Knight in Shining Armor

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Dad

BY: Natalie June Reilly

Certain is it that there is no kind of affection so purely angelic as of a father to a daughter.
In love to our wives there is desire; to our sons, ambition; but to our daughters there is something
which there are no words to express.
~Joseph Addison

One of the sweetest things in life is stumbling upon precious moments in the everyday lives of everyday people and discovering everyday truths. A few years ago, I was dropping my boys off at the school bus stop on a cold winter morning. I noticed a lumberjack-looking man standing quietly with his hands dug deep into his pockets amongst a herd of wiry elementary-aged kids. These kids had this man completely surrounded. However, this burly-looking man had eyes for only one little girl -- his daughter, a petite little princess in pigtails who had his eyes and who clung to his side.

This wasn't the first time I had seen this particular dad at the bus stop. In fact, this guy was there every morning, rain or shine, to see his little girl off. The thing is, it's not unusual to see suburban, stay-at-home moms standing at the bus stop with their kids. But to see a dad standing there... well, I guess you could say he stood out. And on this particular morning, I witnessed something that struck a chord inside of me, inspiring me to preserve it in ink.

When the yellow school bus arrived, the small circle of children swirled into a wild flurry of energy around him as they clumsily (and quite shrilly) climbed onto the bus. I watched as the burly dad, an unassuming man, blew kisses at his daughter while she managed to march her little legs up the large steps.

He watched her patiently as she made her way down the long, skinny aisle until she -- his pretty little princess -- finally settled into her seat somewhere in the middle of the bus. She didn't spare a moment, pressing her pink nose up against the cold glass window, smiling at him confidently. From the sappy expression written all over his face, I was certain that this dad was smitten. She had him -- this brawny man who stood out like a sore thumb in the middle of suburbia -- tied hopelessly around her little finger. And, judging by her confident expression, she knew it.

This little girl's dad took two gallant strides forward and with two gentle strokes, he drew a heart in the condensation that dampened her window. His little girl's smile radiated the kind of certainty every little girl should have. And as the bus drove away, the two waved goodbye. I continued to watch as this dad stood with his hands dug deep in his pockets, sturdy as a knight, until the bus rounded the corner and drew out of sight.

This scene was affirmation to me of how significant the role of a dad is in the life of a little girl. He is the first man that she will ever love and the last man to determine how she will continue her pursuit of love. This particular little girl will know what it means to be loved by the man in her life. She will know what it is that she deserves, nothing short of butterfly kisses, heart shapes drawn and the infinite knowledge that he will be there to love and protect her, far beyond when she has rounded the corner from his sight.

So many little girls grow up in a sea of disappointment, never knowing that initial safekeeping and adoration from their dads, and they spend their entire lives on a futile search for it. Hats off to those dads who are brave enough to draw lasting impressions in the hearts of their daughters, and who stand solid as knights in their duty as daddy -- giving truth, love and quiet confidence to the women who will always feel like Daddy's little girl.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/05/Knight-in-Shining-Armor.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

The Letter

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Mom

BY: Kathy Marotta

My mother was the making of me... someone that I must not disappoint.
The memory of my mother will always be a blessing to me.
~Thomas A. Edison

The most pervasive memory I have of my mother is her long struggle fighting, and dying of, cancer during my adolescence. While it is my memory now, it was not my reality then. Like all good moms, she seldom allowed me to see the face of death. Instead, she wore a mask of humor and hope. In her final year, however, the mask was getting worn and transparent -- the burden too difficult to carry.

Ultimately, one Mother's Day weekend, alone, pen in hand, she decided to unleash the thoughts and feelings she had so carefully locked away behind the gracious façade. In an empty journal, she wrote what later became her most precious gift to me -- a heartfelt message from mother to child. The letter is unfinished. Perhaps the flood of emotion was too overwhelming. I will never know. But this is what I do know.

