Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul Read Online Free Page B

stomach. My mother had been having pain in her hip, and my brother and I agreed to accompany her to hear what a specialist had concluded.
    Less than an hour later, we were seated inside a cramped office. Although the doctor smiled optimistically, the uneasy feeling returned. With precise words, he explained to us that arthritis was not the cause of our mother’s discomfort in her bones—it was a rare form of cancer called multiple myeloma. When the doctor explained that the X-rays also revealed that my mother had a fracture in her back, I felt my courage buckle under the weight of heavy words, and I tried to tolerate hearing more details. I watched my mother take off her glasses, but to my amazement, she appeared unmoved as she listened intently. Feeling as if this were happening to me, I excused myself, in search of a temporary haven. I slowly shut the bathroom door and peered into the mirror. My face was red and the tears in my eyes clouded my vision.
    I felt an incredible sense of fear grab me, and I could not shake it loose. If I were feeling this, what did it feel like to be in her shoes?
    Returning to my mother’s home, the car ride was quiet and unnerving. As we paused at red lights, I did not know what to say to someone who just learned that many aggressive approaches would be attempted to slow down the progression of an incurable type of cancer. On the walkway, as we passed a large shrub, I gently grabbed my mother’s elbow, helping her up four small steps. She looked at me like a soldier and said, “Andrea, I’m blessed.
    Something can be done for me.” I was amazed that my mother felt blessed in the midst of this storm. By the time we reached her bedroom, I sat on the bed next to my mother, and a rush of honesty invaded my lips. While placing one arm around her, I confessed my sorrow regarding what we found out, thanked her for all of the sacrifices that she made for so many people, and promised to stand by her side, no matter what she would endure.
    Her shoes and my shoes would remain side by side.
    I drove home replaying the day’s events in my head, until I reached my driveway. As I placed my feet on the stone-lined driveway, I felt the sun beat upon my back, but the sight of treetops delivered a soothing presence.
    Feeling defeated, I sighed and walked up the walkway, noticing a large box sitting on the porch. When I stood in full view of it, I read my name and the sender’s address.
    My first box of books had arrived from the printer—I was officially a self-published author. As I lifted the large box and lugged it into the house, I wondered if God was playing some sort of cruel joke on me. I was faced with a difficult decision to devote my full attention to supporting my mother, or divide my time between my literary venture and her needs. After driving to my mother’s house the next day, I watched the smile form on her face as she held my book in her hands. Sister soldier did not relent. She never complained about her circumstances—her happiness overshadowed all other issues. Instantly, I made up my mind that I would handle both responsibilities well. If my mother signed up to be a soldier, I did too. Her shoes transformed into army boots, and I went in search of mine.
    Although my mother began her treatment, she also collected money for book sales and told me that she would help me make calls when she could. Once again, her resilience amazed me. When she received her first treatment, I sat in the room with her for a while. I placed her tote bag next to the recliner where she sat and noticed the signed copy of my book inside it. Upon leaving the room, she spoke of the other cancer patients’ strength. Who was I to feel defeated, if she did not?
    Her pride gave me strength, and I pressed forward over many months. To our surprise, I even made the bestseller’s list at a popular chain in my area.
    Unfortunately, my mother’s condition continued to