Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul on Tough Stuff by Jack Canfield Page B

Internet for anything that might cure cancer. There are just a million things out there that people are trying to sell and tell you. Finally, my mom said, “Stop! I don’t want to try anything else. Don’t bring me any more crazy teas!”
    That winter and spring, I traveled back and forth constantly between L.A. and Cape Cod. The people at Felicity were incredible. A couple of times, they stopped production or rearranged the schedule so I could go home. And the producers would send my mom hats and T-shirts and letters saying, “We love your daughter.” I think it was a comfort for her to know that I would be taken care of when she was gone.
    My mom didn’t want to die in a hospital, so hospice workers came to our home in July of 1998. They were great because they helped my mom accept the fact that she was going to die. That allowed her to say good-bye to everybody. One day, she gathered her favorite jewelry and possessions and had each person she loved come upstairs, and she gave everything away. She gave some people back gifts that she remembered they had given to her, like, twenty years ago.
    She kept her sense of humor until she died. Four days after the doctors had predicted she’d pass away, she was sitting in bed and started singing! She looked at my sister and me and jokingly said, “What am I going to do? A woman can’t live without her jewels.”
    She wanted me to go back to work, where they were rearranging production for me, but I told her I was staying with her. Finally, she insisted: “This could go on for a month. You have to go.” I said good-bye so many times. I’d hug her, kiss her, run downstairs, get in the car and then run back up. I did that, like, seven times. Finally, she said, “Amy Jo, this is getting ridiculous. Just go.” It was the hardest good-bye I’ve said or will ever have to. Three days after that, on August 19, 1998, she died.
    My sister called and told me the news. I cried all over my house. Then, I went to my living room and just sat there, and suddenly, I got the most incredible feeling I’ve ever had. It was like my mom was in the room with me. It was like she came over and gave me peace, and it made me feel ready to go home for the funeral and be strong for my dad and the rest of the family.
    Amy Jo Johnson
As told to Linda Friedman

The Last Months
    I was happy to be home that night all bundled up in my fleece blanket, so soft, so warm. It was January first of the new millennium, and it was cool and breezy outside. My dad was looking at our Christmas tree, still decorated with a lifetime of memories. Dad had insisted on having the perfect tree, so we did. It was lushly green, and the smell of pine had permeated throughout the entire house since the day it arrived. It was huge—ten feet tall and five feet wide. And now my dad was just staring at it.
    Suddenly, I noticed that tears were rolling down his dark cheeks. I didn’t understand this uncharacteristic show of emotion. It confused me, so I decided to leave him alone. I peered out from the kitchen to see what he was doing, but tried not to make it obvious that I was watching him. He touched each ornament and held it tightly. It looked as if he were trying to staunch the flow of dark and consuming thoughts.
    That was the month I started to see my dad become weak and frail. Not knowing what was wrong, my mom took him to see the doctor. After undergoing X rays and blood work, they returned home to anxiously await the results. Finally, the doctor called. My dad was in serious danger of having another heart attack, and he had to be checked into the hospital immediately.
    I cannot remember a time when my dad was really well. He had already suffered a series of heart attacks, as well as complications from bypass surgery. This time, Dad was in the hospital for two long weeks. He was hooked up to so many I.V. tubes and monitors that it made it hard for him to