I read this letter almost every year on the day she wrote it. Although my mother did not live to see another Mother's Day, she continues to teach me through her well-crafted words.

As a teenager, her words said she was proud of me when I needed the affirmation. As a victim, something she knew a little about, her words were honest about her own struggle to cope and I no longer felt alone in my circumstance. My mother did not attend church. She did not want to feel hypocritical by seeking God in her final days, only when she needed him, she wrote. The closest she could allow herself to get was to volunteer at the local church nursery. There, she befriended the pastor, took notes and, I believe, came to know our loving God after all. In her transparency about her own pride, she taught me humility and planted her own seeds of faith in my life.

But the most powerful epiphany I had while reading the letter was on the Mother's Day I discovered I, too, was going to be a mother. On this day, and every day since, the paradigm was changed. I was no longer the child, the victim, the student, but the mother -- and, in fact, older than she was when she sat in her room and readied herself to pen this most incredible gift. As the tears streamed down my face, I experienced a shift in perspective. How difficult it must have been to write this letter, to tell your child you are not going to live. To try to summarize all that she means to you and all that you want her to know in a lifetime, all that is important to you, and all that you wish you had said but never did. The letter is unfinished. Of course it is.

My mother taught me to write -- not the craft of it, but the value in it. Not for profit or fame, but so my child will know me not just through my actions and interactions, but through my words as well... someday, when I am no longer here to tell him myself.

Thanks, Mom.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/05/The-Letter.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Welcome to Our Home

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Tough Times, Tough People

BY: Daniel McGary

Stand up and walk out of your history.
~Phil McGraw

Those first few weeks at Ms. Dorothy's house are forever seared into my mind. I recall the first time I walked through her front door, tripping over a mat situated just beyond the entrance. I found myself sharing the floor with that mat, brightly labeled "welcome to our home." Standing to see the group of people I'd been told were my new family, I found myself unable to face them. Instead, I looked down at the floor, at a mat that tormented me with words I didn't want to read.

Welcome to their home. Welcome to their lives. Welcome to their rooms and their toys and their mother. All theirs, but I didn't want theirs -- I had my own. I longed for my home. For my life. For my room and my toys, but most of all, for my mother.

I stood there, head hung low, as Ms. Dorothy introduced me to Dartanian and Sylvia, my new foster siblings. They showed no more interest in me than I did in them. They too were veterans of "the system." They understood, just as I did, that brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, they change. Tomorrow, or next week, or in a month if it lasted that long, there would be a new family. So we had shells, all of us, fortified by one move after another, strengthened by betrayal and disappointment.

As though infectious, my silence became theirs. I lifted my head, looking first at Dartanian, then at Sylvia. Their eyes were as empty as my own, and their hearts, I knew, were just as hollow.

In the following days, I went through the usual routine that comes with a new home: a new school, a new doctor, a new therapist. New people who would tell me the same things. New places that would soon be forgotten. The days went on as usual, but with the nights came change.

More than a week passed before it occurred to me that I hadn't been crying at bedtime.

For several years, that had been my routine. I kept everything inside during the day, suppressing thoughts of my family and my old life. At night, I relived my fondest memories: swimming in the red river with my older brothers, chasing my sisters with bullfrogs and crickets, sitting in my mother's lap as we rocked back and forth in that old wooden rocking chair, singing songs about babies in treetops and diamond rings that didn't shine.

I felt guilty for neglecting my nightly routine. In penitence, I brought to mind those memories I held closest to my heart. I was obliged to make up for the tears I'd so carelessly forgotten to shed. I felt that I'd betrayed my family in failing to lament their absence. To my dismay, no tears or overwhelming sadness accompanied the memories I replayed in my mind. This was not acceptable. I didn't know why at the time, but I simply had to cry. I had to suffer.

