I was queasy with nerves at my first appointment with the psychologist. He was an old guy, but he was funny. He told me about a time that he was giving a speech at the local high school. “My microphone wouldn’t work, so the janitor hopped up on the stage to check out the equipment. After a bit of fiddling, the janitor shouted, ‘There’s a screw loose in the speaker!’” I giggled and the knot in my stomach disappeared.
He listened quietly as I told him about my problem. “Your racing heart, tingling hands and your need to escape sound like classic symptoms of a panic attack,” he told me. “In a panic attack, your body reacts like someone just jumped out of the closet and scared you, but, really, no one is there. Many people suffer with panic disorder. With some work on your part, and courage, it is a condition that can be overcome.”
I leaned back into the chair’s overstuffed cushion. I felt so relieved to have a name for what was happening to me. I was having panic attacks, and I wasn’t the only one in the world, either.
The next few times I met with my therapist, he taught me relaxation exercises. He told me to close my eyes and picture a calm place. “I’m lying on the beach on a sunny July Fourth day,” I told him. “Just leave before the fireworks,” he joked. Then I had to imagine that my muscles were so relaxed and heavy that they were sinking into the warm sand. I was supposed to breathe deeply and slowly. We talked about how to use these techniques until a panic attack ended.
When I mastered these exercises, the psychologist took me to a 4 P.M. field trip to my school. I sat at my desk in the empty classroom and practiced my relaxation. We walked around the school until I felt comfortable.
“Tomorrow, you’ll have to try a full classroom,” he said.
My stomach tightened. “What if the teacher won’t let me leave the class if I have to? What if the nurse won’t let me go home?” I asked.
“We can take care of those fears,” he assured me. My therapist made special arrangements with my teachers. They agreed that I could leave the room without asking for a pass, and the nurse would let me call home, no questions asked.
I was shaking the first morning when I entered homeroom, but my friends gathered around me and told me how great it was to have me there. “I’ve missed you guys,” I told them. I was glad to be back.
It wasn’t easy, though. The panic attacks were still the scariest things I’d ever experienced. Sometimes, I could stay in the classroom and relax through them. Other times, I slipped out the door and sat in the hall until they passed.
The popular kids made a warped game of trying to gross me out so I would leave the class. They would make disgusting vomiting noises or stare at me with their eyelids turned inside out. I was so mad that I forced myself to stay in my seat. In a twisted way, their being mean actually helped me.
My real friends stood by me, though, and every day got a bit easier. Before my eighth-grade graduation, there was a school talent show. I played the piano in front of a full auditorium. When the judges handed me the first-place trophy, my parents and friends gave me a standing ovation. I felt so proud of myself, not because I’d won, but because I’d beaten the panic attacks. I couldn’t wait for high school.
Marie-Therese Miller
Believing in My Strength
What lies behind us and what lies ahead of us are tiny matters compared to what lies within us.
Oliver Wendell Holmes
I am different from a lot of other kids. I have cerebral palsy, which happened to me before I was born. I was born really early, and I had an injury to my brain; because of this I am not able to use some of the muscles in my body in a normal way. Kids like me who have CP may not be able to walk, talk, eat or play the same way as most other kids do.
One of my legs is shorter and smaller than my other leg. I don’t have very much control over that leg and foot; for example, I can hardly bend my toes. When I try to move that foot, I get a tingly kind of pins-and-needles sensation, like it has fallen asleep. I have to wear a brace on my leg to keep it from curling up, and that makes it hard for me to balance. I bump into things a lot. You may think it is no big deal to have a weak leg and to come in last in all of the races you compete in . . . but it is. When you are growing up, you don’t want to be the one who always lags behind.
Because I walk differently and wear a brace, kids call me “retard” and other names. People even imitate the way I run. You honestly don’t know how cruel kids can be unless you experience it. I try to rise above it, but sometimes I just have to cry my feelings out. Sometimes I come home with my eyes red from crying. It’s not fun to be made fun of over something that I can’t control.
CP is not an illness or a disease. It isn’t contagious. It will never go away. I will never grow out of it; I will have CP for my whole life. Over the years, I have learned to rise above the people who don’t understand my situation. I have learned to look for my strong points and not be pulled down by my weaker ones. One of my strong points is singing, and I try to focus on that. I try especially hard at whatever I do. I think that is something that keeps me going every day.
If you have some kind of disability, I encourage you to start today to do something that makes you happy. You can do whatever you believe you can. Talk to someone who may struggle with the same thing that you do, because it may help you a lot.
I hope my story inspires you to take a better look at life and to let you know there are kids just like you who have a hard time, too. Just don’t let your hard times take the place of your dreams, and keep reaching for the stars.
Kelsey Peters, ten
[EDITORS’ NOTE: For information on cerebral palsy go to www.cdc.gov/ncbddd.]
