Chicken Soup for the Soul

by Amy Newmark

  — Carol C. Lake —

  I Don’t Have Arthritis

  When you treat a disease, first treat the mind.

  ~Chen Jen

  For the third time in two months, I sat on my orthopedist’s examining table explaining once again how debilitating the arthritis in my knees had become. Together, we’d tried everything — medication, injections, physical therapy, ice packs, hot compresses and, most recently, arthroscopic surgery. The procedure only left my knees more swollen and sore. As I implored him, my doctor just shook his head. Though I would eventually be a candidate for knee-joint replacement, he said, he hesitated to do the surgery at this point since he felt I was still too young at age fifty-six.

  First diagnosed with osteoarthritis in my thirties, I accepted it as my destiny. My grandmother had terrible arthritis at a young age. My mother spent her last two years in a wheelchair. A favorite aunt required a hip replacement. Of course, I had arthritis; it ran in the family.

  Regardless, I did everything I thought I could to remain limber. I avoided eating inflammatory foods, walked two miles daily and practiced yoga. Yet, I’d come to accept certain limitations the condition had placed on my life. When I was unable to open a jar, I’d blame it on my arthritis. When I found it difficult to walk stairs, I’d blame it on my arthritis. Climbing a ladder to trim a tree branch or climbing on a step stool to reach the top shelf had become out of the question. So, it came to be that whenever I was unable to keep up physically with some task, I’d say, simply, “Well, I can’t… I have arthritis.”

  Yet, at some point, even daily activities became agonizing. One evening, after having dinner out with my husband and his sister, I was unable to walk across the restaurant parking lot to the car, even with the help of my cane. The pain was excruciating. Dressing was difficult. Getting up from the sofa was tough, too, and I’d find myself having to push my hands against its frame in order to stand. And that yoga class I loved? I had to quit. But the final blow came when I was out shopping at the mall one day.

  On what was one of my better days, I was able to spend part of one afternoon strolling the mall. Before leaving for the drive home, I decided it would be a good idea to visit the ladies’ room. And here’s where it gets a bit embarrassing. I was unable to get up from the commode. The fixture was apparently lower than mine at home, and my knees were not strong enough to help project me upward. Eventually, I was able to pull myself up somehow, with tears streaming down my face.

  “Is this what’s become of me?” I asked myself. “If this is my predicament now, where will I be in ten years? In twenty years? Will I be wheelchair-bound like my mother, only at a much younger age?”

  I screamed louder: “I don’t have arthritis!”

  That was my turning point. I was fed up with arthritis. I decided to give arthritis back to wherever it came from in the first place. I didn’t want it anymore. So, I started walking daily again. First, I could only go one or two painful blocks at a time, gritting my teeth, and repeating over and over, “I don’t have arthritis.” I resumed a yoga practice at home, initially doing seated poses that didn’t strain my knees. Soon, I worked up to some easy standing postures, reminding myself with each movement, “I don’t have arthritis.” Each time I had to raise myself from a seat, with my knees screaming at me, I screamed louder: “I don’t have arthritis!”

  At first, I noticed subtle improvement. Even the smallest victory was encouraging, so I continued affirming to myself that I did not have arthritis anymore. Last week, I walked to my library, a four-mile roundtrip, pain-free. I can get up off the sofa — and other places! — with no problem. Six months ago, I returned to my yoga class. Joint pain and limitations are no longer a part of my life. Just ask me the reason, and I’ll give you my answer: I don’t have arthritis.

  — Monica A. Andermann —

  Dragonflies

  To forgive is to set a prisoner free and discover that the prisoner was you.

  ~Louis B. Smedes

  It was two hours past the time that I was supposed to be moved to jail from the city cells. I was sick of Hungry-Man dinners and toast, and tired of sleeping with one itchy blanket in a cold, dark cell. I made all the calls I could, asking friends and family for bail money. No one accepted. They all had their reasons.