Despite thinking of things that previously elicited a torrent of tears, I could not cry. I know now what I did not know then. The tears and the mourning, and the consistency to which I applied my suffering, were ways of holding onto a family that I knew deep inside were lost to me forever. By crying, I kept myself emotionally attached to a group of people who were unable to reciprocate my affections. My emotions were so firmly rooted in the past that I was unable to experience happiness in the present.

That night, as I lay in bed, I took my first step onto a long path of healing and self-discovery. It is a sad truth that sometimes, though frighteningly difficult, we must relinquish parts of our past to live happily in the present.

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Mothers, Daughters, and Cats

Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat

BY: Harriet Cooper

A cat can be trusted to purr when she is pleased,
which is more than can be said for human beings.
~William Ralph Inge

My mother phones. "Puss Puss is constipated."

I stifle a groan. Puss Puss, an overweight tabby, is Mother's constant companion. I rescued her from the SPCA and gave her to my mother for a Mother's Day gift seven years ago. Puss Puss repaid me by immediately worming her way into my mother's heart, driving me farther down her list of loved ones. I can live with being displaced by grandchildren, but by a cat?

"Give her some of that laxative, Felaxin, like you always do," I respond, not seeing why this health update rates a phone call.

"I can't," she says. "I finished the last tube yesterday and the vet doesn't have any more. It's backordered because the manufacturer is missing an ingredient." Her voice lowers. "Puss Puss won't take any other brand, will you Puss Puss? Such a good girl."

The last is directed to the cat. Good cat nothing. A good cat would take what she's given, regardless of brand, rather than keep her legs crossed in protest. Still, the cat adores my mother and keeps her from getting lonely.

With a promise to help locate some of this wonder drug, I assure my mother the cat will be her old self in a day or two. I hang up and call my vet. He doesn't carry this particular brand, but the receptionist gives me the name of someone who might have it. No luck.

I start calling clinics in my area. Nothing. I try ones farther away. Fifteen calls later, I get the same story every time. Either they don't stock it or they're out of it and it's on backorder.

By now, my frustration level has reached the stratosphere, but I am not giving up until I find the stuff, even if I have to call every vet in the phone book. My finger continues down the page. On my twentieth call, I hear the words I've been waiting for, "Yes, we have Felaxin."

It's like finding the Holy Grail. "Could you reserve three tubes for me?" I ask. "I promise I'll be there before 5:00 P.M. to pick them up." The receptionist agrees. I'm tempted to call my mother with the good news, but decide to wait until it's a done deal and I have the tubes in my hand.

One bus, a subway train, and a fifteen-minute walk later I arrive, breathless because I ran the last two blocks. It's 4:45 P.M., and I'm terrified they've given the Felaxin away to another desperate cat owner. I take a few deep breaths to calm myself and ask for my prize.

The receptionist hands me the three tubes as if it's nothing, as if everybody carries this magic elixir. I take them reverently. As she's filling out the bill, I glance at their product shelves and see another six or seven tubes. I daringly ask for a fourth tube.

"No problem," she says.

Thirty-eight dollars later I leave.

Now comes the other tricky part. I live in Toronto. My mother and Puss Puss -- the joy of her life -- live in Montreal. Having attained my prize, I have to get it to Montreal as quickly as possible before the poor cat explodes.

Canada Post comes to the rescue with its next-day delivery service. For a minute, I'm tempted to send the package via Outer Mongolia, but I relent. I pay, knowing my time and effort will be greatly appreciated, if not by the cat, certainly by my mother who will be thanking me for weeks.

I'm already envisioning a really big birthday present as an appropriate show of gratitude.

I can't wait to get home and tell her the good news. The moment I'm in the door, I head for the telephone. "You and Puss Puss are in luck," I crow. "I found a vet who had a large stock of Felaxin. I picked up, not one," here I pause for the grand finale, "but four tubes. You'll have them by 5:00 P.M. tomorrow."

With that, I sink back in my chair, expecting to hear words of praise. Instead, she says, "You mean they had more than four tubes?"

A sinking feeling fills my stomach. "Yes," I say.

