Blind Instinct

Good instincts usually tell you what to do long before your head has figured it out.
~Michael Burke


"I got your name from the college babysitting service," the man on the phone said. "My wife and I were wondering if you could watch our two boys next Saturday night."


"Sure." I leaned against the modular desk in my dorm room as we went over the particulars.


Babysitting wasn't my idea of a glam college job, but I thought it might be a fun change of pace. That was the best part of college -- getting to try new things. I'd done pretty well on that score in three years at the university, except when it came to dating. With only a handful of dates to my credit, I still lacked the self-confidence I sought in those social one-on-ones: what to say, where to sit, how to act. Everyone said to trust your instincts, but how did you when you didn't have a clue what your instincts were?


So that Saturday night, while some of my friends primped for their dates and others hunkered down in their sweats to study, I pulled on my lime green cutoffs and a T-shirt for my night romping with two preschoolers. Promptly at seven the phone rang.


"Ivers here. I'm in the lobby."


I grabbed my bag and skipped down the stairs.


"Susan?" A clean-cut man dressed in a sporty knit shirt and tan chinos approached me, extending his hand. "I'm Tom."


We shook hands. He seemed young to be the father of two but what did I know?


We walked around the horseshoe drive and he stopped at a dark Mustang. A bit ritzy for a grad student's wheels but who was I to judge? He opened the door for me and we settled in.


"I'm new in town. I was hoping you might have some ideas for tonight." He picked the campus paper from the back seat and handed it to me.


"Okay." I rubbed the fringe of my cutoffs between my thumb and forefinger: strange how he wanted advice from the babysitter on where to go with his wife. Midwestern courtesy won out, though, and I pointed to the ads and the weekend calendar. "There are some great movies playing this weekend and there's a concert at the auditorium."


As we talked more about the possibilities, I began to wonder about this guy. His conversation, his demeanor, seemed more like he was on a date while I was definitely on my way to babysit. Or was I? I had to speak up, but what should I say? I went over the possibilities in my head. Everything sounded so dumb. This was worse than a date. He put his keys in the ignition. I couldn't wait any longer.


In desperation I blurted out, "How old are your kids?"


He almost jumped out of his bucket seat.


"KIDS? I don't have any kids."


Guess that was the right question, but not the answer I'd hoped for. My heart pounded. I wished I could turn back the clock and start down the stairs from my dorm room once again -- anything to avoid this moment, to see this conversation through to its painful conclusion. But I drew up my courage and continued.


"A-aren't you T-Thomas Ivers?"


"NO!" His voice rose to a question. "You're not Susan Lieberman?"


I knew the name, but it wasn't mine. I shook my head.


We sprinted back to the dorm, racing to be the first one to the lobby.


Skinny Mr. Ivers stood at the phone bank, looking exactly like a frazzled grad student and father of two in his plain white shirt and dull brown pants with his dark hair in need of a trim. Susan Lieberman was there too, dressed much more for a date than I was. Off she went on her blind date and off I went on my blind babysitting job. Guess I didn't need a date to learn how to trust my instincts.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2011/01/Blind-Instinct.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Simon Says...

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teens Talk Middle School

BY: Ali Edelson

There are some defeats more triumphant than victories.
~Michel de Montaigne


It was the first day of summer. I was done with elementary school, and I was on top of the world. My best friends and I lay sprawled in my front yard, the gentle sun warming our backs, the grass tickling the bottoms of our feet, ice cream dripping from our cones onto our grinning faces. In my mind, it couldn't get better than this. As I drifted into a lazy nap, I vaguely heard my mother's high heels clicking down our front walk. I sat up, expecting lemonade or something of the sort. She was carrying no drinks, but her face was just as sour.


"Al," she pointed towards our house, "I've got to talk to you."


I usually know when something's wrong. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, and my throat feels as if it's closing. Sometimes this feeling can be helpful, but right then, I wished things had been left unknown.


"Ali..." my mom sighed as we approached the front door. "Simon has leukemia."