  After three days inside, I was truly scared. When the guard came and unlocked my cell, I thought it was time for the move, so I steeled myself for whatever was going to happen next. In silence, he led me upstairs. Not knowing what to expect, I trudged along behind him, anxiety coursing through my veins. When I finally looked up, there stood my mother, the last person I expected to see.

  My parents split up when I was very young, and though children of divorce are often raised by a single mom, my dad raised my brother and me. I don’t think I ever forgave my mother for leaving. Because of that, among other reasons, we never saw eye-to-eye, never got along, and never enjoyed a good mother/daughter relationship. So, seeing her there left me stunned, especially since she was one of the many who had declined to bail me out.

  But now she had bailed me out, and we quietly drove to my dad’s in her car. I had no clue what awaited me, but as soon as I opened the door to the house, I had a pretty good idea.

  And so it began — an intervention just like the ones on TV. All the people who loved me most were gathered there, but they were dead serious. They told me that I needed to change and clean up my act. They loved me, but they were not willing to stand by and watch me destroy myself. It had already been agreed before I got there that I was to move to my mother and stepdad’s farm. If I refused, they would “disown” me. My dad and my brother meant everything to me, and I couldn’t imagine my life without them, so there was no decision to be made. Of course, I agreed.

  They were not willing to stand by and watch me destroy myself.

  Mom lived just outside a tiny town of about 800 people, forty kilometers away. I started out there going through withdrawal. I slept for most of the first two weeks. I was so sick that I wanted to die. I didn’t think I could get by without the drugs, the partying, and the friends, let alone live in the sticks with the woman whom I felt had once abandoned me. Everything about the situation seemed impossible.

  Then came the day I still recall clearly. Mom came into my room and told me I had to get up. I had to get some fresh air. I just wanted her to go away and leave me alone, but she persisted. Muttering under my breath, I got up and went outside with her.

  The sun was blindingly bright, and the breeze smelled like pasture. Believe me, that is not as pleasant as it sounds. We talked, enjoyed her flowers and admired the gathering of dragonflies. It was an especially hot summer, and they were plentiful that year. I have never seen that many since. She raised her pointer finger in the air and told me to do the same. I rolled my eyes, but complied begrudgingly. Then I watched, mesmerized, as the dragonflies landed on our fingers.

  At that precise moment, I realized that I was missing the small things in life. I had a sudden awareness that there was so much to appreciate and so many experiences that I had yet to live. I had my whole life ahead of me, a life more valuable than I had ever thought possible. I realized then that the parties, drugs, and fake friends weren’t really living at all. They were just a way to pass the time, a way to bury my anger, hurt and feelings of abandonment that I refused to let go. More importantly, I realized that I did have a mother. She didn’t abandon me, and she was here now when I needed her most. I was still her daughter, and she hadn’t given up. On that day out on the prairie, in the afternoon sunshine, she became not only my mother but my friend.

  That was more than twelve years ago. Since then, my mother and I have formed a relationship I had never dreamed possible. She has become a big part of my life and that of my two wonderful children. They think the world of their granny. She has held me when I’ve cried, consoled me when I was in pain, celebrated my successes, and carried me through my failures.

  Most of all, I admire how she held my
hand through recovery, teaching by example the true meaning of life and love. It took me far too long to forgive her for not being there when I was young. And as much as I regret that, I understand. Because of her, I was able to get clean and begin a relationship with her that would be unbreakable. My children are also blessed with her unconditional love. Because she taught me how to forgive, they enjoy an amazing granny who shares with them the simple things in life, like catching dragonflies. I am forever grateful that she saved me and has shown me the depth of a true mother’s love.

  — Celeste Bergeron Ewan —

  Born at Age Fifty-Five

  Some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.

  ~C.S. Lewis

  My uncle Art is 102 and 1/2 years old. When you get that old, you get to count your age in half years again. He is still a broad-shouldered man, about 5’10”, with a shock of white hair and a handsome face, sporting high cheekbones and a straight, classic nose.

