How Nurses Nurse Nurses

Two fashionably dressed young women meet by the water cooler while taking their morning break at the office.

“I guess you heard the news about Lindy?” The first young lady sighs, sipping daintily at her chilled spring water. “She found a lump in her breast.”

“Oh my Gawd!” the second lady gasps, nearly choking on her water.

“Yeah, she went to the doctor and had a whaddayacallit, a mammogram, and they told her she has cancer.”

“Cancer? But she’s so cute and sassy! I can’t believe it!”

Both women burst into tears and embrace each other. Neither of them says it out loud, but they’re both thinking that they probably won’t have lunch with Lindy because they won’t know what to say or how to act. They return to their respective cubicles to contemplate the news.

Meanwhile, in a nearby hospital, two worn-out nurses stand at a counter, syringes in hand; one is drawing up 12.5 mg of phenergan and one is drawing up 10 cc of saline.

“I guess you heard the news about Carli?” the first nurse asks. “She found a lump in her breast. Had a mammogram and then a biopsy. It’s cancer.”

The second nurse flips the empty saline vial expertly into the trash with her left hand while her right hand reaches for an alcohol pad, a red top, a blue top, and a lavender top.

“How big was it? Has she had a CT yet? When will her path be back? I’ll be back in a minute, I want to hear the rest.”

Both nurses secure their materials and head off in opposite directions. Each of them is thinking of Carli. Both have a lot of questions.

That afternoon, Carli receives approximately fifty phone calls. She cries freely, laughs often, and tells her story over and over and over. She’s telling us, her colleagues and friends, but also telling herself.

Carli schedules her port placement and lymph node biopsy. People she thought she hardly knew stop her with good wishes and promises of prayers and offers of donated vacation time and little gifts.

Grown men get misty-eyed and ask who is doing her surgery and then assure her, “Oh yeah, he’s great, he’s fine, he’ll take good care of you.” She is hugged well and often by a wide array of people. She volunteers to let all the girls palpate her mass so that they will know what one feels like. She says the men can too, but it will cost them in hard American currency, up front and no refunds. Carli laughs, the nurses all laugh, and then everybody cries a little until one of the men starts digging in his pocket for change. Then, everybody is laughing again.

Carli arrives for her procedure, calm and resolved. The hospital phone lines heat up as the morning progresses. Carli has her IV. Carli is okay. She is joking. She looks pale. Carli is in surgery. They are waiting for the preliminary pathology report. It seems as though the whole hospital is vibrating with anxiety and it seems funny to think that Carli is sleeping through it all.

The phone lines hum quietly, waiting. Finally, one call is followed by another, and two more, and four more, and then eight, until it is a wonder that the hospital lines are not overloaded and glowing red hot. Her nodes are clear, clear, clear, and was there ever such a beautiful word?

All over the hospital, prayers of thanksgiving are sent up, up and out. Carli has a rough road ahead of her, but she can do it and we will all help. And Carli, in turn, will help us to see how to be brave, how to have faith, how to love, and how to receive love.

And what about poor Lindy? I don’t know.

For me and for Carli and for all the people we know, cancer is both less terrifying because we know a little about it and more terrifying for the very same reason. I have to trust that Lindy’s friends will rally around her just as Carli’s friends have. I have to hope that all the women and all the men who are diagnosed with some serious illness will learn what Carli learned in approximately one single hour—that they are loved, that they have friends who will help in all the ways that friends can, and that life is very, very beautiful.

~Elizabeth Bussey-Sowdal, R.N.

http://www.chickensoup.com/

Good Times with Mom

If you want to be happy, be.

~Leo Tolstoy

My personal experience with Alzheimer’s was my journey with my beloved mother, Eula Stanislaus. My mother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease in 2006. I had noticed some little changes in her prior to 2006, but because I didn’t understand the early signs of the disease it went unnoticed.

I remember in 2003 Mom and I were walking in New York City, and we had just passed a bakery. Mom turned to me and said she didn’t smell anything.

I looked at her and said, “Mom, you really can’t smell that?”

“No, I really can’t.”