Simon Sharp is my stepfather's nephew. Even though we aren't related by blood, Simon was one of the most amazing people I had ever met and meant more to me than any blood relative ever could. In some ways, he was a normal teenage boy -- he loved video games, pizza, all the normal teenage stuff. But he was more special than that. He liked to ride his bike around Celebration, Florida -- playing his saxophone at the same time. He ate his pizza covered in mustard. He was the kind of person who is impossible to forget once you meet him.


I stopped in my tracks. The lump in my throat got bigger and my stomach got heavier.


My eyes shone with disbelief. "But he'll live, right?" I whimpered.


"There's no way to know for sure. He has a pretty rare case though," my mom tried to fake a smile. "Don't worry."


I guess my perfect summer wasn't so perfect after all.


Day by day, Simon seemed to be getting weaker. His appetite sometimes vanished for long periods of time. The doctors tried countless treatments, but each resulted in a worse reaction than the one before. Throughout his treatment, Simon suffered anaphylactic shock and two strokes, all because of the medication that was supposed to be helping him.


Somehow, with all of the odds against him, Simon went into remission, which is sort of like a break from the cancer. We were hopeful, knowing it might even lead to a full recovery. The whole family was thrilled. Sadly, he relapsed about a year later.


It was around then that we had received our "Simon Says..." T-shirts. On the front, in big blue letters, it read, "Simon Says..." and when you turned it over it read, "Cancer is a detour, not a stop sign." I proudly sported it at sleepovers and wore it all around my house. Somehow, that sentence showed me that no matter how hard the cancer fought against him, Simon and his loving family would do whatever it took to push right through it. We wouldn't give up. What impacted me even more is that it referred not only to Simon's battle, but to everyone's who has ever had a seemingly impossible challenge in their lifetime.


Not too long after we got our shirts, Simon came down with pneumonia. Because of the chemotherapy, his body couldn't fight it off. In his final days, Simon's twin sister, Sophie, wouldn't leave his bed, just like when they were infants still in the crib. On November 14, 2007, when he was just fifteen years old, Simon Sharp passed away.


Simon touched countless people with his unique personality, kind soul, and extreme persistence even in his time of need. It was hard for everyone to let go, but somehow we were able to. I think it's because we can wear our T-shirts everywhere we go and proudly say, "Simon Says..."

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2011/01/Simon-Says.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Dream Job

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Power Moms

BY: Billy Cuchens

Until you have a child, you've never been certain you'd give your life for someone, you've never been so proud, you've never been so tired.
~Elizabeth Vargas


The transition from working a traditional job to becoming a stay-at-home mom is tough on anyone. But for my wife who worked as a nanny before having kids, it was particularly difficult. For over twelve years, she mothered other people's children. She changed diapers and cleaned up toys full-time. These may have been long days but at least she had a paycheck and the end of the day to look forward to.


Her first job after college was working full-time for a wealthy family of lawyers. This was before we had met and here's how she has described the experience: "The husband was horrible. He turned me into a housekeeper. Every day I had to run the dishwasher even if there were only a couple of things to clean and then empty it before they came home from work. I had to fold all the clothes and towels a specific way and position them in the closet facing the same direction on wood hangers. In the winter, I had to vacuum the ashes out of the fireplace every day. He would yell at me if I didn't do things exactly the way he wanted. It was the worst job I ever had." Despite being offered a raise to stay, she quit after working for this family for a year.


My wife has a family of her own now -- a toddler son, an infant daughter, a fifty-pound Australian Shepherd, and a little Pomeranian/Chihuahua puppy. She's been trying to cope with the fact that cleaning the house is a losing battle. I came home from work the other day and all the children ran to greet me, including the furry ones. My wife was sprawled on the couch and was the least enthused to see me. "Sorry about the house," she groaned. I surveyed what was left of the living room. It looked like the cave of a pack of wild animals. The floor was littered with toys, granola bar wrappers, and clumps of black dog hair. The coffee table was strewn with the day's mail, multiple board books, and overturned sippy cups. Sitting next to my wife on the couch was an unopened package of diapers. I put my keys on the kitchen table and noticed several used diapers next to the laptop.