  Alas, he is now blind after botched eye surgery when he was eighty-five. But he has a better memory than people half his age. And every morning, while he’s riding his stationary bicycle, he uses his good memory to recite to himself some of the poems he memorized in earlier years. He knows short poems — Shakespeare’s sonnets — and long, narrative poems, such as “The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Canadian poet Robert W. Service.

  Art has a twinkling sense of humor. When he could still see shapes, he walked with the aid of two white walking sticks.

  My son said to him, “Hey, Uncle Art, those remind me of ski poles.”

  Instantly, Art shot back: “Well, I am on the downward slope, y’know.”

  But here is what is most remarkable about my uncle. He says he started his life at age fifty-five.

  In his teen years, Art was “a runt that nobody noticed.” His older brother (my dad) was part of the popular crowd in high school, but Art was so shy and insecure that, even now, he remembers, “It was worse than not being liked. I felt like nobody even saw me.”

  He grew nine inches the year after he graduated, but his insecurity stayed with him during his Army service in World War II. Though he won a Bronze Star for his actions in the Battle of the Bulge, he never told anyone about it. Still insecure after the war, he became a U.S. mail carrier in his hometown, so he wouldn’t need to work around people.

  What did make Art feel more comfortable during his twenties was alcohol. There were plenty of bars lining Durango’s Main Street at the time, and a few shots of bourbon helped Art forget his self-doubts. Unfortunately, he said, “I was a mean drunk. Had a chip on my shoulder and got in some real barroom brawls.”

  One morning, he woke up in an alley, smelling of booze and vomit. Unable to remember the last twenty-four hours, he realized, “I’ve gotta stop this.”

  So no more bars. Just like that, Art stopped drinking.

  He moved in with his widowed mom and began what I call his “cloistered years.” Both my mom and dad were born in Durango, so we went for a visit every summer. Art was just the quiet guy who sat in a corner and never said much. I did notice that he seemed to read a lot — especially books of poetry — and apparently he liked classical music. Mostly, he was invisible to me. I didn’t pay him much attention.

  Then came the morning of Art’s fifty-fifth birthday. “Why did that birthday seem so different?” I asked him many years later. He shook his head and shrugged. “Can’t really say what it was. I just looked into the mirror that morning and realized that life was passing me by. And it was up to me to start doing something about it.”

  In Durango, the VFW sponsored weekly dances for people over forty, sometimes with live music. On Sunday afternoons, people could go early and take lessons. Pretty soon, Art was learning the foxtrot, waltz and jitterbug. He even learned to tango.

  So this shy, reclusive man started dancing. And since one needs a partner, Art summoned up the courage to ask a woman to dance. One evening, he spied a pretty widow who, he learned, was five years younger. Lucille was outgoing and spunky with eyes that sparkled, and she seemed to like this tall, somewhat gawky man. When he asked her to dance, she accepted. Pretty soon, they began attending dances together.

  At the age of sixty-two, Art summoned up the courage to propose. At that moment, his life changed. He retired from the postal service, and he and Lucille bought a trailer in Yuma, Arizona, where they began to spend their winters. “Regular snowbirds we were,” Art said. “And in Yuma, we went dancing five nights a week.” He began to quote poetry to Lucille — poems he had memorized. At night before they went to sleep, Art would whisper the lines of one of Shakespeare’s sonnets. After a while, he began to write verse of his own. Their friends in Yuma couldn’t imagine that the talented, witty man they knew had ever been shy and lonely.

  It wasn’t until after my own parents died that I became acquainted with this “new” Uncle Art. It was after my own fifty-fifth birthday and my husband had just filed for divorce. I was heartbroken, and felt as if my life had ended. I’m too old to start over, I thought.

  In an effort to escape from my pain, I drove down to Durango for a visit with Uncle Art and Lucille. And it was there, as we sat in their comfortable living room, that Art told me the story of his fifty-fifth birthday.