I accepted this and chalked it up to her getting older. She was seventy-two. Now I know that one of the signs of early-stage Alzheimer’s might be as simple as not being able to smell peanut butter.

Then her hands began shaking uncontrollably and sometimes she could not get her legs to move when she wanted to get up and walk. It was as if she would send a signal from her brain to her legs but her legs wouldn’t receive it. If only I had had more awareness and education about the disease, I could have helped her manage the symptoms in these very early stages.

As a caregiver, meeting the challenges of this everyday fight, with what I now realize was Alzheimer’s, was devastating. I had not been aware of the challenges I would be up against and the continual devolution in my mother’s ability to do anything for herself.

Mom sometimes didn’t want to take her medicine; she didn’t express hungriness; she was in a constant state of forgetfulness, and sometimes she would imagine little babies sitting in her living room, or she would call out for people who had been dead for more than forty years. I learned with this disease to expect the unexpected, to be prepared to go with the flow and to react calmly to whatever she was going through in that particular moment.

This was obviously a great deal for me to handle. It was emotional to watch my mom — my best friend — changing from an adult to someone more childlike. To watch her change into someone who I had to console through my tears by saying, “As long as I am caring for you, everything will be all right.”

My mother’s symptoms were such that I could still take her everywhere I went. I never left her behind. But for me, managing stress became harder as the disease progressed. My mom needed me more and more every day and the result was that I looked after myself less and less. I made this choice because I felt no one would or could take care of my mother as well as I could. It was the best choice I ever made, and without hesitation, I would make that same choice again.

On the brighter side, there were so many funny moments. My husband, two daughters, and I understood how to handle certain situations that cropped up again and again. If Mom saw those small babies in the living room, we would say, “Okay Mom, point out where they are so we don’t sit on them.” Then we would all laugh, including Mom.

Sometimes we would leave the room and when we came back, she would look at us as if it was the first time she had seen us all day. We would give her a big hug and announce we were home and so happy to see her. Mom would give us the biggest smile. No matter how many times we had to repeat the process she remained happy, a big smile plastered on her face.

Overall, my mom had a peaceful and loving experience as she fought this disease. As a family, we made it fun for her. I would dress her up in bright outfits and comb her beautiful hair, which was down to her waist. I would have her nails done. Her make-up would be impeccable and she loved to wear her red lipstick. She dressed sharp every day and it made her feel good about herself. We took her out to dinner to beautiful places, as she always appreciated beauty. I always said because she was such a beautiful spirit, every day was a beautiful day for her.

~Bern Nadette Stanis

http://www.chickensoup.com/

Meeting Her Needs

In 1994, our health department began serving as the primary care provider for thousands of patients who had previously only received public-health type services in our clinics. This switch to a “medical model” in our neighborhood clinics was quite a change not only for the patients but also for the staff, who were more accustomed to providing chronic disease follow-up and preventive care, and now were being asked to provide acute care/primary care as well.

Because of this change, I was now a public health nurse in a primary care setting, working with the physician who was trying to meet the women’s health needs as best he could. Not having done a lot of women’s health previously, he was somewhat disorganized in his visit sequence but usually covered all aspects of care in a thorough, professional manner.

This particular day, the physician was completing a visit with a new, elderly patient. In his usual quiet way, as the patient was preparing to leave the examining room, he said offhandedly, “Oh, Ms. R., would you like to have a Pap smear today?”

Ms. R. appeared surprised and a bit confused because she was already dressed, had received her prescriptions, and thought her appointment was over.

“Why, yes, Doctor, that would be nice,” the patient said.

I realized immediately that a communication error had just been made.

“Ms. R., the Doctor is asking if you want your PAP SMEAR done today — your test for cancer of the womb. You would need to get undressed again for that test,” I tried to explain.

Ms. R. looked embarrassed and replied, “Oh, Doctor, I’m sorry. I thought you said PABST BEER! No, I don’t want a PAP SMEAR today, thank you.”

~Judy B. Smith

http://www.chickensoup.com/

Never Too Late for Family

Other things may change us, but we start and end with the family.