I headed to the bedroom to take my shoes off and get comfortable. I saw a layer of toys on the floor and another layer in our bed, along with some folded laundry and a few snack wrappers. I made enough room on the bed to sit down and took off my socks and, as I threw them in the hamper, I saw the dirty clothes piled up to my waist.


My wife walked into the bedroom. "Honey, I know the house looks bad and I don't want to hear it," she said.


"I didn't say anything." But I couldn't help but think back to the obsessive lawyer and his dishwasher and wonder what he did right that maybe I was doing wrong. I decided to say, "I'm sure you've had a rough day," which I thought would be a neutral statement. However, she received a different message -- you are not doing your job -- and felt the need to defend herself.


"I have had a rough day. The baby's been crying since she woke up this morning at 6:00 A.M. She cried anytime I wasn't holding her. When I picked her up, she either thrashed around or hit me. The dogs got into the trash again. All your son ever says is, 'Can I watch a show?'" She paused for a moment. I thought she might be done but she was only considering how to go on.


"I know I should straighten up when they take their nap but I'm so tired I just need a break. You get to leave your job and come home. I never get a break. Even when you're here, they're still constantly all over me. They start before the sun comes up and don't stop until bedtime." She took a breath and put her arm over her forehead and lay on the bed quietly.


I waited a few moments to make sure she was done. When I thought it was safe, I said, "I'm sorry you've had a hard day. What can I do to help?"


"I don't know. Just keep everyone out of the kitchen so I can make dinner."


She got up and headed to the kitchen. I sat on the edge of the bed for a few moments. I thought about what she said and tried to sympathize. I'd worked a long, hard day but I had something to show for it, I had a boss and coworkers to tell me 'good job'. I felt bad for her because the house was in such bad shape that I couldn't even notice what she had done.


I realized the difference between the lawyer's home and our home was that she was being paid for her work. Keeping their home clean was her job. Mothering my children is not just her job, it is her whole life. It's futile to think that I could pay her an adequate salary for the tireless work that she does or the endless hours she puts in.


I remember a story my wife told me about another family she nannied for. She had been taking care of a boy who was around three years old. The two of them had a perfect day together. They played games and read books all day. He took a decent nap and ate his lunch well. He had no tantrums and she hadn't lost her temper once. They were watching a show together when his mom came home from work. The boy went into the next room as his mom and my wife discussed the day. After a minute or so, my wife looked over and saw that the boy was naked from the waist down and lion-taming the family dog with his step stool. "So we just looked at each other and laughed. Then I grabbed my keys and said, 'See you later.'"


I would think incidents like this one, as well as things like diapers and the countless hours without adult engagement as a nanny, would have worn her out before she even became a mother. But they haven't. She's so glad to have kids that she rarely complains about that stuff. It's the clutter that stresses her out. And it's not because she doesn't notice or care.


That's what I love about her. She does notice the pile of laundry and the dishes. But she's just one person, who is drastically outnumbered.


I may be home only a few hours every day, but even I see the children pull toys out of their toy bins just to pull them out. They don't even play with the toys, they just move on to emptying the next bin. I think about the lion-taming incident and consider how my wife took for granted her job as a nanny, when at least she could look forward to going home at the end of the day. And I realize, as a grateful husband, that the workday of a stay-at-home mother never ends.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2011/01/Dream-Job.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Giggles in the Dark

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Empty Nesters

BY: Sheri L. Torelli

With my husband away fighting a large brush fire in Northern California, I'd had a lot on my plate that week. Only my daughter and I were home for the evening, and I yearned for just a few minutes of quiet conversation with her. In just a few short weeks she would graduate from high school and take a job in San Diego.

I was hoping for some together time while we prepared supper, but Terra had homework and laundry and wanted to write a few letters to friends. We gobbled dinner and retreated to our rooms to complete our long To Do lists.