"So why didn't you buy them all? Go back tomorrow and get the rest of their stock."

I slump down, hand clenched around the receiver so tight my knuckles are turning white. Gone are the visions of a huge birthday present. Instead, I think about the time spent calling various vets, the two hours of travelling, the Visa bill, the post office bill, and the phone bill. I say -- nothing.

This is the woman who carried me for nine months, gave birth to me, changed my diapers, and did the million other things that mothers do for their children. Still, I want to kill her.

I count to ten twice, then a third time for good measure. I tell myself to cut her some slack. She's worried about the cat. Once Puss Puss is fine, I'm sure she'll be more appreciative.

I mumble something and hang up. And you know what? I go back -- because she's my mother and she loves her cat. But if she expects a Mother's Day present this year, she's crazy.

This is it.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/05/Mothers-Daughters-and-Cats.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter

Precious Moments

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings

BY: Karen Kosman

Life gives us brief moments with another...but sometimes in those brief moments
we get memories that last a lifetime.
~Author Unknown

Sitting by my hospital window, I watched a sparrow hopping from branch to branch. How precious life is, I thought. It was Mother's Day and I marveled at my beautiful gift -- my third child, Kimberly Ann. As I looked at my sleeping baby she made a sucking sound with her lips. Auburn curls on top of her head were highlighted with gold streaks.

"Kim, God gave you a frost job -- a heavenly one," I whispered. Already, I treasured the precious moments spent with my baby, and looked forward to many more. Soon we'd be going home. I had dressed Kim in a pair of pink knit pajamas with small embroidered roses on the collar. She also wore a bib that said, "I love my daddy."

"Are my girls ready to go home?" I looked up into my husband's smiling face.

"Yes, we are."

As the nurse wheeled me out to the car, my son and daughter walked close by. Soon we were all secure in our family car. A short time later, Ted pulled into our driveway and parked. I announced, "We're home, baby girl."

As soon as we walked through our front door, Robbie asked, "Mom, can I hold Kim?"

"Yes, be careful to support her head." Robbie looked adoringly at Kim nestled in his arms.

My daughter, Linda exclaimed, "She is so small."

"Once upon a time, you were just as small," I replied.

"Mommy, look. She's holding onto my finger," Linda said excitedly. We sat close together on the couch for a few minutes. Then Kim started to cry, and Robbie handed her back to me.

During the next three months life revolved around our youngest member. Robbie loved to hold his sister. He struggled with a speech disorder, but when he held Kim she'd smile as he spoke to her. I overheard Robbie saying to Kim, "When you go to school no one had better tease you."

Linda loved to help me bathe Kim and pick out her outfits, "Mom," she'd ask excitedly, "when can we move Kim into my room?"

"Soon," I replied.
In preparation for that coming event we redecorated Linda's room -- for the girls. We painted, and Linda peeked in and said, "You look funny with yellow paint on your nose."

"I bet I do. But do you like your room?"

"Yes. I love yellow."

Linda and I went shopping and bought a new bedspread for her bed, and a baby quilt with the same color scheme for Kim's crib.

One morning, I felt a deep need to hold Kim. She'd nuzzled close to my neck, and we shared a precious moment. After a busy morning I lay Kim down for her nap. I rubbed her back until she fell asleep. I tiptoed out of the room not realizing that Kim would never wake up from her nap. She died of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome.

The following days seemed like a dream that I kept trying to wake up from.

Friends and family surrounded us -- food, cards, phone calls, all provided comfort. At Kim's funeral, beautiful roses lined the front of the church, and I felt comforted by the words in the hymns. Friends tried to comfort us by saying, "Kim's in a better place," or "She's one of God's angels."

But I wanted my daughter here with me. I wanted to watch her grow up. I found peace in those who put a value on Kim's short life. A close friend confided in me, "Kim's life has made me think about my own life. I want to help others."