~Anthony Brandt

I sat with my husband and three children in a hotel in St. Petersburg, Florida, where we visit my husband’s relatives each winter. But this year was different. This time, I would be seeing my family. Any moment, my sister would arrive from her home ninety miles away. As I waited in the lobby, my cell phone rang every few minutes. “I’m almost there!” she’d say. Finally, a black SUV pulled up.

Alexa jumped out and into my arms. I had been waiting for that hug for thirty-eight years.

Alexa and I had not seen each other since she moved away from Massachusetts when I was eight years old and she was one. That also was the last time I saw our father.

And now, all these lost decades later, we were hugging and crying outside a Florida hotel.

My parents divorced when I was three and my brother Ethan was one. For the next five years, I cherished my father’s occasional visits and phone calls, even though he often let me down. I met his new wife and loved playing with their baby daughter, Alexa. But when I was eight, my father moved his new family to Pennsylvania and eventually to Florida.

I felt loved and cared for by my mother and her parents, who we moved in with. But a deep sadness was with me always. My father had left us. He did not know me as I grew up, and I did not know him. I felt different from other kids, but I would not let it show. I inherited my mother’s determination and realism, which helped me. And I was glad she was always open with me about her efforts—relentless, but unsuccessful—to get child support; about my paternal grandparents, who lived nearby but had almost nothing to do with us; and, in my teens, telling me that my father had a wife and two sons before us.

When I was growing up, we occasionally heard from my father’s sister. That is how we knew he was no longer married to Alexa’s mother. He had married a fourth wife and had three children with her. We never heard from him. That didn’t stop me from wishing that I could know my father, but I could not bring myself to call or write. It never felt like the right time to reach out. “It’s not supposed to be me looking for him,” I thought. “He is supposed to be taking care of me.”

I was an adult with children of my own when Ethan went to a wake for our father’s uncle, hoping our father would be there. He was not, but Ethan had taken a step toward re-establishing contact with our father’s family. A few days later, at my aunt’s request, I visited her for the first time in twenty-seven years. For the next eight years, I sent her a holiday card each year, and she responded with an update on my father.

Still, I could not bring myself to contact my father, even when she told me that he was sick. I had three children of my own by then, and I knew the power of love between a parent and child. How could he throw it away? It didn’t make sense. I never stopped wondering why he left me and my brother.

When my father died, I could not cry. I wanted to mourn, but no emotions came. That bothered me, and I sought guidance from my rabbi.

“Your mother and your grandparents were your parents. They raised you,” she said. “He was your father only biologically.” And she suggested his behavior was that of an unhealthy person.

This opened up a different way of thinking for me. Maybe I had mourned him long ago with all those childhood tears. Still, I felt shock that he was truly gone. I had always held the thought deep down inside, and especially since becoming a parent, that any day my father would call me. With his death, I felt that it was over. I felt closure... or so I thought.

What I did not know then was that my oldest half-brother, Dan, had sought out our father and established a relationship with him in the years before his death. After our father died, Dan got in touch with me. We lived just a few towns apart and arranged to meet in a seafood restaurant not far from our homes. After forty years, I was finally making a connection to my father.

I wanted to hear every detail, to piece together a picture of our father as a person. “What was he like?” I asked. “How did he act?”

Dan told me that he was friendly and charismatic and easy to be around. “And he loves chocolate ice cream,” he added. My heart jumped. I am a fiend for chocolate. It was a connection, however small.

What I had not expected was the connection I felt to Dan. It was so easy to talk to each other. We shared the same circumstances—we had both been left by our father as children. In other ways, we were so much alike. I had a new half-brother.

A few months later, I was styling a bride’s hair. She was so excited that her half-sister was travelling a great distance to attend her wedding. Suddenly, I ached. I had a half-sister, too. But I didn’t know her.

I asked my aunt about Alexa. Her mother had recently died. I got Alexa’s number and dialed.

From that day on, Alexa and I talked every two weeks. I reached out, and she reached right back. Alexa opened up doors for me into the life of my father. He was a good father to her, even after her parents divorced. He was involved in her life, supportive, and attentive. I was glad he could be so nice. All my life, I’d wondered, “Does he have a heart?” But I also learned that he was a womanizer who liked to drink and gamble.

