Been There, Done That

by Al Roker Deborah Roberts

  We are learning to give our children the freedom to grow and blossom and to discover their individual gifts. As parents, we want to give them everything—and protect them from making mistakes, from getting hurt, from falling into the wrong crowd. But both of those dreams are just that—fantasies. We can’t give them everything; the most important things are the ones they discover themselves. And we can’t protect them from pain, either; sometimes those experiences are the greatest teachers offering the deepest lessons. All we can truly hope is that by giving them the right tools and opportunities to make their own choices, our children will make good decisions. And if they don’t, we’ll both be there ready to guide them and love them. At the end of the day, we can’t expect our kids to swim with the safety and security of a noodle forever. At some point we have to stand on the shore and allow them to take a running dive from the dock. We promise to watch them with great pride, even if we’re holding our breath, as they jump into that great lake of life.

  13

  Life Is Full of Hard Choices

  DEBORAH

  Sacrifices We Make as Moms

  Eight months after Leila was born and I was settling into a new routine at ABC, I received a call from Meredith White, an accomplished senior producer at 20/20, asking if I could hop on a plane to Ethiopia in two days to cover a story about an Ethiopian-American woman who was looking for her long-lost mother. Meredith had just worked out the details and I’d have to scramble to catch up to Lydia Dawson, who had left her Seattle home and was already in Addis Ababa. Meredith thought it would be the perfect story for me. Lydia, a social worker and mother of three, had not seen her mother since she was a baby. Lydia had been just five months old and cradled in her mother’s arms while her mother was cooking the family meal at the outdoor fire of her African village. Suddenly, her mother, who was only thirteen at the time, suffered a seizure. She fell, accidentally dropping her baby into the open fire.

  The nearest medical care was one hundred miles away. By the time her frightened and weary family reached the hospital some five days later, Lydia’s legs were burned and infected so badly, they had to be amputated, one above and one just below the knee.

  Lydia’s parents, poor farmers who were too frightened to remain away from their home and their other children for very long, made an agonizing choice: to leave their injured baby daughter at the hospital to be cared for and raised by American missionaries. I can’t imagine any greater sacrifice.

  Lydia spent the next four years in the hospital, mostly because there was nowhere else for her to go. The staff cared for her and taught her English and Lydia learned how to crawl because walking wasn’t an option. She managed so well, she barely noticed how different she was from everyone else around her.

  One day a photographer from the Saturday Evening Post snapped some photos of Lydia, “the African girl with no legs.” That picture would change Lydia’s life forever. A group of strangers was moved so deeply by that single image that they banded together to give Lydia the promise for a better future. The first donation came from a Philadelphia maker of artificial limbs, who was so moved by Lydia’s story that he offered to make her a set of prosthetic legs, which would give her the ability to walk on her own and the hope for independence.

  Next, a group of women from a Presbyterian church in New Jersey decided to finance a first-class education for Lydia. With the help of Lydia’s nurse, Mary Nell Harper, they sent her to an exclusive boarding school in Addis Ababa, the capital of Ethiopia, and later paid for college in the United States, where Lydia studied to become a social worker.

  Admittedly, Meredith, a friend as well as my boss, was reluctant to ask me to go because Leila was just eight months old and she wasn’t sure I’d want to leave her on such short notice. But I was blown away by the story and I wanted to be part of Lydia’s remarkable journey. Suddenly, adrenaline was coursing through my body along with the dopamine a new mom feels. I was pumped to get back in the saddle, but first I had to figure out the logistics on the home front. Al was gung ho for me to grab such a big assignment, and our babysitter was on board. I was in agony over one other major decision. I would have to wean Leila cold turkey, because I had to get several immunizations for the trip. I had already been considering closing my “personal kitchen,” so I decided it was fine.

  Twenty-four hours later, I touched down in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. By the time I got there, Lydia was waiting and anxious to begin her quest. Tall and strikingly beautiful, with her smooth raven hair and warm, happy smile, Lydia was perfect for television. She was also sweet and open, so we connected right away. Lydia knew a little bit about her background, and of course, the story of how she got to the hospital, but she knew very little about her family or the village where she was born. She had no idea if her mother was dead or alive. As we sat talking in the hotel restaurant, a lovely dark-skinned waitress brought us coffee. I scanned the charming breakfast room and took in the array of black faces at every table . . . a rarity even in New York City, which is considered the melting pot of America.

  Being a dark-skinned girl from the South who has never felt totally comfortable about my blackness in America, where light skin is treasured, I soon noticed something. In Ethiopia, surrounded by beautiful, dark-skinned people, I felt like I was “home.” I had been to Africa once before, for a story on the anniversary of the genocide in Rwanda. It was an excruciatingly painful trip with so many horrifying stories of murder and betrayal. But this trip was hopeful and uplifting to my spirit. I was much more able to take in my surroundings and enjoy the journey.

  Using a ham radio to communicate with various villages, we received a lead on where Lydia’s mother was living. We also found someone who had an old airplane he could use to fly us to where she was.

