Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reader's Choice 20th Anniversary Edition

by Jack Canfield

  “We need to get home to our son,” she said somewhat apologetically.

  A son? All this and they had a son, too? Now I really needed to read her story!

  Her story, “A Season to Be Strong,” was in the chapter entitled “Perseverance.” Seeing that she and her husband were still on the long journey of rehabilitation, the choice of perseverance seemed so appropriate. I read Penelope’s story and learned that she and her husband were dancers who traveled the world until they met with a life-altering detour. With a young son at home, she and her husband found themselves on a road neither of them had anticipated — the road to recovery. She now found herself having to step up in ways she never anticipated. But what really made an impression on me was the grace and faith that Penelope exhibited as her life took this unexpected detour.

  I have known people who have also faced unexpected life detours but were left feeling bitter and victimized. I, myself, have been forced onto unexpected paths. I wish that I could say I exuded grace, peace and faith during my journey — but often, that wasn’t the case. Often, it was more like sniveling and whining.

  I wish that everyone who reads Penelope’s story could have had the opportunity to sit at her table at the Chicken Soup for the Soul contributors’ luncheon. The words in her story are poignant and powerful, but her presence, so filled with peace, was a true testament to faith and unconditional love.

  Now when I encounter a roadblock in life and find myself tempted to sit on the side of the road and have a pity party, I think back to Penelope’s story. I think about that graceful woman with a dancer’s body and hope in her eyes. I think about the loving way she cared for her husband. I remember her perseverance and belief that one day her road will lead her to that beach where she will have that lazy day with her husband. I remember and I am inspired to embrace my detours with more peace and faith, knowing that there can be beauty in a change of scenery, if I look for it.

  ~Lynne Leite

  A Season to Be Strong

  Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage.

  ~Lao Tzu

  I’m twenty-eight years old and my husband and I have been married four years. We have traveled the world dancing professionally. We were performing off-Broadway together when we found out I was pregnant with our first child. We had made a point to really enjoy each other in the first years of marriage and we were ready to settle down and start a family. It was the beginning of a new season in our lives.

  When my son was ten months old, we celebrated our first Father’s Day together. My husband woke up to breakfast in bed and received a gift that my son and I made for him. It was a good start to the day. My husband hadn’t been feeling well five days before. He came home from dance practice and was throwing up and having terrible headaches. We weren’t sure what was going on but didn’t pay too much mind to it considering injury is very common to dancers. We planned to take him to the doctor on Monday morning, but we weren’t going to let it ruin our first Father’s Day together.

  On our way to church, shortly after breakfast, my husband starting acting a little weird. He didn’t feel like driving and wanted me to hold our son. It was during the service that I was called from the nursery because my husband had passed out. I knew something was terribly wrong when I looked into his eyes as he was being helped onto a gurney. He was completely pale. I immediately felt a knot in my stomach and began to cry.

  My first instinct was to start praying with whoever was around me. We were taken to UCLA where we learned that my husband had a ruptured aneurysm. He had suffered from two ruptures, the first being at dance practice five days before and the second at church when he passed out. He had been walking around with a bleed in his brain, not feeling well, but functioning.

  I was in shock and couldn’t believe this was happening to us. My husband is a good person. Patient, loving, generous, selfless, a leader, wise, humble, humorous and a very talented dancer and actor. He had never been sick in all the time that I had known him and now this horrible thing had happened.

  My husband had a third rupture on the table during brain surgery and they were unable to operate. They had to go in with a different plan and you can imagine my reaction when they called me for my consent. All I wanted to hear was that everything went well but that wasn’t the case. And I’d like to say that it got better after that but it was only the beginning of a long summer of surgeries, setbacks and multiple complications.

  I could see that this was going to be a long road and my husband would only want me to be strong and apply our faith. We are both believers and my husband has spent a lot of time sowing wisdom, patience and faith into me. He has prayed for me and has set the bar for what kind of wife he wants me to be by being an example as a good husband. Not having my husband to lead me through this because he isn’t neurologically all there was tough. So I had to change my attitude and thought process. I had to step into a leadership position. It is difficult to see your better half in a vulnerable position. I had to make medical decisions to save his life and on top of it all take care of our baby, bills, home, work, etc. I could have easily had a mental breakdown but I wanted to handle this the way I know my husband would have if the roles were reversed.

  My family, friends, and I stayed with my husband throughout his whole time in ICU. My husband wasn’t alone for nine weeks. It was important to keep him surrounded by people who loved him and who would pray over him. I didn’t want him to feel alone or fearful and wanted him to know what he was fighting for. My son’s first birthday came and I organized the biggest first birthday that I had ever been to, but I wanted my husband to be a part of that too. Although he may not remember it, we opened presents and sang happy birthday to our son Elijah in the ICU. Even the doctors and nurses came in to join us.

  My son took his first steps at the hospital. He was growing before my very eyes and it made me sad that my husband was missing that. I didn’t want anything else in our life to have to suffer because of this circumstance. I had been breastfeeding at the time and I had no intention of stopping. It added a little more stress to worry about pumping and then eating right so my milk wouldn’t dry up, but I was determined to keep some sort of normalcy for my son. One of the harder decisions I had to make was sending my son off with my mom for several weeks. Would that ruin our bond? Would I have to stop breastfeeding? Would that traumatize our son? These were the questions running through my mind, but I had to prioritize, and although my baby needed me, my husband needed me more.

  Since my son was with my mom, I was able to be more present with my husband. Not just physically but mentally as well. I supported him as he was beginning his physical, occupational and speech therapy. He had to learn how to walk and talk again. His progress improved when I was there for his therapy, so I tried not to miss any sessions, but that became more challenging over time. I had to start working and that pulled me away from spending as much time with my husband.

  Eventually my son came home and I had to balance learning how to be a single mom, take care of the house, work, and go back and forth to the hospital to support my husband through his rehabilitation. Sometimes I wish there were five of me, and one of me would be sleeping on a beach somewhere, but I know this is just a season in my life and I have to keep pushing through.

  A lot of people tell me I’m strong and that they couldn’t do it if they were me. The truth is that when you’re put in this position, you just do it. You have no other choice but to step up. It’s hard and ugly but it builds character. I know I can handle anything after going through this and I look forward to taking that nap on the beach with my husband by my side.

  ~Penelope Vazquez

  An Honors Class for Remedial Dieters

  Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you’ll land among the stars.

  ~Les Brown

  I eyed the name of my next patient on the schedule and groaned. Maggie Nelson. Why did I even bother trying to help her? Talk about a was
te of time. I had spent hours over the years counseling, encouraging, guilt tripping, and attempting to motivate the butterball to lose weight. Diabetes, high cholesterol, high blood pressure, worn-out knees — the woman needed to drop a good ninety pounds — but I might as well have instructed a Macy’s mannequin for all the results I’d seen. She couldn’t afford Weight Watchers, her insurance didn’t cover gastric bypass, her knees ached so she couldn’t exercise, broccoli made her bloat, and artificial sweeteners gave her a headache. When it came to excuses, Maggie could write a bestseller.

  I inhaled a deep breath and forced myself to enter Maggie’s exam room. I perused her chart and scowled. As expected, not only had she not lost a single ounce, she’d actually gained a whopping ten pounds. Next came her lame excuse: she’d had out-of-town company and how could I expect her to lose weight around her birthday and anniversary? Then she claimed she “ate like a bird.” Right! An ostrich, maybe. My favorite excuse? She had to keep freshly baked chocolate chip cookies around the house in case the grandkids paid a visit. When I asked how often the grandkids came, she hemmed and hawed and finally admitted they lived out of state.

  We danced the same worn-out waltz, Maggie and I. I’d counsel her to exercise more and cut down on her sweets and soda and she’d nod, promise to do better, and waddle out of my office, both of us knowing nothing would change.

  Then I read Jennie Ivey’s story, “The Honors Class,” in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Power of Positive, a story about a class of remedial history students whose teacher had been falsely informed the class was filled with academic superstars — the “Honors” students. Because of her high expectations and the extra effort she poured into these supposed “gifted” scholars, not only did all the students pass, but the majority earned A’s and B’s. Wow! Remedial students acing Honors History? Unheard of.

  A twinge of guilt pricked my conscience. Had I prematurely given up hope for patients like Maggie? Did the quote about “the soft bigotry of low expectations” apply to me? Truthfully, I’d given up on Maggie years ago. But what if I treated my obese diabetics with the same high expectations and extra effort with which Jennie Ivey treated her remedial History students? What if I treated my failing dieters as though they were “Honors” patients?

  You’ll just be wasting your time, my inner cynic insisted. No harm trying, my conscience countered.

  First, I researched everything I could find from reputable journals and books about people who had lost at least fifty pounds without surgery and maintained the loss for over a year. I discovered the National Weight Loss Registry, which researched and followed over three thousand people who met these criteria. Then I created a notebook of all the winning advice from these weight loss champions. Weekly group support proved helpful to many successful dieters so I’d start a weight loss support group where I’d teach the principles of the Weight Loss Registry.

  At Maggie’s next clinic visit, I told her about the group and encouraged her to join. I offered the class for free so money wouldn’t be an excuse. She claimed she didn’t want to face rush hour traffic every week. That’s when I took her to task. “Maggie, you claim you desperately want to lose weight, but you aren’t willing to make any sacrifices. If you seriously want to get off insulin and be healthy, you won’t let rush hour traffic keep you from participating.”

  Arms crossed, Maggie glared at me. “I’ve lost forty pounds three times before. It never stays off.”

  I put a hand on her arm. “It came back because you returned to your old eating habits.”

  She moaned. “I’ve failed so many times before. I guess I don’t believe I can do it.” She glanced up at me, tears in her eyes. “You really think I can lose this weight and get off insulin?” Her eyes registered a glimmer of hope.

  I squeezed her arm. “I know you can, Maggie. But it will take sacrifice, time, and hard work. Just think, you could be fifty pounds lighter by this time next year. Think how much less your knees would ache.”

  She hesitated, fear etched across her face.

  “You can do this, Maggie. I’ll help you.”

  She glanced up, grinning. “Alright, I’ll do it.”

  Thus, every week we weighed ourselves, recorded our food intake, wore pedometers, ate high protein breakfasts, and explored the emotional triggers behind our overeating. We learned to distract ourselves when tempted to snack.

  When Maggie lost three pounds the first week, you’d have thought she’d won an Olympic gold medal. Within a month, she’d lost ten pounds and proudly demonstrated to the group how the waistline of her pants was now loose.

  I wanted to cartwheel across the room the week Maggie announced her husband had bought her an exercise bike for Christmas. She was cycling thirty minutes each morning while watching the Today show.

  There were some setbacks along the way, however. Three months into the group, Maggie gained two pounds after a family reunion. She hung her head in shame and said nothing during the meeting. Her face, however, screamed, “I’m a failure.”

  After class, I took her aside. “Maggie, I’m so proud of you.”

  Her eyes widened. “Proud of me? Why? I ate like a pig and gained two pounds.”

  “But you showed up tonight, didn’t you? That shows you’re committed — even when you’ve messed up. Champions don’t quit, they learn from their mistakes. They keep trying until they succeed.”

  She smirked. “I learned to stay away from the cobbler and ice cream.”

  I laughed. “You’re my star pupil and you’ve proven it tonight — you didn’t quit. You may have failed at dieting before, but you’re an Honors student now.”

  In four months, Maggie lost thirty pounds and cut her insulin dose in half. Her knees no longer ached. When her grandchildren came to visit, she informed me, “I served them turkey slices and baby carrots for a snack and they liked them just as much as the cookies.” She said she wanted to teach them healthy eating habits.

  After she’d lost the thirty pounds with no signs of reverting to her old eating habits, Maggie announced she was starting a support group at her church. “I want to teach others everything you’ve taught me. They’re all asking how I lost my weight.”

  Everyone applauded.

  Her face beamed. “If I can do it, anybody can. People just need somebody to encourage them along the way.”

  Amen!

  Jennie Ivey would probably be shocked to learn that fifteen “remedial” dieters lost over two hundred pounds of fat because of her story. Amazing what raising the bar on low expectations can do! Thanks, Jennie!

  ~Sally Willard Burbank, MD

  The Honors Class

  Don’t live down to expectations. Go out there and do something remarkable.

  ~Wendy Wasserstein

  The motley looking group of eleventh graders didn’t look like any “honors” U.S. History class I’d ever imagined. They shuffled into my classroom, which I’d painstakingly decorated with Presidential portraits and colorful maps and framed copies of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution, with an “attitude” that was apparent even to a rookie teacher.

  Which is exactly what I was. Fresh out of college with a degree in history, a teaching certificate, and not a lick of experience. I was grateful to have a job, even if it was in one of the rougher high schools in the city where I lived.

  “Good morning,” I said brightly. I was greeted with vacant stares. “I’m so excited to have been selected to teach this honors class,” I continued. “They usually don’t let first-year teachers do that.”

  Several of the students sat up straighter and cut their eyes at each other. Too late, I wondered if I should have tried to hide the fact that I had zero teaching experience. Oh, well. “We’re going to do things a little differently in this class because I know that all of you want a challenge.”

  By now, every student was staring at me with a puzzled expression.

  “First off, let’s rearrange these desks,” I said. “I like lots of clas
s discussion, so let’s put them in a big circle so we can all see each other’s faces.” Several of the kids rolled their eyes, but they all got up and began scooting the desks out of the traditional straight rows. “Perfect! Thanks. Now, everybody choose a seat and let’s play a game. When I point to you, tell me your name. Then tell me what you hate most about history.”

  Finally, some smiles. And lots more as our game progressed.

  Amanda hated how history seemed to be all about war. Jose didn’t like memorizing names and dates. Gerald was convinced that nothing that had happened in the past was relevant to his life. “Why should I care about a bunch of dead white guys?” was how he put it. Caitlyn hated tricky true-false questions. Miranda despised fill-in-the-blank tests.

  We had just made our way around the circle when the bell rang. Who knew fifty minutes could pass so quickly?

  Armed with the feedback my students had given me, I began formulating a plan. No teaching straight from the textbook for this group. No “read the chapter and answer the questions at the end” homework. These kids were bright. They were motivated. My honors class deserved to be taught in a way that would speak to them.

  We’d study social and economic history, not just battles and generals. We’d tie current events into events from the past. We’d read novels to bring home the humanity of history. Across Five Aprils when studying the Civil War. The Grapes of Wrath to learn about the Great Depression. The Things They Carried when talking about Vietnam.

  Tests would cover the facts, but also require higher level thinking skills. No tricky true-false questions. No fill-in-the-blank.

  At first, I was surprised by how many of my students used poor grammar and lacked writing skills. And some seemed to falter when reading out loud. But we worked on those skills while we were learning history. I found that many of the kids were not only willing, but eager to attend the after-school study sessions I offered and to accept the help of peer tutors.