Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Read Online Free PDF Page A

from cared-for to caregiver; our relationship had come full circle.
    “Then it’s time for you to relax and let me return the favor,” I said.
    We had a nice talk over dinner. Nothing earth-shattering, just catching up with each other’s lives. We talked so much that we missed the movie. “I’ll go out with you again, but only if you let me buy dinner next time,” my mother said as I dropped her off. I agreed.
    “How was your date?” my wife wanted to know when I got home that night.
    “Nice... nicer than I thought it would be,” I said.
    She smiled her told-you-so smile.
    Since that night I’ve been dating Mom regularly. We don’t go out every week, but we try to see each other at least a couple of times a month. We always have dinner, and sometimes we take in a movie, too. Mostly, though, we just talk. I tell her about my daily trials at work. I brag about the kids and my wife. She fills me in on the family gossip I can never seem to keep up on.
    She also tells me about her past. Now I know what it was like for my Mom to work in a factory during World War II. I know about how she met my father there, and how they nurtured a trolley-car courtship through those difficult times. As I’ve listened to these stories, I’ve come to realize how important they are to me. They are my history. I can’t get enough of them.
    But we don’t just talk about the past. We also talk about the future. Because of health problems, my mother worries about the days ahead. “I have so much living to do,” she told me one night. “I need to be there while my grandchildren grow up. I don’t want to miss any of it.”
    Like a lot of my baby-boomer friends, I tend to rush around, filling my At-A-Glance calendar to the brim as I struggle to fit a career, family and relationships into my life. I often complain about how quickly time flies. Spending time with my mom has taught me the importance of slowing down. I finally understand the meaning of a term I’ve heard a million times: quality time.
    Peggy was right. Dating another woman has helped my marriage. It has made me a better husband and father, and hopefully, a better son.
    Thanks, Mom. I love you.
    David Farrell

Ramona’s Touch
    It was only a few weeks after my surgery, and I went to Dr. Belt’s office for a checkup. It was just after my first chemotherapy treatment.
    My scar was still very tender. My arm was numb underneath. This whole set of unique and weird sensations was like having a new roommate to share the two-bedroom apartment formerly known as my breasts—now lovingly known as “the breast and the chest.”
    As usual, I was taken to an examination room to have my blood drawn, again—a terrifying process for me, since I’m so frightened of needles.
    I lay down on the examining table. I’d worn a big plaid flannel shirt and a camisole underneath. It was a carefully thought out costume that I hoped others would regard as a casual wardrobe choice. The plaid camouflaged my new chest, the camisole protected it and the buttons on the shirt made for easy medical access.
    Ramona entered the room. Her warm sparkling smile was familiar, and stood out in contrast to my fears. I’d first seen her in the office a few weeks earlier. She wasn’t my nurse on that day, but I remember her because she was laughing. She laughed in deep, round and rich tones. I remember wondering what could be so funny behind that medical door. What could she possibly find to laugh about at a time like this? So I decided she wasn’t serious enough about the whole thing and that I would try to find a nurse who was. But I was wrong.
    This day was different. Ramona had taken my blood before. She knew about my fear of needles, and she kindly hid the paraphernalia under a magazine with a bright blue picture of a kitchen being remodeled. As we opened the blouse and dropped the camisole, the catheter on my breast was exposed and the fresh scar on my chest could be seen.
    She said, “How is your scar