8
FAMILY
TIES
A family’s more special than diamonds or jewels
Or money or treasures galore
Its power, warmth and comfort
Is something that’s not sold in stores
You share love with your family
They are people around you that care
And every day, from morning to night
Your family will always be there.
Jaimee Silber, eleven
Pushed by an Angel
Mom was running as fast as she could, knowing that her four-year-old daughter’s life depended on it.
Melanie was going down the driveway, pushing along her doll buggy, completely unaware of the car that could have ended her life.
“Melanie! Stop right there!” Mom screamed as she watched the car come speeding up the road.
Melanie looked over at Mom and saw her running toward her. She must have thought her mom was playing a game, because she giggled and started running away. My dad, my two brothers and I were watching from the front deck, stunned.
As we all watched, my mom fell hard to the ground. Melanie looked back and saw Mom on the ground, unable to breathe. She started walking toward her, scared that Mom was hurt badly. The car passed our house. Two more steps toward the road and Melanie would have been hit.
My mom got up and picked up Melanie, holding her tight. When she finally caught her breath, she came up to the deck where we all were and said, “Who pushed me? Why did you push me?”
We looked at her with amazement and told her we hadn’t moved. She kept saying that she had felt hands right on the middle of her back—and those hands shoved her HARD. At first, we all thought she was crazy. Now we believe that it was a guardian angel that pushed my mom to the ground. We realized that if my mom had kept running, Melanie would’ve kept running too, and she would have gone right out onto the road. The car would have ended her life. We now believe in guardian angels and believe that Melanie was very lucky that her guardian angel was looking out for her that afternoon.
I’m thankful that I have my little sister today. At times she is annoying, and I may call her names sometimes. But every time I get upset with her, I remember that day, and how Melanie was saved when my mom was pushed by an angel.
Erin Carthew, twelve
/> Three Days Old
Cherish your human connections: your relationships with friends and family.
Barbara Bush
The first time I held my little brother, Michael, he was only three days old. I was nine. It was the morning after he and my mom came home from the hospital. I woke up because I heard him crying from within my parents’ bedroom. We lived in a pretty small apartment, and I could hear my parents awake and moving around in the kitchen. So, why didn’t they hear him crying? I thought. I lay in bed waiting for someone to go to him. I decided that as soon as someone did, I would rush out of my bedroom to meet the baby. But Michael kept crying. Then I sensed an opportunity . . . should I go to him? Quickly, before anyone else could hear him, I crept toward my parents’ room.
I had only seen him once before, at the hospital, when I looked through a big glass window into a nursery with a lot of babies lying in tiny plastic cribs. When my dad pointed to him and said, “Congratulations, new big sister, that’s your new baby brother!” I secretly felt terribly disappointed. Michael was the ugliest baby in the whole place! His face was all red and blotchy, his nose was mashed down to one side, the top of his hairless, pointy head seemed kind of orange, and compared to the other newborns, he looked like a blimp! I imagined the kids in the neighborhood teasing me for having such an ugly brother. Well, I had thought to myself at the time, I still love him and at least he’s mine. I’ve waited so, so long for him.
Now that I was inside my parents’ room, I was nervous and excited as I did a fast tiptoe over to Michael. This was our chance to be alone with one another. To really meet for the first time. There in the crib, which used to be mine, lay the most beautiful baby in the world. (In my opinion, anyway.) Yes, it was the same baby from the hospital, all right. But he looked much better! He was still practically bald, but now there were little indications of reddish-blond hair. His skin looked smooth and soft. He had these big, blue eyes that so resembled marbles, I wondered if they actually were. I just stared at him for a second. Was he real?
Carefully, I picked him up. I made sure to place one hand under his head for support. I held him close to me, closer than I had ever held anyone before.
“Hi,” I whispered, “. . . hi.” I wondered if he could understand hi.
I was in love—love that I knew would never go away. Not the mushy kind of love like girl-boy love. Not like the way you love a friend. And not like loving a mother or father, either. It was special. I had been waiting for years to share it, because I had been an only child. I had always been lonely, especially when it rained and I had to play at home by myself. I felt empty when I watched my friends get hugs from their little sisters and brothers when we all arrived home from school. My parents were fun, loving and kind. Yet, I sensed a blank space in our family. An extra picture frame with no photo. Something missing. I felt it. And it made me feel alone. Finally, after all these years of waiting, I didn’t have to feel that way anymore. “How come you took so long to get here?” I breathed.
I was finally a sister. Better yet, I was Mikey’s big sister. And he was my little brother. My own brother. He was so small—so dependent on me—yet, I needed him, too. I whispered more secrets to him. I told him I would love him no matter what. Good or bad, together or apart, I would always have love for him in my heart for the rest of my life. I wished with all my soul that he could understand me, even though I knew he couldn’t—he was only three days old. Still, I wanted to tell him how lucky I felt. After nine years of growing up without him, I was old enough to realize something that most kids took for granted when their own brothers or sisters were born. Having a sibling in one’s life is a gift straight from God.