Of all my half-siblings, Alexa was the one I’d longed for. I had a late-1960s photograph of me standing behind her, holding her hands as she toddled forward toward the camera. Alexa kept a photo of me, too, cradling her in my arms.

Suddenly, here we were, grown women hugging outside a Florida hotel. After six months of phone calls, we had decided to meet. With our husbands and children, we spent two wonderful days together. The new cousins got to know each other, laughing over the similarities in their moms—in our upbeat personalities and more.

In Florida, my aunt showed me photographs of my father throughout his life. She also had a framed picture of me that my grandmother always kept and another in a locket of my grandfather’s. I had never known they even thought of me. Looking at those pictures, I didn’t feel so forgotten. But I still wondered, “Why didn’t they reach out to me all these years? How could they have just ignored us?”

The biggest question of all lingered for me: “Was my father sorry?” Dan never asked him directly, but he sensed his regret. That gives me a little peace. I know he would have liked me. And I would have loved him—even though I think he was a coward.

With my half-siblings, there is no such baggage. We are innocent people in the irresponsible, kooky, maybe even wicked life of our father. He never took responsibility.

With my father’s death, I have found a new family. When he was alive, no one was willing to challenge him or ask him questions. He kept such secrets. But his death opened things up. At first, there was just me and my brother. Now I have all these people in my life who love me. They have formed a circle for me—Dan and his brother, then Alexa and her family, and maybe others I will eventually meet. And I trust them one hundred percent, in a way that I never could have trusted my father. They give me so much more than he ever could.

I can’t dwell on the past or be sad about it anymore. I have so much more now that is new and blooming. During my Florida visit, I kept staring at Alexa, thinking, “She’s half me.” Each day since, I marvel, “I have a sister!” These are words I have not said or thought since I was eight years old. How lucky I am to be able to say them now at age forty-six. And it is also easy to say: “I love my sister.”

~Robynn Ashwood

http://www.chickensoup.com/

NASCAR: Bringing Families Together

Mom always said that if she hadn’t married Dad, he would have become a penniless stock car driver. She considers herself the influence that kept him from devoting his life to, as she saw it, dirty, dangerous, and costly stock cars.

Dad’s non-racing career was teaching business courses at the high school, as well as coaching and officiating sports. For us kids, Dad was the homework checker, the packer of lunch boxes, and the math tutor who made his children safe and warm with bedtime stories and good night hugs. He worked all day — and evening — with other people’s kids and came home to his own with time and love to spare.

Dad, by nature, is a helper. As a coach and sports official, his devotion was not to the game but to cultivating the talents of young people.

Dad passed along to me, at a young age, the love of a car. He owned a red 1969 Corvette. The highlight of summer days was climbing in the makeshift backseat without car seats or seat belts, stopping for ice cream, and taking a drive on the open country roads at over 80 mph. Many Sunday afternoons were spent with Dad, a chest of tools, a pan of dirty oil, the Corvette, and an AM radio with Barney Hall calling a NASCAR Winston (now Sprint) Cup race.

One spring, Dad convinced Mom that he was going to take me, at the tender age of 8, to my first NASCAR race; we would travel to the Irish Hills of Michigan to Michigan International Speedway. That first trip was filled with such anticipation. The three-hour drive to our overnight stop in Toledo felt like a week’s journey across the Sahara Desert. The next morning when the track came into view I experienced chills of excitement that I had never experienced before. I had to catch my breath as the vast grandstands came into view.

With one exception, I now remember that first day at the speed-way only as impressions of sounds and smells and the images I piece together from looking at the collection of 35 mm photos that Dad took that day.

Dad took my hand and we approached a semi-truck trailer. A pleasant man stopped his work, and asked if he could help us. My dad gently pleaded on my behalf (and secretly his own) for a look inside.

The magic of what I saw inside has stuck with me, consistently, since that first day. That view inside the CBS Sports mobile production facility sparked my interest and imagination about all that made the sport possible. Suddenly, NASCAR was bigger than my affection for Awesome Bill Elliott and the No. 9 car. It became more than drivers, crew chiefs, and television personalities. NASCAR became a community of broadcast technicians, mechanics, sponsors, concessionaires, officials, volunteers, front office staff, and sales executives. And this was a community that I wanted to join.