As I stood at my daughter's graveside, a gentle breeze blew. It felt like someone touched my cheek, and within the breeze, I heard a gentle whisper, "treasure the memories." I looked around at Ted. My arms went around my children, and the four of us turned and walked away.

Grief was like an ocean tide. It flowed in and out. Its waves sometimes seemed gentle and at other times stormy. Soon Ted returned to work, and my children returned to school. I sat alone at home, wondering how I was supposed to face the future. There were times I thought I heard Kim cry, but her crib remained empty.

When Linda and Robbie came home from school they looked sad, and would go to their rooms. I realized that I needed to help my children grieve and move on.

I told them, "It's okay to cry. It's okay to miss Kim." By giving them permission to show their feelings I noticed that each day they seemed a little stronger, a little happier.

Before Kim had been born I'd run a daycare in my home. I had planned on starting that back up when she turned a year old. But after she died my grief had not allowed me to do this.

A year later, I decided to return to school. Not really knowing what I wanted to take, but needing something new to keep me busy, I signed up for a key punch course. At the end of my six-week course I received a certificate. I placed my certificate in a kitchen drawer and forgot about it. Then at the end of the week my sister called and said, "Karen, a position in our key punch department has opened up. Are you interested?"

"Yes, but first I need someone to watch Robbie and Linda for two hours after school." I asked my neighbor, Ginny. She agreed, and I decided to go for an interview. To my surprise I was hired.

As it turned out, my skills as a key punch operator were lacking. Eventually, my supervisor moved me to accounts payable. I worked on the book accounts of Corrie ten Boom, an evangelist who had lost her whole family in concentration camps during World War II. Yet, after the war ended, Corrie, at the age of fifty-two, stepped out in faith and traveled the world sharing a message of hope and forgiveness.

Over the next year, I met many evangelists and heard their stories of courage. Stories of people living through tough circumstances, yet who pressed forward -- even when it hurt.

Gradually, I realized that I, too, had been moving forward one step at a time.

I found happiness in watching my children grow: Robbie earning his Boy Scout badges.

Linda out growing her Barbie's, experimenting with make-up, becoming a beautiful young woman. Yes, life continued, with its good, bad, and sometimes outrageous moments.

Fifteen years later, I sat next to a hospital window and watched a sparrow pick a berry and fly away. My daughter, Linda smiled as her nurse walked in with a wee-bundle in her arms. She smiled and said, "An angel said this baby girl wants Grandma to hold her."

As I held my granddaughter, Breanna, I savored the moment. Looking into her sparkling eyes, I smiled and said, "Linda, she's so beautiful."

Four years later, I welcomed Breanna's sister, Staci. I am blessed. And my memories of Kim are like the sweet fragrance of a rose -- often returning with a sense of joy.

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The Message

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Stories of Faith

BY: Thomas Brown

My mother had battled breast cancer and won. She had been cancer-free for five years when she went into the hospital to have exploratory surgery. After the operation, her doctor took me aside and told me that not only had the cancer returned, but there was nothing he could do. "Three months," the doctor told me sadly.

I wondered how my mother would take the news, but as each day passed, I realized the doctors hadn't let her in on the miserable secret. Did they really expect me, her son, to have to break it to her? I didn't see how I could.

Three days passed with no word spoken. I watched as she packed up her things, ready to leave the hospital after recovering from her surgery. She was cheerful, telling me her plans for the next week, when something she saw in my face stopped her.

"Mom," I managed to say, "haven't they... haven't they told you?"

"Told me what?" she said.

I couldn't answer, but I didn't have to. The tears coursing down my face told her everything.

We held each other as I explained what I knew.

We had always been close, but after that day, I opened up to my mother in a way I never thought possible. I returned to New York, to my job as a hairstylist and the life I'd created there, but we talked long and often on the phone -- not just as mother and son, but as friends.

