Warm Hearts And A Hot Meal

I planned to spend Thanksgiving helping out at a soup kitchen. Instead I found myself eating in one.

- Roberta Messner, Huntington, West Virginia

EARLY THAT NOVEMBER back in 1977, I eagerly signed up to dish out Thanksgiving turkey and all the trimmings to the folks who frequented the City Mission in my West Virginia town. Helping others gave me such purpose and peace. It was why I’d become a nurse.

Then my mother was diagnosed with an aggressive form of breast cancer and was referred to The Cleveland Clinic. A radical mastectomy was scheduled for the week before Thanksgiving. “It would mean a lot if you came with us,” my father said. “With you being a nurse and all, it would make us feel easier.” I gave my apologies at the mission.

The surgery went well. Afterwards I did everything I could to keep Mom’s spirits high and speed her recovery. I assisted her with arm exercises and made certain she ate everything on her tray, just like she made me finish my plate when I was a girl. Early Thanksgiving morning, the surgical team made their rounds. “You’ve made excellent progress,” Mom’s doctor told her. “I’m discharging you to have your turkey dinner elsewhere.”