  “You started your life at fifty-five?” I said with a slight gasp. I looked from Art to Lucille, who had her arm twined lovingly with his.

  “You’re never too old to begin again,” she said with quiet conviction. Art nodded. “For some of us, fifty-five is the time we start,” he said in his deep, twinkly voice.

  That visit was twenty-two years ago. Now Uncle Art has passed the century mark, and I’m in my seventies. And he was right. In the years since my divorce, I have become a book author and professional speaker. I moved back to the Midwest and found the warm gift of friendship that exists among women. And I met Jim, a wonderful man and the partner of my happy older years.

  Although there was pain in my divorce transition, there was also self-discovery. Any time I got discouraged, I would think of Uncle Art.

  Lucille passed on five years ago, but I’m planning to celebrate Uncle Art’s 103rd birthday. Who knows? There may still be more I can learn from him.

  — Barbara Bartocci —

  Repairing Brokenness

  Blessed are the hearts that can bend; they shall never be broken.

  ~Albert Camus

  In 2001, just a few months before 9/11, my future wife Lucy went to New York with her mom. They saw several Broadway shows and bought a snow globe filled with the city’s top landmarks and signs from the more popular Broadway shows. She always enjoyed collecting snow globes from her travels.

  Then five years ago, when we’d just gotten married and had moved to a new house, Lucy left the snow globe on the garage floor while searching for something in a trunk we had out there. She should have put it back where it belonged, but she didn’t. I saw it there the next day. I was somewhat peeved that she’d left it there. I should’ve picked it up and put it back in its proper place, but I didn’t. I was wrong for that.

  That snow globe remained on the floor of the garage for several days. Each of us saw it and had multiple opportunities to pick it up and do the right thing, but both of us failed.

  One night, I turned on the light in the garage, but the bulb blew. It didn’t faze me. I continued to do whatever it was I was doing. Several seconds later, I accidentally kicked the snow globe over and it shattered into seemingly a million pieces.

  My heart started racing. I knew she’d be upset. I picked everything up the best I could, discarded the glass, put the base in a box, and set it aside. It was something special, so I vowed to get it repaired one day. In my heart and soul, I knew it could be fixed.

  Less than a year later, Lucy and I were divorced. We argued, fought, and even suffered a devastating miscarriage. We were broken. She took her stuff, and I took mine. I also took the broken snow globe. I knew it could be fixed.

  We didn�
��t see each other for a year and half, although we texted from time to time. Sometimes it was nice; other times, not so much.

  Before her, I was alone yet never felt lonely. When I lost her, I was a mess. I served in the U.S. Army for many years, including three yearlong tours of duty in Iraq. My body hurt. My mind hurt. My soul hurt. My heart hurt. I was broken from head to toe.

  There were times I turned to extreme amounts of alcohol to escape the hurt. I only hurt more. On one occasion, I went with three of my best friends to the Georgia Dome in Atlanta to see our beloved Auburn Tigers play the Louisville Cardinals. I watched the first series of the game and then disappeared. I sat on the floor in a corner away from everyone and never watched another snap. I was so alone. I hurt so much.

  Finally, in early December, I stopped in at my local VA hospital to ask for some help. I could’ve walked in to the mental health clinic and seen a doctor right then, but it wasn’t urgent. I wasn’t going to do anything stupid. I knew I could be fixed. I just didn’t know how.

  The first available appointment was the last slot of the day on Christmas Eve. I thought that was quite special. What a gift! I saw a doctor for my physical pain and a counselor for my mental pain. I was well on my way to repairing my own personal brokenness.

  I needed to cut Lucy loose. I had to. I needed to move on. “If you love something, set it free,” they say, and I did.

  Besides an occasional text, we didn’t communicate at all for the better part of a year… until we did.

  She was going through her own hard times, trying to deal with her own brokenness. One day, she felt that she’d hit rock bottom. Her mom, sister, and daughter told her to talk to me, because “Jody was the only guy who really ever loved her.”