For a few more years my dad would take me back to Michigan in June for our pilgrimage, but eventually other things were getting in the way — sports, boyfriends, and summer jobs. Deep down, I always kept that strong connection with that circle of asphalt in the Irish hills and the people who visited there every summer.

I went to college and studied hard. I chose to play sports and to major in Sports Marketing. I wanted to work for NASCAR, but had no idea how to make it happen. My business school advisor was not impressed with this aspiration and offered little encouragement or assistance.

Late in my time in college, as I was paying my last parking fee at the university, the motherly figure behind the counter commented on my NASCAR-motif personal check. “My son would love these,” she said. I replied, “Oh, does your son like racing”? She said with a smile, “Yes, he is the Marketing Director at Michigan International Speedway.” I hesitantly asked for his name.

I knew right away the potential for this little moment of serendipity. The first person I called was my father. Dad, in addition to his own unselfishness, also believes in the intrinsic good nature of others. He encouraged me to call and express my genuine interest.

In the next year, I was given the opportunity to interview and was offered an internship. Soon, I was welcomed into the NASCAR family as a corporate sales executive at Michigan International Speedway.

During my first NASCAR event, Dad was ready to come to the race as a spectator. He was thrilled to use my employee tickets in the center grandstand tickets — better than any seat he had ever purchased for himself.

A few days before the race a volunteer service group had to withdraw from helping in the information booths, and our Director of Guest Services was looking for volunteers. I called Dad right away and asked if he would like to help us out. Unable to resist lending a helping hand, he gave up his center grandstand seats to assist other race fans at the guest service tents. He even convinced my skeptical mother to come along. They enjoyed every minute.

Every year since, Dad’s role at the speedway has grown. A year later he was a supervisor for a group of guest service tents; a year after that he was in charge of all the guest service tents; later, he was promoted to Assistant Guest Service Supervisor. He takes this part-time job more seriously than many people treat their full-time jobs.

During this time, Mom would spend the week in Michigan and help at the track as needed, but preferred to spend the days at my apartment to make sure Dad and I had clean and ironed clothes, hot food on the table in the evenings, and travel mugs of coffee prepared for our pre-dawn departures.

Later, after six years of working at the speedway, I changed roles in the industry and began work for a major sponsor of a race team based in Kansas City. However, there was no chance of Dad resigning just because I was moving on.

Dad, without a place to stay, purchased a camper and prepared to spend the week living at the speedway. Surprisingly, Mom agreed to go back that first year. In the infield for those three weeks that summer, Mom’s appreciation of the event, the culture, and the people grew. And now, Mom is in her sixth year of assisting at the Michigan International Speedway credentials office. They have met some of their dearest friends at the Speedway and rate those weeks there as among their most favorite times of the year.

I view every aspect of my job as helping. Whether it is helping a fan find their seat, helping a sponsor to increase their product recognition, or helping someone set up their hospitality tent, our work is about making everyone’s experience enjoyable. It is this goodwill, not the fast cars, which defines the NASCAR experience and community. Every day I thank my father for showing me that helping is a gift.

Now that I am back “at the track” working for Kansas Speedway, I still call my dad up before every race and ask, “Dad, would you like to help us out for the race”? He, as always, still jumps at the chance, eager to help. Mom, once the skeptic, has found a home in NASCAR and now includes herself wholeheartedly in this community.

In the 27 years since my first visit to the speedway, I have found a family in NASCAR. More and more, I find my own family and my NASCAR family are one and the same.

~Jean Ann Bowman

http://www.chickensoup.com/

We’re All Family Here

The charity that is a trifle to us can be precious to others.

~Homer, The Odyssey

My father spent the last three years of his life in the secured ward of a memory care unit. In December 2011, he lost the ability to swallow and my family and I cared for him during his final days. But this story isn’t about my dad’s departure; it’s about those he left behind on the second floor, and two men who have convinced me that angels come in the strangest shapes and sizes.