  This was joyful news to everyone, especially Lydia, who now had confirmation, albeit secondhand, that her mother was, in fact, alive. But it wasn’t a sure thing; the lead could turn out to be a bust, so I warned Lydia not to get her hopes up too high. I was so afraid she’d be in for a great disappointment if this turned out to be a dead end.

  As we boarded the rickety single-engine plane, four thoughts popped into my mind.

  1. I had no clear idea where we were headed.

  2. Did this guy Solomon really know how to fly a plane?

  3. How would anyone find us if something went wrong?

  4. I was a new mom. . . . How would I get back to Leila if something happened?

  It was exhilarating and frightening and the very reason I love my job as much as I do.

  We landed on a dirt road on the edge of a tiny village. From the small window of the prop plane, I could see the villagers running toward us as we rolled to a stop. It was like a scene out of a movie. Children of every size and shade of brown gleefully swooped in and gazed in wonder at this flying machine, trying to figure out what it was and who these strange people getting out of it were.

  Lydia hadn’t been to this village since she was a baby, but she looked just like the people who now surrounded us.

  I was filled with excitement and pride, especially because some of the people there thought I was African too. They spoke to me in Amharic, which filled my heart in a way that I can barely explain.

  We met our contact, a man who was waiting to take us the rest of the way in his Jeep. We drove along rugged, narrow, dusty roads, nearly breaking down a couple of times as we made our way into the village. It had looked a lot closer from the air, but two hours later, we came to a clearing and had finally arrived.

  The villagers had prepared a cinder-block house with slab floors as a guesthouse. They beamed with pride as they showed us to the finest accommodations they had to offer. Gracious and warm, they were thrilled that a village girl had come back home and explained their plans for an evening feast of goat, boiled eggs and injera.

  Dusk began to settle in, and there was still no sign of Lydia’s mother. Someone h
ad radioed to say her Jeep had broken down, that she had been delayed.

  Was it true, or was this some kind of ploy?

  Were they stalling for some reason?

  We had no idea.

  As night fell, there was no sign of the mother and no chance we could fly out. The pilot explained it was too late—that we would have to spend the night.

  We had no provisions, but what choice did we have?

  As wild monkeys screeched in the background, freaking out my producer, the villagers brought us cots to sleep on and that dinner they had promised.

  “I’m not eating this! We have no idea what it is!” my producer quietly said to me.

  Given my own humble roots, I understood the depth of this moment. I didn’t want us to offend our gracious hosts; this impoverished but proud community was graciously reaching out to foreign guests.

  I told my producer to eat whatever she could swallow down.

  There was something sweet and exciting about this adventure. I was in remote Ethiopia with a woman who was one of their native daughters. When would I ever have an opportunity to experience anything like this again? I wanted to soak in every last morsel of the moment, including the culture, so I happily ate whatever they put in front of me.

  Well past midnight, just as many of us were beginning to doubt this story would happen, the wooden door to the cinder-block house swung open, and from the darkness of the African night, a shadowy figure emerged.

  Our camera crew quickly shone their lights on the doorway. Then, in a moment of wonder and majesty, the figure of a petite woman, her head covered with a scarf, gently stepped across the threshold of the door.

  It was Asha, Lydia’s long-lost mother.

  She glided into the room in silence, staring into the eyes of the daughter who stood before her trembling.

  Time stood still.

  No words needed to be spoken.

  Lydia slowly stepped toward her and burst into tears. And so did I . . .

  Passionate hugs and kisses and tears marked this unforgettable moment of a mother being reunited with her daughter.

  I haven’t experienced a more emotional moment before or since.

  The two women stood for ten minutes, gazing and looking, kissing and hugging.

  A tiny, beautiful woman, Asha was no more than fifty years old. Her drawn, thin face and sunken cheekbones made her appear older, but at this moment she was radiant, cloaked in a silken red scarf.

  When they finally sat down to talk, one of the villagers translated for all of us. In Amharic, Asha told of her heartbreak when her daughter had been injured, a tragedy she remembered like it happened yesterday. Softly, she explained how not a day goes by that she doesn’t think about her daughter and what happened to her. She wept as she told her daughter how her heart had ached to give her up . . . but that she could see her decision had given Lydia a better life.

  As I sat on a wooden chair witnessing this dramatic moment, I knew I would never forget it nor the lesson I’d take with me from this small African village. Asha’s decision was the ultimate sacrifice born of a parent’s love for a child. She had taken a leap of faith that a heartbreaking choice would ultimately save her precious child. And it had.

  This was a moment of warmth and humanity that transcended continents, culture, race and economics. It was this moment that would guide me as a new mom.

  The next day, as we prepared to leave, we stepped into the African dawn to find another surprise. Dozens of people—men, women and children—were crowding the yard of the guesthouse. Asha’s neighbors had walked for hours through the night to greet her long-lost American daughter—another powerful and unforgettable moment for all of us in this story of discovery. After hugging every single person, Lydia would now have to say good-bye to her mother . . . again . . . not knowing how long it would be before they would reunite once more. She promised to come back and bring her children to meet their courageous grandmother. As we boarded the plane, the villagers all gathered to say good-bye, and in the center of the crowd, I saw Asha, wrapped in her red silk head scarf, clutching photographs of the daughter she had finally reclaimed. She was hunched over in a squat with her head cradled in her hands, sobbing. She had endured the heartbreak of saying good-bye to her daughter once. Now she was doing it again. It felt cruel and unfair.