I had friends, but my cousin had always told me, “Friends will come and go; family is forever.” At the time, it seemed to be a weird thing to say. Holding Mikey now, I understood that special bond. Nothing could ever come between us. And, this very morning, I was given a chance to tell him that in private. I was smiling and sniffling all at the same time.
Mikey rested his little bald, orange head on my shoulder. He wasn’t crying at all now. He closed his marbley eyes and fell fast asleep in my nine-year-old arms. Maybe, deep down, he had understood me after all.
Jill Helene Fettner
Cookin’ in Brooke’s Kitchen
Let us not be content to wait and see what will happen, but give us the determination to make the right things happen.
Peter Marshall
When I was six years old my five-year-old cousin, Juliana, got sick. My brother and I were in the family room watching television when my mom came in to tell us the bad news. I wasn’t really sure what “cancer” meant, but I could tell it wasn’t a good thing. My parents’ faces were full of worry and tears, and that was enough to make me cry, too.
I asked, “Mom, what’s the matter with Juliana? What is cancer?” My mom told us that Juliana had been diagnosed with ALL leukemia, a cancer of the blood and bone. My brother and I were so frightened, we really didn’t even know what to think.
When we went to see Juliana in the hospital, she was lying in bed, and she had all these tubes and things hooked to her. It was confusing and scary.
As her treatments continued, Juliana seemed to be getting sicker and sicker. Every time I visited her, she looked different. The medication she took caused her to gain a lot of weight, and she lost all of her long, beautiful hair. I couldn’t understand what the doctors were doing to her—it seemed like they were making her feel worse—not better.
Seeing my cousin in so much pain made me feel like my own heart was aching. Something needed to be done. I knew I wanted to help her get better faster, but at six years old, I wasn’t sure how I could make a difference—I just knew I had to do something to help my cousin.
One night after we visited Juliana, all the way home I couldn’t stop thinking about her. A hospital can be a very scary, cold place. I imagined how alone Juliana must have felt lying there during the night.
When we got home, I sat down at our kitchen table. I always liked writing stories and drawing pictures, and I started working at it like I had done so many other nights. But this night was different—I was thinking about Juliana. I thought, What if I can sell my drawings? Then I can give the money to Juliana’s doctors to help her get well faster and out of that hospital.
When I told my parents, they thought it was a wonderful idea—but then we came up with an even better one. We would make a cookbook. I really liked cooking and baking plus writing and drawing—a cookbook had all these things combined.
The very next day, I asked all of our family and friends to send me their favorite recipes. To my surprise, everyone jumped at the chance to help. Mom helped to put everything together. Grandma typed recipes while I drew pictures that went into different sections of the cookbook. My idea for a small cookbook quickly grew to over one hundred pages.
The local skating club paid for the first printing. We sold almost 300 books in our first week. I couldn’t believe the response. I felt really good! I have never felt anything like it before.
Now the cookbook, which is called, Cookin’ in Brooke’s Kitchen, is in its fourth printing and, because of many requests, I am starting on a second cookbook. My wish to help my cousin has ended up helping lots of people. The money from the cookbook has all been donated to the Leukemia Research Fund of Canada. In fact, enough money has been raised to fund two research fellowships. I have been lucky enough to meet many leukemia survivors, and lots of them have shared their stories with me. Hearing their stories made me feel important and like I really have been able to make a difference.
Juliana recently turned eight and she is doing great! I often think back to the times we sat in the hospital making miles of paper chains to pass the time. We must have decorated most of her hospital wing! The coolest thing is that she says I am her best friend and favorite cousin.
Now that my cousin Juliana is healed, I am too. The heartache I felt was a part of the love I have for my fami
ly. I’m glad that not only was I able to help heal the pain within my own family, but also to help with what happens to other families, too. I guess life is all about mixing up the right ingredients—it takes equal parts of love and action to make the world a better place.
Brooke Harrison, nine
As told by Eryc Stevens
[EDITORS’ NOTE: To find out more about leukemia log on to www.leukemia.ca or www.leukemia.org.]
Reprinted by permission of Leigh Rubin and Creators Syndicate, Inc.
Paybacks
Revenge is often like biting a dog because the dog bit you.
Austin O’Malley
I learned the danger of revenge and letting a “payback” escalate out of control the day I woke up with a long, curled black mustache on my upper lip. My sister had ever-so-carefully drawn it with a permanent marker as I slept!
It all began when I was eleven, the summer before I started seventh grade. My family had moved across state and since my boyfriend, David, and all of my childhood friends were in another town, I was miserable and dreading the start of a new school year. My sister, Rose, who is two years older, was bored and angry. And so, that summer we shared a room and a lot of pent-up frustration toward our parents and our situation. I guess feeling so powerless about an unwanted move made us feel a need to reclaim our power—any way that we could.
Our emotions led us to play crazy “practical jokes” on each other, which then spiraled into getting even, or paybacks, as we called it. It was my sister who really started it all.