My brothers, Russ and Reed, are both in their sixties. They have worked for decades in a family business that requires physical strength, creative thinking, and people skills. They are hunters and fishermen; they love bicycles and motorcycles, an occasional cigar, and Maker’s Mark. They revered my dad and visited him often. In fact, the director of the memory care unit, which typically cares for about twenty-five residents, told us that our family paid more visits to my father than all of the other residents’ families combined.

But my brothers went far, far beyond the call of duty. Over time they got to know virtually everyone on the second floor — staff members and residents alike. During my father’s last week, I got to know many of them through my brothers’ eyes.

“That’s Dora,” Russ said, pointing to a petite Latino woman. “She’s from Managua and used to own several beauty salons. Very astute businesswoman in her day.”

Dora looked around with a puzzled expression. “Why am I here?” she asked.

My brother shook his head. “The fact that she asks the question answers her question, don’t you think?”

A slender, dapper gentleman sat at a table. Kenny was a Royal Air Force mechanic. He grew up in Portsmouth, England, and his family owned a toy store. Often he would relive his World War II experience.

“At the rat tat tat tat tat we would have to scurry into the trenches to avoid being injured,” he recounted in his proper British accent.

At other times Kenny asked Russ if he’d seen his wife.

“No I haven’t,” Russ always said. “But if I see her I’ll let her know you’re looking for her.” Kenny’s wife had been dead since 1994.

Peter came prancing by. He was German and full of energy. He loved to sing and dance. He carried a flashlight wherever he went, and on this occasion he was worried because it wasn’t working. My brother Reed promised Peter he’d bring him batteries next time — and he did.

Peter was in the German army, and one day Russ sat him down with my dad, whose liberty ship was sunk by a German U-boat in the Atlantic in 1945. “Peter, your country’s navy sunk my dad’s ship in the war.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that,” Peter replied, contrite.

My father waved his hand. “All is forgiven.” And in the world of the second floor, where the most reliable memories are more than half a century old, that said a lot.

I was walking down the hall with Reed and a head popped out of a room — at floor level. It was Monroe, a P-51 mechanic in World War II and now a Dallas Cowboys fan. He forgets he can’t walk and often slips out of his wheelchair. I panicked, ready to call for help.

“Hello Monroe,” Reed greeted him, helping him back into his chair before continuing down the hall. “Happens all the time,” he told me. “No biggie.”

During that final week I spent a lot of time on the second floor. My brothers, their wives, my mother, and other family members would come and go. At lunchtime someone would run out for sandwiches; we’d eat them in a small common room at the end of the hall. Sometimes Wanda would join us. Once a sergeant in the Air Force, Wanda was friendly, engaging and seemed quite “with it,” except that she remembered very little about herself. Still, she was welcome to share our meal and often did.

One evening as we sat with my dad, a resident named Donna, who was wheelchair-bound, rolled into the room. Normally very loving and clear-eyed, she was obviously upset.

“What’s wrong, Donna?” Russ asked, putting his arm around her. “Are you lost?”

She nodded tearfully.

“I’ll take you back where you belong,” he said. “Don’t worry.” The compassion in my brother’s voice made me want to weep.

Over several days my dad grew weaker. “He is actively dying,” the hospice workers told us. On one of his last nights, Toni wandered into the room. She was wraithlike, much too slender, with long gray hair; dementia had her securely in its clutches. She would often take Russ’s face in her hands and say “Panos? Panos?” which was the name of her son. My brother would nod and she would coo lovingly to him in Greek.

Russ tells the story of one day when he noticed Toni walking with a man who could be her son. “Are you Panos?” my brother asked him.

The man looked surprised. “Yes, I am.”

“So am I,” Russ said with a grin. The man began to apologize for his mother, but my brother stopped him.

“We’re in this together,” Russ said. “We’re all family here.”

When Toni wandered in that evening, the atmosphere was subdued. We were playing one of Dad’s favorite CDs softly and the lights were low. We were all somber because we knew our vigil was coming to an end. Toni said nothing, but looked at all of us and gave the sign of the cross. And just as quietly she left.

