Carrie shook her head. "No, Mommy, we need five. Gramps is going to come."
"Oh, honey," Mom said.
"He's coming," my sister said flatly. "I know he is."
"Carrie, give us a break. He isn't coming and you know it," I said. I didn't want to see her day spoiled by crushing disappointment.
"John, let her be." Mom looked at Carrie. "Set an extra place then."
Dad came in from the living room. He stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets, looking at Carrie as she set the table.
Finally we sat down to dinner. For a moment we were all silent. Then, glancing at Carrie, Mom said, "I guess we had better say grace now. Carrie?"
My sister looked toward the door. Then she set her chin, bowed her head and mumbled, "Please bless us, O Lord, and the food we are about to eat. And bless Grandpa . . . and help him to hurry. Thank you, God."
Shooting glances at each other, we sat in silence, no one willing to seal Grandpa's absence and disappoint Carrie by eating. The clock ticked in the hallway.
Suddenly there was a muffled knocking at the door. Carrie leapt to her feet and ran down the hallway. She tore open the door. "Gramps!"
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He stood straight in his black, shiny suit, the only one he owned, pressing a black fedora against his chest with one hand and dangling a brown paper bag with the other. "I bring squash," he said, holding up the bag.
Several months later, Grandpa died quietly in his sleep. Cleaning out his dresser, I found a blue envelope, a folded piece of paper inside. It was a child's drawing of our kitchen table with five chairs around it. One of the chairs was empty, the others occupied by faded stick figures labeled Momy, Dady, Johny and Carrie. Hearts were drawn on the four of us, each cracked jaggedly down the middle.
John Catenacci
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She Remembered
My mother is the sweetest, most kind-hearted person you would ever want to meet. She was always very bright and articulate, and would do anything for anyone. We've always had a close and special relationship. She is also someone whose brain is being ravaged and whose identity is being stripped away slowly because of Alzheimer's disease. She has been slipping away from us for 10 years now. For me, it is a constant death, a slow letting go and a continual grieving process. Although she had lost almost all ability to care for herself, she at least still knew her immediate family. I knew the day would come when that, too, would change and finally, about two-and-a-half years ago, that day came.
My parents would visit us almost daily and we would have a pleasant time, but suddenly there was a connection missing. My mother no longer knew me as her daughter. She would tell my father, "Oh, they are such nice people." Telling her I was her daughter made no difference at all. I had now joined the ranks of a "nice neighbor." When I would hug her good-bye, I would close my eyes and imagine that this was my mother from years ago. I would drink in every familiar sensation that I have known for 36 yearsher warm comforting body, the squeeze of her arms and
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the soft, sweet smell that was hers alone.
This part of the disease was difficult for me to accept and deal with. I was going through a rough time in my life and particularly felt the need for my mother. I prayed for us both and about how much I needed her.
One late summer afternoon while I was preparing dinner, my prayers were answered and I was taken by surprise. My parents and husband were outside on the patio when my mother suddenly jumped up as if hit by a bolt of lightning. She ran into the kitchen, grabbed me gently from behind and turned me around. With a deep sense of knowledge in her eyes that seemed to transcend time and space, she tearfully and with great emotion asked me if it was true, was I her baby? Overwhelmed with emotion, I cried, yes, it was true. We hugged and cried and neither of us wanted to let go of this magical moment. I knew it could disappear as quickly as it came. She said she felt a closeness to me and that I was a nice person, but that it had come to her suddenly that I was her child. We felt relief and joy. I took this gift from God and savored it, even if it were to last just for that moment or hour or day. We were given a reprieve from that awful disease and we had a special connection again. There was a sparkle back in her eyes that had been gone for a long time.
Although my mother's condition has continued to deteriorate, she remembers who I am and it has been a year since that sweet summer afternoon. She gives me a special look and smile that seems to say, "We are in on a secret that no one else knows about." A few months ago when she was here and we had another visitor, she started stroking my hair and told them proudly, "Did you know that she was my baby?"
Lisa Boyd
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Rescued
A little girl whose parents had died lived with her grandmother and slept in an upstairs bedroom.
One night there was a fire in the house and the grandmother perished while trying to rescue the child. The fire spread quickly, and the first floor of the house was soon engulfed in flames.
