Free Chicken Soup for the Cancer Survivor's Soul by Jack Canfield
Authors: Jack Canfield
second time around told me to get my “house” in order. Then I changed my mind. I decided that it was important to grieve, but if I wallowed in self-pity, any life left to me would be dull.
I set goals again. What did I really want to do with the rest of my life? I have always thought that teaching on the college level would be fascinating. Tomorrow evening, I begin teaching my first class. I feel good about that achievement.
I took positive steps to enjoy the little things. I take the time from doing housework now to go to the kids’ soccer games. I like to feel the autumn breeze while my son plays ball. I take joy in the spring as the trees turn green. Simple pleasures bring great happiness. This summer, while waiting for a baseball game to begin, I walked down to the nearby creek, took off my shoes and walked in the water. As the cool, clear water passed over my feet, I realized how simple God’s plan is, yet how complicated we humans make his earth.
I have learned compassion. I now know that in the spectrum of time, all humans are working toward an ultimate goal. I have an inner sense of peace that was not there before. Nothing really matters but those truths that exist in one’s own heart. You need only look deeply to find them.
I try hard not to be sad. When difficulties arise, I am confident that they last for a brief period, then things get better.
Would I have learned this lesson without cancer? Probably not! What lies ahead for this survivor? Life, learning and love.
Mary Helen Brindell
Nintendo Master
When I first saw you, I thought—Nintendo Master. There was this intensity about you. Your piercing blue eyes and the way your hands moved rapidly along the control buttons were subtle hints of your expert skill.
You didn’t appear too different from all of the other video-crazed 10-year-olds out there, but you were. I guess the fact that it was summer, and we were both stuck in the oncology ward of the hospital cruelly betrayed the normalcy with which you tried to present yourself. Or maybe it was the fact that we were prematurely robbed of the innocence of childhood, and it comforted me to know that there was someone else out there just like me. I can only speculate, but all I know for sure is that I was drawn to your energy and zest for life.
That was the summer of my first post-cancer surgeries. The doctors were trying to fix my left hip joint, which had shattered under the intense bombardments of chemotherapy treatments. It wasn’t the only thing that had shattered. I had misplaced my usual optimistic attitude about life and was surprised at how nasty I could be. This did not help me endear myself to anyone.
My surgery went “well,” the doctors said, but I was in excruciating pain. (The ever-present differing perspective of doctor and patient is an amazing thing.)
I saw you again in physical therapy, realizing only then the extent of what cancer did to you. I wanted to scream, “Let him go back upstairs and play his video games, you idiots!” But I just sat there in stunned silence. I watched you get up and start walking with the aid of the parallel bars. Prior to your entrance into the room, I sat in my wheelchair wallowing in self-pity. I thought, “Wasn’t the cancer enough? Now my hip is screwed up, and I really don’t care anymore. If I get up, it is going to kill me.”
You will never know me, but you are my hero, Nintendo Master. With such courage and poise, you got up on your one remaining leg. Some might have the audacity to call you disabled or even crippled, but you are more complete than many can ever wish to be. After you had your walk for the day, a walk that was perfectly executed on your part, and you were safely tucked into your bed enjoying your video games once again, I decided that it was about time that I got up and took a walk myself. You see, Nintendo Master, it dawned on me then that you had innately known what it takes most of a lifetime to grasp—life is
I set goals again. What did I really want to do with the rest of my life? I have always thought that teaching on the college level would be fascinating. Tomorrow evening, I begin teaching my first class. I feel good about that achievement.
I took positive steps to enjoy the little things. I take the time from doing housework now to go to the kids’ soccer games. I like to feel the autumn breeze while my son plays ball. I take joy in the spring as the trees turn green. Simple pleasures bring great happiness. This summer, while waiting for a baseball game to begin, I walked down to the nearby creek, took off my shoes and walked in the water. As the cool, clear water passed over my feet, I realized how simple God’s plan is, yet how complicated we humans make his earth.
I have learned compassion. I now know that in the spectrum of time, all humans are working toward an ultimate goal. I have an inner sense of peace that was not there before. Nothing really matters but those truths that exist in one’s own heart. You need only look deeply to find them.
I try hard not to be sad. When difficulties arise, I am confident that they last for a brief period, then things get better.
Would I have learned this lesson without cancer? Probably not! What lies ahead for this survivor? Life, learning and love.
Mary Helen Brindell
Nintendo Master
When I first saw you, I thought—Nintendo Master. There was this intensity about you. Your piercing blue eyes and the way your hands moved rapidly along the control buttons were subtle hints of your expert skill.
You didn’t appear too different from all of the other video-crazed 10-year-olds out there, but you were. I guess the fact that it was summer, and we were both stuck in the oncology ward of the hospital cruelly betrayed the normalcy with which you tried to present yourself. Or maybe it was the fact that we were prematurely robbed of the innocence of childhood, and it comforted me to know that there was someone else out there just like me. I can only speculate, but all I know for sure is that I was drawn to your energy and zest for life.
That was the summer of my first post-cancer surgeries. The doctors were trying to fix my left hip joint, which had shattered under the intense bombardments of chemotherapy treatments. It wasn’t the only thing that had shattered. I had misplaced my usual optimistic attitude about life and was surprised at how nasty I could be. This did not help me endear myself to anyone.
My surgery went “well,” the doctors said, but I was in excruciating pain. (The ever-present differing perspective of doctor and patient is an amazing thing.)
I saw you again in physical therapy, realizing only then the extent of what cancer did to you. I wanted to scream, “Let him go back upstairs and play his video games, you idiots!” But I just sat there in stunned silence. I watched you get up and start walking with the aid of the parallel bars. Prior to your entrance into the room, I sat in my wheelchair wallowing in self-pity. I thought, “Wasn’t the cancer enough? Now my hip is screwed up, and I really don’t care anymore. If I get up, it is going to kill me.”
You will never know me, but you are my hero, Nintendo Master. With such courage and poise, you got up on your one remaining leg. Some might have the audacity to call you disabled or even crippled, but you are more complete than many can ever wish to be. After you had your walk for the day, a walk that was perfectly executed on your part, and you were safely tucked into your bed enjoying your video games once again, I decided that it was about time that I got up and took a walk myself. You see, Nintendo Master, it dawned on me then that you had innately known what it takes most of a lifetime to grasp—life is