I fell into bed, completely exhausted. After a few minutes, I heard snippets of conversation and bits of laughter coming from her room. Normally, we have a cut off time for late-night telephone conversations, but I found myself feeling more lenient than usual, knowing her time at home was fleeting.

Even so, I had my limits. "Keep it down, Terra!" I called from my bed.

She complied for a few minutes, then the talking and giggling started again.

"Terra, I'm trying to sleep!"

Silence. But it wasn't long before I was roused by more giggles. "Be quiet and go to bed!"

After my fifth request, I decided to make sure she understood how serious I was. Marching in, hands on hips, I stopped short.

There she was in the dark, sprawled across her bed on her back, legs crossed, twirling the phone cord between her toes and giggling. The giggle that made me smile no matter what.

The giggle that reduced me to laughing out loud. The same giggle that today still moves me to laughter and tears. And, in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to capture the delightful scene in my mind and my heart. Soon, it would be gone forever.

That evening is now a long-ago memory. But every once in a while, when I walk into my office (her old bedroom), I don't see the desk or my bulging bookshelves or the pictures on the wall. Transported back in time, I see only my beautiful daughter -- on the threshold of her future -- sprawled across her bed and talking late into the night.

And I swear I hear her giggles in the dark.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2011/01/Giggles-in-the-Dark.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

The Room of Hope

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Cancer Book

BY: Al Cato

The Barcaloungers sit erect with their rigid arms permanently extended, as if in supplication, awaiting the next assortment of chemical bags to be draped upon them. The quiet in the large room seems incongruous to the fear and dread that will soon fill it. Each of the thirty small cubicles is equipped to make a patient comfortable while the fluids trickle slowly down the plastic tubes and into their veins. Muted sounds come from the TVs, distracting the patients as the hours pass slowly by.

The nurses move quickly from station to station, their soft rubber soles squishing on the linoleum. There is a calm to their work, but it still conveys an urgency and efficiency to get each of their patients properly tethered to their respective IV poles. They do this everyday with multiple shifts. It seems like an assembly line but they know that each patient is unique. They possess a gentle touch and soft words, with an expertise that says, "I will get you through this and make it as painless as possible."

Fear and depression accompany hope and optimism.

"Will I be sick?"

"Can I tolerate the drugs?"

"Will I lose my hair?"

"Is this the beginning of the end?"

"What will happen to my family when I'm gone?"

"Will I suffer?"

"Is there a realistic reason to be hopeful?"

"Can I get drugs to ease the side effects?"

"What do I do next if this fails?"

The list seems endless. Some questions have answers, but many do not. In spite of that, there is a tiny flame of hope that burns and refuses to be extinguished. It's resilient and pushes against the darkness. It takes nourishment from any and all victories, however small they may be.

"I made it through another chemo day."

"My scans are stable, no new growth."

"I have an appetite today."

"I was able to get up and take a shower."

"The birds are singing and the flowers look beautiful."

"My grandchildren are coming to visit."

Across this great country, in thousands of chemo rooms, patients struggle to survive. They seek the normalcy they were accustomed to before cancer. Sadly for most, their old lives are gone forever. The normalcy they seek is but a memory.

Is it better or worse than before? It is just different because the experience has made us that way.

Many of us have visited the chemo room. It was never a place to be enjoyed. The chemicals bring sickness and suffering. Many of us began the first step of our cancer journey right here. In most cases, it's lived up to its infamous reputation.

For me, with Stage IIIb melanoma, Stage I renal cell carcinoma and Stage I adenocarcinoma, it certainly has.

I believe that chemo rooms are truly rooms of hope, that the chemicals will do their job and kill the cancer cells, and upon completion of the chemo the scans will show that no evidence of disease remains. Chemo rooms offer the hope that the chemicals can slow down cancer's proliferation in our body and buy us some time. They offer hope that this drug will work after others have failed.

