I knew. He never stopped smiling. Justin had tried to teach me to play soccer in the third grade. I couldn't get it, so he smiled and told me to do my best and cheer everyone else on. I'd kind of lost touch with him in the last year, but I told my sister yes, anyway.