Not long after, I took a month off and spent it with her, talking about anything and everything -- her life and mine, politics, philosophy, religion. She was disappointed that I hadn't kept to the faith in which I'd been raised. She tried to convince me of God's existence, but although I didn't argue, nothing she said persuaded me that she was right. I suppose I was an agnostic: I just didn't know.

When I left, I wasn't sure if I would ever see her again, but in a certain way it didn't matter. Although we didn't agree on everything, we were complete with one another.

The day before I left, my mother presented me with a beautiful cross, one of her most valued possessions.

My mother had always been a deeply religious person. And although she rarely mentioned it, as a young woman she had entered the convent and spent two years as a nun. When her family urgently needed her to help with the family business, she made the difficult decision to leave the convent and go home.

Eventually, she married and I, her only child, was born. The cross she gave me that day was the one she received when she became a nun. It was exquisitely made, and as I took it in my hand, I could feel the love she gave to me along with it.

Within a month, the call I'd been dreading came. My mother had slipped into a coma. The doctors felt she didn't have much time left, so I hurried to the airport to catch the next flight home. As the plane took off, I looked out my window, watching the sky color with the setting sun. All at once, I was overcome with grief.

This heaviness stayed with me for the entire flight. When I arrived at the hospital, I was informed that I was too late. My mother had died while I was on the plane -- at the exact time the sadness had overwhelmed me.

After my mother's funeral, I returned to New York. I missed my mother but was grateful that nothing had been left unsaid. She was gone, leaving an empty spot in me. That's how life is, I thought wistfully. When it's over, it's over. You're dead, and that's the end.

One day, three months after my mother died, a client came into the salon for her appointment. This particular woman had been coming to me for almost a year, but she was not a client with whom I was friendly. She was a high-powered businesswoman with a reserved air of cool politeness. We didn't talk about our lives. In fact, I had been surprised when, at her last appointment, she let it slip that she had been diagnosed with breast cancer.

Today, she didn't mention her illness and neither did I. I put her under the hair dryer and turned to walk away.

"Thomas," she said, lifting the dryer hood. "I hesitate to tell you this because I know this is going to sound strange. I have this very strong feeling that I'm supposed to tell you that Anita?... Marie?... Mary?... Anita Mary is okay. She said to tell you everything is all right."

I was floored. My jaw dropped. How could she know? For although my mother's name was Joyce, the name she'd taken as a nun -- the name inscribed on the cross my mother had given me -- was Sister Anita Mary. Nobody knew that but the other nuns and me.

In an instant, my whole view of reality turned upside-down. Mom had chosen a woman with breast cancer to tell me, in a way that could leave no doubt, that death is not the end and that the spirit survives.

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The Ten Best Things

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Count Your Blessings

BY: Cara Holman

The best things in life aren't things.
~Art Buchwald

"You know what I really can't stand?" Wendy asks rhetorically. "It's when people say cancer is a gift. I mean is that really something you'd like to receive? Would a friend give a friend cancer?"

"Yeah," chimes in Alice. "Some gift. Can I give it back? Say I don't want it? Maybe exchange it for something different?"

We are all getting in the spirit of it now. "Can we rewrap it and give it to someone else?"

"Or donate it to a white elephant sale?"

"Say politely, thanks but no thanks?"

As we all erupt into laughter, I sneak a glance around the room at the eight or so women assembled in a loose circle. The only prerequisite to joining this writing group was having received a cancer diagnosis at some previous point in our lives. A positive (in the clinical sense, that is) pathology report was our ticket for admission. A perk of getting cancer, if you will.

It's kind of funny to group cancer and the idea of perks in the same thought, but for all that we are chortling about it, there has been a silver lining to being diagnosed with cancer, even if it wasn't immediately apparent. Pollyanna wasn't one of my favorite childhood books for nothing, and almost as soon as the initial shock of my diagnosis began to subside, I tried playing the "glad game," like Pollyanna.