Neighbors called the fire department, then stood helplessly by, unable to enter the house because flames blocked all the entrances. The little girl appeared at an upstairs window, crying for help, just as word spread among the crowd that firefighters would be delayed a few minutes because they were all at another fire.
Suddenly, a man appeared with a ladder, put it up against the side of the house and disappeared inside. When he reappeared, he had the little girl in his arms. He delivered the child to the waiting arms below, then disappeared into the night.
An investigation revealed that the child had no living relatives, and weeks later a meeting was held in the town hall to determine who would take the child into their home and bring her up.
A teacher said she would like to raise the child. She pointed out that she could ensure a good education. A farmer offered her an upbringing on his farm. He
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pointed out that living on a farm was healthy and satisfying. Others spoke, giving their reasons why it was to the child's advantage to live with them.
Finally, the town's richest resident arose and said, I can give this child all the advantages that you have mentioned here, plus money and everything that money can buy.''
Throughout all this, the child remained silent, her eyes on the floor.
"Does anyone else want to speak?" asked the meeting chairman. A man came forward from the back of the hall. His gait was slow and he seemed in pain. When he got to the front of the room, he stood directly before the little girl and held out his arms. The crowd gasped. His hand and arms were terribly scarred.
The child cried out, "This is the man who rescued me!" With a leap, she threw her arms around the man's neck, holding on for dear life, just as she had that fateful night. She buried her face in his shoulder and sobbed for a few moments. Then she looked up and smiled at him.
"This meeting is adjourned," said the chairman.
Author Unknown
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Little Eyes Upon You
There are little eyes upon you
and they're watching night and day.
There are little ears that quickly
take in every word you say.
There are little hands all eager
to do anything you do;
And a little boy who's dreaming
of the day he'll be like you.
You're the little fellow's idol,
you're the wisest of the wise.
In his little mind about you
no suspicions ever rise.
He believes in you devoutly,
holds all you say and do;
He will say and do, in your way
when he's grown up just like you.
There's a wide-eyed little fellow
who believes you're always right;
and his eyes are always opened,
and he watches day and night.
You are setting an example
every day in all you do;
For
the little boy who's waiting
to grow up to be like you.
Author Unknown
Submitted by Ronald Dahlsten
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3
ON DEATH AND DYING
Death is a challenge.
It tells us not to waste time . . .
It tells us to tell each other right
now that we love each other.
Leo F Buscaglia
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Go Into the Light
Until about six years ago, the most unique commodity in Gilroy, California was garlic; and then a little angel was born. Shannon Brace was a miracle baby born to her mother, Laurie, who had been told years before that she could never have children. She had been carrying twins for three-and-a-half months when one of the twins died. Little Shannon then showed her first courageous signs of never giving up and held on for life. Shannon was diagnosed at age two-and-a-half with cancer. Her doctors said she would not live long, but with love and determination she lived a couple more years.
At one point, doctors needed to harvest bone marrow from her pelvic bone. Shannon had an endodermal sinus tumor, or germ cell cancer. Only 75 out of 7,500 children who get cancer each year are diagnosed with germ cell cancer.
Shannon experienced two years of chemotherapy before she had a bone marrow transplant. It is a life-threatening operation with an unsure outcome. An autologous bone marrow transplant along with a near-lethal dose of chemotherapy kept her teetering along the path of life and death.
She was told she would never walk after chemotherapy and she would be paralyzed. She did walk,
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although she weighed only 27 pounds. Laurie said, "The will these children have is incredible." Her courage was astounding even up to the end, with a vivacious commitment to never give up. Shannon received a trophy at a Santa Clara beauty pageant, an award for courage.
Shannon's father, Larry, was disabled from a motorcycle accident that broke his back, neck and both legsaround the same time Shannon's disease was discovered. Larry, who stayed home during the day with Shannon, says, "She had the strongest will to live. She wanted to prove people wrong."
Laurie explains that her family lives on hope. You'd never know that Shannon understood she was dying by watching her. She was always full of enthusiasm, love and an overwhelming concern for others around her. During Shannon's stay at Stanford Medical Center, she lost more best friends in a few short years to death than most elderly people do in a lifetime.
