When her T cells went up, she put on a little weight, and the virus became undetectable. I knew I was working that magic with God. But I was wearing myself out. I went to see my counselor at school and told her I needed to take a semester off because my mother needed me.
It was actually a beautiful time for us. I have always been the family historian, the one who collects and is always taking photographs. I got pictures from other relatives and brought them to her, and we filled up more photo albums. We sat and she told me who was who.
I looked in the mirror and I was the spitting image of her when she young. She must have been seeing that too, and said, “Stay in school Shirley. Don’t be like me.” She repeated, “I wanted my kids to see me clean.” I just made a joke to keep it light. She sat there putting on that Noxzema that she just loved. She smeared it all over her face thinking she was doing something. I was like, “Chill out! You not Miss Clairol or L’Oréal.”
That night, I told her, “I love you. I got you,” before I put on the gospel CD that Danica made for her. I kept the weighted feeling in my chest from sinking, kissed her cheek, and made my way from Brooklyn all the way back to Irvington, New Jersey. I got to my basement room and fell out until the next day.
Then if it wasn’t one thing it was another. My mother got blood clots in her legs; the cancer was getting worse. She had to get stents; she became frail again. The AIDS wasn’t a factor, everything else was. Her body was being attacked from all of the days of walking the streets chasing a high with no food, no sleep, no one to protect her body from whoever might take advantage of it. I didn’t know how I could stop it, but I tried. Instead of going back to school the next semester like I told my counselor I would, I told my counselor, “My mom is sick. I still can’t come back.”
This was my first time completely quitting school. I started going to Brooklyn every day, where she was in the hospital.
In November, I made the executive decision to bring my mom home to Lynette’s. I felt like I could love her back to health, feed her, take care of her, and everything was going to be like it should have always been—her as my mother, and me her daughter. She stayed with me in my room in the basement. I had her on the air mattress. I was in deep denial. She was so sick and frail. I was cleaning up when she couldn’t control her bowels, running up and down the stairs trying to make her something to eat. I had to keep her hydrated. I stared at her when she slept to see if she was looking any better than the day before. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight the way I did when I was eight and she was just out there gone.
This time, she had tried to come back to me and I wanted to be there. One night, my mom said, “Shirley I can’t do this,” and we got her out of the basement where she didn’t have any business being, and the family helped me put her in a nursing home in Irvington so that she would be nearby.
Aunt Anita, my mom’s twin, came from Alabama, and we were around the clock, all the aunts, taking care of Mama. Bishop prayed, but we were told Mama would die in a week. I prayed to God, “Please don’t take my Mama. Please help her get better.” I didn’t believe she was going to die even though she was unresponsive. One day, she got a little better and spent two months after that calling on everybody, especially me, Tokunbo, and Darryl, and told each of us that she was sorry for her addiction.
We sat her up, wheeled her in the shower. She was so fragile that the water hurt her body. It got to the point, for me, that I didn’t want to see her like that anymore. I knew she was a hustler, a go-getter, because little memories seeped through, like her washing our clothes in the tub and wringing them dry, and now she couldn’t wash her own face. That took a toll.
One spring morning, early 2006, I played her some music, one of Danica’s new gospel mixed CDs. I paused the music and read the Bible to her, Isaiah 41:10, “Fear not, for I am with you . . .” Other family members visited, and the day went by, but I stayed with her. When I got too tired to stay awake, I was like, “Alright Mama. I’m getting ready to say, I love you. See you later.” I had held in my head every day that I knew it was possible for her to get better. I knew God could heal and that it was possible. I was too tired to say that to myself that night. We only lived ten minutes from the nursing home. I got home and moved through the basement and into my little room. I was crawling-tired, got in my bed, and went fast to sleep.
Lynette woke me up an hour later and said, “Shirley, she is gone.”
I just sat up in the dark. I didn’t say anything. Lynette clicked on the light. I had been okay, in the dark, like still in my sleep, until she shed light, and I shed all my tears. She held me, because Mama was her favorite aunt, and she had done what she could to hold on to me while I did everything I could to hold on to my mother.
I asked Lynette to leave me alone and I turned on my TV for comfort. Lil Wayne’s “Hustler Musik” was on BET, and I zoned out. That steady beat, like my brain was just rocking like I was high or something. That song ain’t but a few minutes long, but I felt like it played for hours. It had that melody where you felt yourself drowning in it.
That song means something to me to this day, like my first outlet after my mama died. I finally went upstairs with Lynette and sat on the couch. I put my big girl panties on. It was over, she was gone. I had to be her big girl and take care of her. With Lynette by my side, I did everything that needed to be done to arrange my mother’s funeral.
I didn’t hesitate. I knew to call on my bishop, Barbara Glanton, my other mother in spirit. She prayed with me and made it clear that for sure we would have the funeral at the Love of Jesus Family Church.
I didn’t know as a young adult that I had laid a foundation of faith community that would sustain me through some of the most difficult times in my adult life. My faith helped me through the mostly bad days in the NICU and through to brighter days. I also didn’t know at the time that I was about to go on a long roller-coaster ride in my adulthood of stuffing my emotions away and doing a superwoman routine that would last for years until God sent messengers to halt me and heal me.
No more tears, in that moment on the couch. I stuffed my emotions for the time being and hopped to it the way the women in my family had shown me to do. I wrote my mother’s eulogy right then. “To know my mother was to love her. I am grateful for her life and she will truly be missed by us all. Bertina had a way to make you laugh so hard you would cry at the same time. She was the comedian in the family.” Then I said, “Goodbye Mama.”
Dropping Jewels
Keeping the Faith Through the Valley of Shadows
A faith-based life has been linked to improved health outcomes for African American women, among those the capacity to endure poverty and weather the storm of a positive HIV diagnosis (Musgrave, Allen, and Allen, 2002).
That’s no joke. So many times, life put what seemed like insurmountable obstacles in my path. But God continued to put the right person in place to keep me holding on in the worst of times. I don’t know what I would have done without my cousin Lynette, without the ability to be with my mother at the end of her life and pray with her, without Bishop, who offered me so much guidance during the passing of my mother and the birth of my Dakota.
Each time, I got to the other side. My family and I weather the storms that come on a regular basis in life because that’s life. But the calm is regular too. In those times I reflect on how much I have been gifted and I do the best I can to give that back. I become the ram in the bush for families with preemies struggling to figure it all out, and for other young women struggling to make it.
One of the things I like to tell women and young girls when I’m out there speaking about my experiences and offering hope is to build a spiritual practice so when the storms come, you’ll have that to lean on. It doesn’t have to be something fancy. For me it looks like:
Checking in with my bishop and knowing that when I can’t she will check on me.
Going to a church or “getting in the house” even if you can’t be at your own
church.
Praying. Prayer is powerful in your life and in the lives of those you are praying for. I know; nothing in my life has been by coincidence.
I have only prayed to one God my whole life, so there is only one source I pull from, Jesus Christ, the Holy Spirit, it’s all intertwined. There are all religions and faiths to pull from. When you go from trauma to trauma in life you have to pull from something bigger than you because you are broken, and you can’t pull from a broken place and expect to be strong enough to heal. So faith and me pulling from God has been a priority for me because it’s been a method that I have used since I can remember learning how to pray. So allow your faith to be your clutch.
Everybody’s faith practice doesn’t look the same, just like when I was a teenager and I needed something different from the church my family had been attending. Find what is right for you, but do practice your faith, because our bodies are connected to our spirits. To keep the body healed and to maintain health we have to maintain our spiritual selves.
When things look like they can’t get any worse, reach out to one of God’s other children for a helping hand, and when you are blessed enough to hear God speak to you, obey his guidance. It may lead you to the fulfillment of your dreams.
Part IV
Therapy to Heal My Energizer Bunny
Women think they can do it all and just keep going, but we all hit a wall. My mother was nineteen years old when she had my brother Darryl, and then had me when she was twenty-three, and had my brother Tokunbo when she was thirty. She was a Black woman living off of public assistance in East Orange, New Jersey, with three kids at the time. The odds were against her. She was likely to hit a wall. The same is true of my cousin Lynette. She started taking care of me when she was a kid, and she kept doing so while raising her own kids. Her energy was gonna run out one day. And the same was true for me; I was a kid taking care of my brother and eventually my own mother and grew into an adult who struggled with issues of love, abandonment, and difficult pregnancies. So for me, a breakdown was gonna happen eventually, just a matter of time.
We convince ourselves that “We do what we have to do,” because that’s what our mothers and their mothers did. We are capable, yep, and capable of overwhelm and breakdown like every other human being. What we have to put into our generational understanding is that it doesn’t mean we are weak if we ask for professional help. It’s an extension of our strength.
9
One Year, Two Babies
On day 141 of Dakota’s life in the NICU, my day started out relatively calm. I awoke to the sound of my alarm with the habitual mindset to get Demi up and ready for school. The pre-symptoms of a cold that she had the night before took hold, and my big girl did not feel well at all. I thought, Of all days Demi is sick! Why today when her sister is due to come home? I didn’t let myself dwell on that negative thought. No sweat, I’ll just ask Auntie Anita to stay home and nurse Demi back to health while I make my way to the hospital.
JR had to work so we agreed for him to meet me at the hospital. I still had a list of pointers I needed to ask the nurse while I waited for him to get there. Some of the things included picking up her prescriptions and learning how to properly give them to her, and learning the proper mix for her formula to put her on higher calories, as well as the oxygen and pulse monitor instructions. I was getting a little overwhelmed.
I felt the rush coming so I kindly asked Dakota’s nurse to please ask everyone to give me some time alone to eat my breakfast and gather my thoughts before Grand Central Station opened up. Little did she know, I needed that time to shed some tears and thank God for how far he had brought Dakota. It was just a bittersweet day. For 141 days the NICU was our second home, it was my family of caretakers who offered me mommy guidance, and today that would change. So as I packed up Dakota’s books I cried. As I packed up her clothes I cried. When I looked at her nurses I cried, and when JR walked into her room I cried. I was not just crying because I was leaving the familiar, I was going through various emotions and memories of the hard days that I needed to purge, to leave it all there.