In the first place, I had to be grateful for all the technology and the vigilance of my doctor that enabled my cancer to be caught early, when it was, as they tell me, the most treatable. I held this thought close as I endured the treatment, reminding myself continually to focus on the future, and that this was merely the means to an end.

Time passed, and as my family and friends pulled around me, I slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, began to heal. The physical recovery, surprisingly enough, proceeded more rapidly than the emotional recovery. It took much longer to accustom myself to the uncertainty of life post-cancer. I was to discover that cancer challenges all of your basic assumptions and beliefs and causes you to reassess your priorities. Given that the average life expectancy for women in this country is somewhere around eighty years of age, I'd always figured I had plenty of time before I had to give serious thought to my own mortality. Cancer changed that all that.

The voice of Sharon, our group facilitator cuts through our laughter. "Let's get started now," she says. "While we're all thinking about cancer, I want you to write about something that is different about your life as a result of being diagnosed with cancer. Take about fifteen minutes."

Heads bend to the page, and pens move as everyone else begins writing. I alone stare vacantly out the picture window, tapping my pen, and thinking. What should I write about? How I stopped stressing so much about every little thing because suddenly everyday petty concerns didn't seem as important? About all the compassionate people I met along the way as I embarked on my cancer journey? About how I became more open to taking risks, like walking into this writing group with absolutely no writing experience whatsoever, because after cancer nothing else looks really scary?

Slowly, I begin to write "The Ten Best Things about Cancer." I stop and underline it several times before I continue.

There has to be a bright side. Every cloud has a silver lining after all.

Ten: I can never repeat the shock of the initial diagnosis.
Now that's something. Isn't that a bit like lightning never strikes twice? (Although sometimes it does.)

Nine: I appreciate each and every day now.
Even more than I did before.

Eight: I have something to talk about with people, if conversation ever lags.

Seven: I can almost guarantee that anyone I talk to has a cancer story of their own -- themselves or a family member or a friend of a friend.

Six: I belong to an exclusive club of fighters and survivors.

Five: People tend to cut you some slack when they find out you've had cancer.

Four: I've met some truly amazing and inspiring people that I cannot conceive of having become acquainted with under any other circumstances, and for this, I'm truly grateful.

Three: I've learned that looking out for myself is not a luxury anymore, but a necessity.

Two: I've learned to stop and smell the proverbial roses (and tulips and crocuses and daffodils).

Finally, One: I am a survivor, as my pink shirt at next year's Race for the Cure will surely attest to. I have battled my arch-nemesis , Cancer, and for now, I have prevailed.

The gong gently calls us to attention. "Come to a stopping place," Sharon tells us, and there is a sudden furious scribbling of pens as everyone scrambles to wrap up their piece. As we go around the room sharing our writings, I am struck once again by the determination, courage and cautious optimism shown in the face of adversity by all the women in this room.

Over and over, I hear common themes echoed in the writings.

"I've learned not to take anything for granted," Amy reads.

"I stopped putting things off for the future. Besides attending this writing group, I've signed up for a watercolor class, something I always wanted to do." This is from Kristy.

And Donna: "I take the time now to explore life's highways and byways, and enjoy the ride."

And it gets me to thinking. Knowing what we know now, would any of us actually have chosen to have been diagnosed with cancer? The answer has to be emphatically no. I'm sure that I am speaking for all of us when I say we would have been glad to avoid the nerve-wracking wait for pathology results, the life-altering shock of diagnosis, being poked and prodded endlessly with needles, the surgeries, chemo and radiation treatments that tried the very limits of our endurance, and the relentless scans and blood tests to ensure that we remain, for the moment, cancer-free.

Yet for all that, one thing becomes patently clear to me. I doubt very much that any of us would give back what we have learned along the cancer journey: to be kinder, more compassionate, more life-affirming people and never to forget how much we still have to be grateful for. Cancer may not have been a gift, but it was certainly a wake-up call.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/04/The-Ten-Best-Things.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter