Read Online Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul by Jack Canfield - Free Book Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
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because I want to tell you exactly what’s wrong with me,” I told them. “In two days, my left leg will be amputated six inches above the knee. After that, I’ll have more chemotherapy. My hair will fall out, and I’ll be very sick for a while, but I will come back to school in the fall. If you have any questions, you can ask. It doesn’t bother me.”
At first it was so quiet I could hear myself breathe. Finally, one girl spoke up. “Will you have an artificial leg?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Will you have your real foot?” piped someone else.
I laughed, and one by one the rest of them laughed, too, as they realized the absurdity of the question.
“Well, I sort of doubt it,” I said. “I’ll just have a bar or something. You probably won’t want to see it.”
“Aww, come on, Adrienne,” said another girl. “We don’t care what you look like. We just want you back.”
Well, that made me feel great, and by now everyone was much more at ease. And somehow I wasn’t at all nervous about speaking anymore.
Time flew after that, and before I knew it, the Thursday of my surgery arrived. By 7:00 A.M. I had a crowd around my bed: June, my youth-group minister from Littleton United Methodist Church; “T,” the hospital social worker; and of course, Mom and Peggy. (My dad came later, when things were calmer.) Then T pulled out a little package and handed it to me. “This is from Janelle’s mom,” she said.
Janelle was a friend of mine who’d also had bone cancer. I tore open the wrapping paper. Inside sat a little brown teddy bear, and across his chest was a message. It read, “Teddy bears are a symbol of love and friendship, and I hope this one reminds you that there are a lot of people who care about you and are hoping that everything will turn out okay for you.” I thought back to Peggy’s first statement about my having friends to help me through this. Peggy was right—and right about my family and the Lord, too.
I was shaking with nervousness as they wheeled me down to surgery, but when I woke up in the recovery room afterward, I was strangely calm. In fact, I felt a huge sense of relief. The worst of it was over; now I could start doing things again. In a sense, I could start my life over.
As soon as I felt well enough to get out of bed, I began talking to other kids in the hospital. I was surprised to find how bored I was by my usual TV shows. Now I made an effort to meet people and make friends. Oddly enough, it came easily now; everyone seemed curious about my condition, and just answering their questions gave me something to talk about. I felt my former shyness slipping away like an old piece of clothing that no longer fit. When Children’s Hospital asked me to be in their telethon, I happily accepted.
I’d been in my church’s youth group since I was little, and as soon as I felt well enough, I began going back. We met every Sunday night, and sometimes we’d play volleyball or other games. When I first came back, the kids seemed uncomfortable; they didn’t want me to feel left out. But I didn’t mind; I’d stand on the side and cheer them on.
Once I started feeling stronger, though, I wanted to play, too. I knew I couldn’t put pressure on my artificial leg, but I developed a fine sense of balance on one leg. One night, before I could reconsider, I took off my prosthesis. “I’m coming in,” I called. The kids stopped the volleyball game and stared at me, but when I got the leg off and hopped out onto the court, they all smiled and cheered. Later that summer, when I went to a special camp for cancer patients called Sky High Hope, I did everything from rock climbing to horseback riding. Soon every new sport became a challenge. Especially skiing.
Rick Rakestraw, an instructor from Children’s Hospital, showed me how I could ski by using one ski and two outriggers— poles with little skis at the ends. The second I went down that first bunny hill, I knew this was the sport
At first it was so quiet I could hear myself breathe. Finally, one girl spoke up. “Will you have an artificial leg?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“Will you have your real foot?” piped someone else.
I laughed, and one by one the rest of them laughed, too, as they realized the absurdity of the question.
“Well, I sort of doubt it,” I said. “I’ll just have a bar or something. You probably won’t want to see it.”
“Aww, come on, Adrienne,” said another girl. “We don’t care what you look like. We just want you back.”
Well, that made me feel great, and by now everyone was much more at ease. And somehow I wasn’t at all nervous about speaking anymore.
Time flew after that, and before I knew it, the Thursday of my surgery arrived. By 7:00 A.M. I had a crowd around my bed: June, my youth-group minister from Littleton United Methodist Church; “T,” the hospital social worker; and of course, Mom and Peggy. (My dad came later, when things were calmer.) Then T pulled out a little package and handed it to me. “This is from Janelle’s mom,” she said.
Janelle was a friend of mine who’d also had bone cancer. I tore open the wrapping paper. Inside sat a little brown teddy bear, and across his chest was a message. It read, “Teddy bears are a symbol of love and friendship, and I hope this one reminds you that there are a lot of people who care about you and are hoping that everything will turn out okay for you.” I thought back to Peggy’s first statement about my having friends to help me through this. Peggy was right—and right about my family and the Lord, too.
I was shaking with nervousness as they wheeled me down to surgery, but when I woke up in the recovery room afterward, I was strangely calm. In fact, I felt a huge sense of relief. The worst of it was over; now I could start doing things again. In a sense, I could start my life over.
As soon as I felt well enough to get out of bed, I began talking to other kids in the hospital. I was surprised to find how bored I was by my usual TV shows. Now I made an effort to meet people and make friends. Oddly enough, it came easily now; everyone seemed curious about my condition, and just answering their questions gave me something to talk about. I felt my former shyness slipping away like an old piece of clothing that no longer fit. When Children’s Hospital asked me to be in their telethon, I happily accepted.
I’d been in my church’s youth group since I was little, and as soon as I felt well enough, I began going back. We met every Sunday night, and sometimes we’d play volleyball or other games. When I first came back, the kids seemed uncomfortable; they didn’t want me to feel left out. But I didn’t mind; I’d stand on the side and cheer them on.
Once I started feeling stronger, though, I wanted to play, too. I knew I couldn’t put pressure on my artificial leg, but I developed a fine sense of balance on one leg. One night, before I could reconsider, I took off my prosthesis. “I’m coming in,” I called. The kids stopped the volleyball game and stared at me, but when I got the leg off and hopped out onto the court, they all smiled and cheered. Later that summer, when I went to a special camp for cancer patients called Sky High Hope, I did everything from rock climbing to horseback riding. Soon every new sport became a challenge. Especially skiing.
Rick Rakestraw, an instructor from Children’s Hospital, showed me how I could ski by using one ski and two outriggers— poles with little skis at the ends. The second I went down that first bunny hill, I knew this was the sport
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