After sniffing and snotting everywhere, it was time. Dakota’s doctor still saved Dakota as the last preemie on her rounds. She wanted to save her for last because this was our last time getting Dakota’s daily report. She told me “I signed for you to be admitted and I will sign for you to be discharged.” With tears pouring like Niagara Falls they gave us Dakota’s report for the day, proudly announcing her weight as five pounds and six ounces. “I now pronounce you discharged.” And just like that, we got evicted.
There are no words in the dictionary that can describe JR’s and my feelings. I almost wanted someone to knock me upside the head with a frying pan, so I would know it was real.
On the drive home, we did not listen to any music. We were just silent, absorbing that this just happened. For the life of us, we could not find the words to describe our feelings or to even say anything on the ride home. He was driving and I was in the back seat snuggled next to the car seat, an image I had repeatedly dreamed that was now a reality.
When I first brought Dakota home I thought, The struggle is over, we made it. I had jumped over all the hurdles laid before me and life was, once again, supposed to be easier. Me and JR spent the first months trying to settle into life at home with a preemie. Needless to say, it got real real fast. JR and I became fully aware of all of Kota Bear’s needs, and that our shit was going to need to be secondary to my daily life of learning how to properly care for Dakota at home—scheduling appointments and oxygen drop-off and pickup, all while managing a home, tending to my husband, and doing my best not to leave my pride and joy Demi behind. Yes, JR and I were still a special thing, but two parents with a daughter who required a special everyday life was our new thing.
It was like trying to find the rhythm to a new type of music you never heard before and your feet are going one way, your hands another. If I wasn’t forgetting about a doctor’s appointment for Demi, I was forgetting about a medication I was supposed to pick up for Dakota, and trying to figure out how to have food in the house for everybody to eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner, trying to remember to pay bills, meet with Demi’s teachers for parents’ day. Oops, got to put gas in the car. Got to, got to. And don’t even mention sleep. My brain was just floating around in my skull during the day, trying to solve all of these puzzles on no rest.
Then on top of that, news interviews and JR’s work life, and I was supposed to look all hair and nails and not look like my ass was about to bust out crying. But you know me, I did it all, the good wife who was at the game supporting my husband, the good mom who was at the school supporting one daughter, and at all the newborns’ doctor’s appointments supporting her preemie. I did it all with smiles and good attitude and jokes and making sure everybody was happy and taken care of. I did all the chaotic shit like it was some behind-the-scenes situation that needed to be handled.
A few months into this chaos, I found out I was pregnant with our third daughter, Denver.
All of a sudden, I was faced with all of the ways I had been living with the “go” button pressed. Nobody told me that mothering since I was eight years old, no older than my Demi, would catch up and knock my ass down one day.
It was my and JR’s first anniversary. We had gotten married on my birthday, August 8, 2016. Mind you it had only been three months since we brought Dakota home. I had healed physically and she was in the clear for the most part. But emotionally, I still hadn’t had time to process any of the past year of my life. JR and I went away to Mayakoba, Mexico, for our anniversary and were having a good time. Except I wasn’t feeling like myself. The birth control pills were bringing about too much of a shift—I was getting hot and cold chills, some cramping, nausea, and night sweats. I told myself, I need to switch back to an IUD or a Depo or something. We got back from the trip, and things were on their regular roll. I transitioned two or three days back into being home and was at the basketball ar
ena for one of JR’s games. When you are a spouse they have special seating for you.
I saw my doctor and her husband and waved at them, and they came over and sat next to me in our section. I just brought it up, very direct like I always am. I told her, “Hey, I want to switch birth control.”
She was like, “Sure, just take an at-home pregnancy test first and you’re still going to have to take one in the office. That’s standard for switching your birth control.”
I was like, “Oh, that’s no problem. I can go and do that in the bathroom right now.” We laughed about it and I didn’t think anything of it, just part of the routine for switching birth control.
I bought a test, and the thing showed positive. Dakota was only eight months old. I thought, this has to be wrong. So I made my appointment for new birth control. But you have to take the test in the doctor’s office just to make sure you’re not pregnant before they put you on something new. And lo and behold, I was having another baby.
I hopped into action. Shirley, you ain’t got time to be in shock. This is information you have early so you can prevent another difficult pregnancy. I did my thing, stuffed the emotions and got to it.
It’s never easy to move, but there I was with a nine-year-old and an eight-month-old with special medical needs, and JR in the middle of his season. He agreed that we needed to live closer to Cleveland Clinic’s Hillcrest Hospital, where Dakota had received good preemie care. So we moved.
We were still getting through hurdles with Dakota, who wasn’t even one year old yet. For a while I chose to keep certain things to myself, because I needed time without other people’s reactions.
Mama Bear Page 8