The next evening my father died. Many of the staff members cried, but Rolando, the maintenance man, was serene. Days before, at my brothers’ request, he had given my dad a blessing. They have been around Rolando long enough to believe he’s a holy man.

“You do not need to worry,” Rolando told me. “Your papa is in good hands.”

Alzheimer’s is an insidious disease that stealthily robs us of what we value most: our sense of who we are. But to the end, every person with dementia remains a person with a story — an individual who worked, and loved, and lived a worthwhile life. The number of people with Alzheimer’s is growing, and we need more “angels” like my brothers, individuals who are willing to say to people who will never truly know them, “You matter to me, even now.”

The funny part is, Russ and Reed will tell you angels have nothing to do with it. “They’re my friends,” Russ would say. And Reed would just roll his eyes, as if to say, “What’s the big deal?”

My dad is gone and there’s no reason for my brothers to visit the second floor anymore. But they do. The other day Russ met a new woman, Aileen. She had an accent and he asked her where she was from.

“France,” she replied. “Bordeaux.”

“Ah,” my brother said. “Wine-making country.”

“Oui,” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Delicious wines.”

“So, Aileen, will you be my friend?” Russ asked.

“Oui, Certainement,” she said.

It’s as easy — and as awe-inspiring — as that.

~Louise Harris Berlin

http://www.chickensoup.com/

Cell Phone Madness

Everything in moderation… including moderation.

~Julia Child

“Surprise!” was the first thing I heard as soon as I opened the door. My family and friends were all gathered together. There were colorful balloons all over the house, a big poster that said “HAPPY BIRTHDAY,” and of course a cake with a number 12 candle. It was a wonderful feeling knowing that I had finally turned twelve and I might possibly get the thing I wanted most.

I saw my mom and dad coming towards me with a small package wrapped up with really nice pink paper with flowers on it. When I ripped the paper and opened the box, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I had really gotten a cell phone! I ran to give my mom and dad the biggest hug ever. “Thank you! I love you guys!”

“You’re welcome. We knew this was going to make you happy but we didn’t only get you this because you turned twelve, but also because you are doing well in school. We expect you to keep getting good grades.”

“Of course I will!” I said confidently.

As soon as I got to school the next morning I was showing off my phone and asking everyone for their number. It was cool how I got so many contacts on the first day.

It felt like I didn’t even exist in that class anymore. I wouldn’t pay much attention to the teachers because I was too busy on my phone. Luckily, I didn’t get caught using it.

I’m pretty sure that the teacher did notice that I stopped paying attention to her because a week later we took a test and I failed. To make matters worse, my mom had to sign the test.

It was hard to show my mom the test. She was used to seeing A’s and B’s on my tests. Well eventually I showed her and she couldn’t believe it. She was angry but most of all, she was disappointed. Seeing her like that made me feel bad.

Weeks passed and my dad started to dislike the fact that I had a phone. We would argue every day about why phones are bad for us. He would say, “Anahy, can you please stop texting?”

“I’m not doing anything wrong, I’m just texting my friends. I don’t think there is a reason for you to get mad.”

“I don’t mind if you text your friends, but don’t do it when someone is talking to you, when you are eating, doing homework, or when we have guests. It’s rude.”

My mom also joined the conversation “Anahy, I have also noticed that you never pay attention to us, your brother or sister. It’s like you have your own little world now and we don’t communicate as much with your phone between us.”

I acted like they were wrong but then I started to wonder if it was true that I was being impolite.

A week later I tried going a whole day without a cell phone and it didn’t go that badly. My relatives came over and it was the first time that I wasn’t using my phone. Everyone noticed because they were asking me about it. It got really annoying because everyone exclaimed “Wow!” Finally you are not using your phone.” That day I had so much fun because I was actually spending time with my family and paying attention to them. From that day, I had a different point of view towards cell phones.

Phones really take you away from the rest of the world. When you use your phone you move from the real world to a technological world. I’m not saying that phones are bad and not to use them, but you do have to make some time to spend with your family too and not get stuck with your phone all day. My phone took away time from my homework and from my family. It also affected my grades.

I will keep using my phone, but I have it under better control now so that it doesn’t interfere with my real life.

~Zulema Anahy Carlos

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