Hope does abound in a chemo room! Hope is the fuel and the energy of our souls. Let us sustain and nurture the tiny flame of hope and keep the darkness at bay.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2011/01/The-Room-of-Hope.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

Fit for Life

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Shaping the New You

BY: John P. Buentello

Commit to be fit.
~Author Unknown


I'd never given much thought to physical fitness. As a matter of fact, I'd never given much thought to exercise at all. I liked to take a walk, but I didn't go out every day or stick to any kind of schedule. I felt healthy, and thought I was in good enough shape not to have to do anything special. The idea of making a major life change to be physically fit wasn't very high on my list of essentials. It took being sidelined from the most basic physical activities to make me realize how being fit really affected my life.


The accident happened while I was out on a date. I'd wanted to go to a movie and sit and munch on popcorn and candy. She'd wanted to go roller skating together in the park. Skating we went. I hadn't been on roller skates in quite awhile, and I'd never been what you'd call a natural skater. I wobbled and flailed my way across the park on eight wheels, trying to keep up with the smooth, gliding movements of my date.


We had almost called it a day when she suggested we skate around the pavilion in the middle of the park. I thought it would be simple enough after trying to avoid runners, walkers, and park visitors on bicycles all day long. It was a simple little skate around the pavilion, a romantic moment that wouldn't take any skill at all. I didn't even see the pebble I tripped over. My right skate went in one direction, my left in another. The pain I felt when my right ankle twisted and popped was incredible.


I had to hop across a bridge and a baseball field and a parking lot to get back to my car. By the time we got to the emergency room I was red in the face, out of breath and in intense pain. The emergency room doctor told me I'd torn some ligaments on either side of my ankle and I'd have to be in a cast for three months. As I hobbled out of the emergency room on crutches, with sweat pouring down my face, I realized I was seriously out of shape.


If I thought that was bad then being on crutches for the next three months was even worse. I could barely walk 20 feet without wheezing and sweating and having to take a break. My weight shot up because I refused to move around much, and if I'd been offered the use of a wheelchair I would have gladly accepted it. But my doctor told me I needed the exercise to get back in shape and that my ankle would need toughening up once I was out of the cast. I retreated to my sofa at home and refused to budge from it.


Three months is a long time to be a hermit, and after a while I began to get cabin fever. By the time I went back to get the cast off my leg I was desperate to get back out into the real world. My doctor smiled at me when I told him I needed some serious rest and recreation and wrote me a simple prescription: Get Some Exercise.


I started by walking around the house. That got old fast so I ventured outside. Trips around the neighborhood offered me a chance to stretch my legs, but I knew I needed more of a challenge. The nature trails in a nearby park seemed daunting, and I only hobbled a few feet before I gave up. But it was springtime, and the sun shining through the trees beckoned me, so I forced myself back onto the trails and gritted my teeth through every painful step. I couldn't have cared less about how beautiful the wildflowers were or how the birdsong filled the air around me. I only wanted to finish my walk and go home to soak in Epsom salts.


Gradually, however, as the pain in my recovering ankle grew less, my resentment at having to endure these walks also faded. It was replaced by a slowly growing appreciation of the natural world around me, and the even more slowly growing sense of the physical wellbeing I was beginning to experience. I began to cover more ground with less panting, and after a while I was making my way through the foothills and park trails with ease.


I liked the feeling of fresh air pumping through my lungs and the muscles in my legs becoming taut and strong. I went in search of other trails. As I covered the natural boundaries of my town I branched out even farther and began to explore some serious hiking and climbing. I enrolled in a mountain climbing class, learned the basics of how to get myself up the face of a rock, and began to join climbing groups in my local area. Years rolled by. By the time I graduated to climbing El Capitan in Yosemite National Park, I was slim, trim, and filled with an energy I'd never had before.


A sprained ankle showed me what a little exercise and a chance to explore the natural beauty of our planet could be like. So now instead of a life of unfitness, I find that my walks, hikes, and climbs are making me fit for a life I never dreamed I could have.

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2010/12/Fit-for-Life.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru

What Did I Have to Lose?