During one of Shannon's more sober moments, she awoke at night, sat up straight and, holding her parents tight, she asked her mother not to make her go to heaven. Laurie responded with her voice breaking, "God, how I wish I could promise you."
Sometimes she was even a little stinker. In a grocery store one day with her mother, a friendly man decided to be humorous as he said, "You sure shaved his head close!" Not meaning to offend, Shannon responded, "You know, sir, I am a little girl and I have cancer and I might die."
One morning with Shannon coughing excessively, her mom said, "We'll have to go to Stanford again."
"No, I'm okay," Shannon piped up.
"I think we need to go, Shannon."
"No, I only have a cold."
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"Shannon we need to go!"
"Okay, but only for three days or I'm hitchhiking home."
Shannon's perseverance and optimism afforded her a full life to those who were blessed to surround her.
Shannon's life was concentrated outside of herself and her needs. At times when she would be lying in a hospital bed very ill, she would often jump up to assist a roommate upon hearing of their needs.
Another day, seeing a stranger walking by their home looking very sad, she ran outside, handed him a flower and wished him a happy day.
And on another occasion, as Shannon was lying in the Stanford Children's Hospital one Friday afternoon, moans slipped past her lips as she held her favorite, but worn, blankie. Coming out of anesthesia, she alternated hiccups and sobs. Again, she pushed past her needs as she inquired to the well-being of those around her.
One of her first questions was to her mother just as her eyelids were opening: "How you doing?"
"I'm fine, Shannie," said her mom, "How are you?"
As soon as her hiccups and cries passed, she said, "I'm okay."
Shannon got directly involved in local fund-raisers, as their family's insurance wouldn't cover her treatment. She walked into a Gilroy cannery and walked up to the first person she saw and began carrying on a conversation. She was full of light and love for everyone. She never noticed differences between people. She eventually said, "I have cancer and I might die." Later, when this same man was asked if he would donate tin cans from his cannery to Shannon's cause, he said, "Give her anything she wants, including a business card."
Shannon's mother, Laurie, summarizes Shannon
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and other terminally ill children in the following way: "They take every bit of life and pull it out to the end. They are not important anymore; it is the world around them that is important."
At age four, as little angel Shannon was hovering between life and death, her family knew it was her time to go. Gathering around her bedside, they encouraged her to walk toward the tunnel of light. Shannon responded, "It's too bright." Encouraged to walk toward the angels, she replied, "They are singing too loud."
If you were to walk by little Shannon's headstone at the Gilroy cemetery, you would read this from her family: "May you always walk hand in hand with the other angels. There is nothing in this world that will ever change our love."
On October 10, 1991, the Dispatch, Gilroy's local newspaper, ran this letter that 12-year-old Damien Codara wrote to his friend Shannon before she died:
Go to the light, Shannon, where those who have gone before you wait, with anticipation of feeling your presence. They will welcome you with open arms, combined with love, laughter and feelings that are the happiest that could be possibly felt by anyone, on earth or in heaven. Shannon, there is no pain or suffering. Sadness is an absolute impossibility. When you enter the light you can play with all of your friends that mysteriously disappeared while you were so gallantly battling the evil plague of cancer, and dodging cleverly the Grim Reaper's angry hand of the darkness that he possesses.
Those that are still on earth will certainly miss you deeply and long for your sense of specialness, but you will live in our hearts and spirits. You are the reason that all people who knew you were somehow brought closer to each other.
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What is truly amazing is the way that, no matter what problems or complicated obstacles you had confront you, you consistently overpowered and overcame every one of them. However, sadly the final confrontation overcame you. Instead of thinking that you gave up, we admire your braveness and gallantry. We are somewhat relieved that you are finally going to feel the freedom of being a regular little girl and know that you've probably accomplished more than most of us will ever accomplish.
The hearts you've touched will never lose the feeling of love. So, Shannon, when you suddenly find yourself alone in a dark tunnel and a pinpoint of light is visible, remember us, Shannie, and find the courage to go into the light.
Donna Loesch
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Suki . . . A Best Friend for All Reasons
As a small child, I could not understand why I should pray for human beings only. When my mother had kissed me goodnight, I used to add a silent prayer that I had composed for all living creatures.