  I flew back to New York with the image of Lydia’s mother sobbing on the ground seared in my mind. It got me thinking about my mother and all of the sacrifices she’d made for her children throughout the years, and about me as a mom too—and the incredibly deep love I felt for my new baby. I no longer had to question how far I would go to make sure my child was always taken care of because I already knew and understood what it felt like to put my own desires aside to make sure I was there to give her what she needed.

  I spent that long flight back from Africa to New York giving thanks for the experience I had shared with Lydia for many reasons, but most of all for the confirmation that every mother needs that sacrificing for your child is the greatest gift of unconditional love.

  From time to time I still think about my decision to pass on the job offered to me before Leila was born. But I have made peace with it. Perhaps it was my first major sacrifice for my child. I knew that motherhood is about love, commitment and sacrifice—and now I understand just how deep that can run. Thankfully, both of my children are healthy and I have never had to make a life-or-death decision the way Asha had done. But I do make choices every day to put them first. I often tell Leila and Nicky that whatever the obligation or opportunity, they are my first consideration. Over the years I have turned down invitations, events and occasionally assignments to be there when they were sick, needy or celebrating a big moment. I will never regret a minute of the time I sacrificed to have with them. Nothing else in life can come close. Of this, I am certain. It’s a lesson that was driven home for me in an African village and one that I will always share with my children.

  DEBORAH

  Struggling with My Decisions

  It was just a few days before Christmas 2006. Though my father was declining at home in the final stages of colon cancer, I was struggling to get through the holidays with the family. I had been down to Perry to visit Daddy just a couple of weeks before and had decided to come back home. I had a pressing assignment at work and the kids were wrapping up school projects and presentations. And there was the Christmas celebration at church, a program that both Leila and Nicky excitedly looked forward to being a part of every year. Nicky was set to play a shepherd boy, and Leila was cast as one of Mary’s companions.

  New York was all aglow with Christmas decorations and excitement. There isn’t a prettier time of year in the city. I’ve always loved the holiday season and I wanted to be in the spirit, but it wasn’t easy, given my father’s condition.

  At the kids’ urging, and as a way to attempt to cheer me up, Al got tickets to the Broadway production of How the Grinch Stole Christmas. My friend Karen joined us, along with her daughter Catherine. Al hoped it would bring a smile to my face to spend some quality family time together. Just as the curtain opened, my phone began to vibrate. It was that dreaded call we all fear. I quickly stepped out of the theater. When I answered, my sister Tina said shakily, “I think we’re losing Daddy.”

  My voice echoing in the empty lobby, I said, “Can you please put the phone next to his ear?”

  As Tina did, I could hear my sister Bennie crying in the background.

  “Hi, Daddy. It’s Deborah,” I managed to choke out through muffled sobs. “I’m so very sorry I’m not there with you, but I want you to know that I love you very much.” By now Al had joined me, his eyes brimming with tears too. What do you say in those final moments to a dying parent? Trembling now, I told Daddy I knew he was going home and how sorry I was for not being at his side. I tried to express how much I appreciated him as my father.

 
• • •

  Dad held on overnight.

  On Sunday morning, Al and I took the kids to church like always, and prayed for Daddy. This was also the day of the church Christmas pageant. Nicky and Leila were both excited about their roles. So was I, but my heart hurt and I was also deeply torn about where I should be.

  Should I fly home right away to my dying father, uncertain if I would make it in time, or do I grab this precious life-affirming moment with my children and then scramble to go?

  Al, who’d lost his dad a few years earlier and who understood the pain in my heart, asked if I wanted him to call the airline to make a last-minute reservation. I was seized with fear and sadness, somehow frozen in my tracks. Tough decisions can be difficult for me. Whether it’s a work assignment or a personal choice, I often wrestle with the right answer. Why wasn’t I in a cab at this moment, racing to LaGuardia Airport to catch the next flight to Atlanta? But how could I miss being with my family during a cherished moment? And would I make it before Dad passed?

  Looking back I think I was terrified to come face-to-face with the loss of my dad. For years he was such a tower of strength, and now he was terribly weakened, his life almost over. I thought about my last visit with Dad as we sat in the small wood-paneled den back in my childhood home. He was alert and able to smile, but he was so frail he couldn’t speak. It was excruciating to see him slipping away. For reasons I can’t really explain, I felt paralyzed and decided that I would stay at home and hold on to my children, gathering strength from their free and happy spirits. Daddy was eighty-three. He’d lived a full life, made peace with his illness and turned everything over to God. I believe he was ready to go.

  Through tears I told Al that while I was in knots about it all, I desperately needed to hold on to him and the kids at this moment . . . celebrating life instead of racing to witness the end of a life.