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Shaping the New You

BY: Douglas M. Brown

A man's health can be judged by which he takes two at a time -- pills or stairs.
~Joan Welsh


It started with my shirts. They didn't feel right. They were too tight and the buttons kept popping open. Buying pants with a 50-inch waist was a real downer for me too. Every time I put them on a hanger it reminded me of setting up a tent. But it was applying for life insurance that caught my attention and made me think deeply about my life and health.


I was forty-six years old and more than 80 pounds overweight when my employer offered a paid $250,000 life insurance policy for those who qualified. I got my medical records together and spent over $40 on copying fees. Three weeks later I got a letter from the insurance provider saying, "We have decided not to offer you life insurance." What it was really saying was "REJECTED!" I admit that being 255 pounds at 5'7" is not being in shape, but I didn't think I was that overweight. Now the insurance company was saying I was too risky because of my weight. Chances were I was going to die before age sixty-five.


I needed a lifestyle change, but I didn't know where to start. At the time, I thought exercise was the answer. I knew if I had to go to a gym, I would be faithful for only a few weeks. I had to do something that would not take too much time out of my day. I decided to start taking the stairs. Climbing stairs was a good way to exercise without going to a gym. I work in a four-story office building. Part of my job is going to other people's desks. I started my self-challenge. From then on, I would take the stairs.


The hardest thing was taking that first step. The first morning, I stepped into the stairwell and looked up. The three flights of stairs looked like Mt. Everest to me. Sir Hillary didn't conquer that mountain by staring at it. He had to take one step at a time. So I put my foot on the first step and pushed up, then a second step, then a third. Soon I was on the second floor, then the third floor. I made it to the fourth floor, wheezing and sweating and cursing myself for putting cupcakes ahead of my health.


I kept climbing stairs and soon I was up to twenty flights of stairs per day. Although my endurance increased and I started to feel more energetic, I didn't lose much weight. I then added a mile walk during my break time. That, too, helped my energy level, but I still weighed about the same.


About this time, I received a letter from my employer's insurance company stating that because my body mass index was so high, I could qualify for their weight loss management program. The insurance company would reimburse me for part of a gym membership or a weight loss program. After discussing it with my wife, I decided to enroll in a weight loss program. I studied different programs, and decided on one that was considered the most successful.


Then I received an e-mail announcing that the program I had chosen was going to meet in my office building every week. The e-mail invited everyone to an open house to see what the program was like. The next Wednesday, I went to the open house and liked what I learned. But I also learned that it would be $135 to start. I wanted to lose weight, but was afraid of committing my money. The group members were anxious for me to sign up. They needed at least twelve people to sign up, and I was the twelfth person. My wife convinced me to fork out the money and commit myself to make this weight loss work.


Because we met in my office building, I could attend almost every week. The instructor helped me to understand where weight comes from; it comes from eating without thinking. If I didn't keep track of what I ate, I ate a lot more. So I started writing down everything that went into my mouth. I also learned how to make healthy choices and read nutrition labels. We weighed ourselves every week and that helped me to stay on track. I knew if I indulged myself, the meeting leader would know about it next week. I also found the camaraderie helpful.


I began to see that eating properly was like sticking to a budget. I only had so many calories to use each day. I decided that junk food wasn't worth the price.


I began to see results almost immediately. I lost 10 pounds in the first three weeks. I stuck to a rate of losing about two pounds a week. After nine months I had lost 85 pounds and 14 inches off my waist line. People were amazed at the change. Some said I looked younger. I didn't think I was that overweight. Now I am shocked when I look at my old pictures.


I thought I couldn't lose weight. Thankfully, I was wrong. If you learn the principles of weight loss, and live those principles, you will lose the excess pounds. It takes work and discipline, but losing weight can be done. After all, what do you have to lose?

http://www.beliefnet.com/Inspiration/Chicken-Soup-For-The-Soul/2011/01/What-Did-I-Have-to-Lose.aspx?source=NEWSLETTER&nlsource=49&ppc=&utm_campaign=DIBSoup&utm_source=NL&utm_medium=newsletter&utm_term=mail.ru