by Tavis Smiley
When I went to the closing ceremony at Ground Zero, it didn’t give me closure because I didn’t feel like Leon was there. I felt like he had gone to a better place. They still have not recovered Leon’s body. He is the only one from Brooklyn Heights #118 that they have not recovered. The children and I continue to swab out our mouths and send our samples to New York to help with the DNA identification process; we’ll be glad when this part is over.
Although we already had a memorial service for Leon, if his remains are ever found, our family will have a private ceremony for him. It will be the closest we can come to having closure in celebrating the life and death of a very special man.
ON A RAINY NIGHT: A CHRISTMAS BLESSING
Kaye Barrow Ziglar
We knew Christmas was not going to be the same. Our baby, Lauren Grace, had passed away nine months earlier, at only seventeen and a half months of age. It had been a tough year.
Early in the holiday season we both agreed on a simple Christmas. Neither of us had the desire or energy to deal with the commercialism of the season. For once, we were taking care of us instead of complying with the wishes of others. It felt very good not to have the pressure and anxiety of shopping for everyone, deciding whom we were going to visit, or if we were going to have Christmas guests over. We wanted neither. It would be just the three of us; me, our five year-old son, Garrett, and Rod, my husband of seven years.
I asked Rod to bring in the two huge boxes of decorations so that I could begin decorating for Christmas. At the very top of the first box, wrapped in clear plastic, were our Christmas stockings. Lauren Grace’s was on top, and I wondered for a while if I should put it up. During grief counseling, I was told, “Don’t try to make your holidays like the ones from the past, because things will not be the same.” So I asked my son Garrett if he thought we should put Lauren’s stocking up. He replied, “Yes, Mommy, let’s put it up.”
Lauren Grace’s stocking was the first one to be hung on the mantel. Then we put up our tree. In years past, we had always had ornaments on the tree that represented our marriage and our children. Two doves represented Rod’s and my bond, which began in April 1994. Another ornament with a photograph reminded us of our first Christmas as husband and wife. In another, a dove represented the children that we hoped to produce to make our family complete. A hand-painted Noah’s Ark ornament always adorned our tree in memory of our firstborn, Matthew, who was stillborn in 1995 during my fifth month of pregnancy. Ornaments representing our son’s first Christmas honored little Garrett, who was born the following year. This year we chose two ornaments for Lauren Grace. The first was a tiny ornament depicting little cherubs of all races and nationalities singing. In addition, we bought a tiny angel made of Lauren’s birthstone, sapphire, with golden wings and a diamond face. Now the tree was complete.
Though we did not talk about it, Rod and I both knew that on Christmas Day we wanted to visit the cemetery to include Lauren Grace in our Christmas celebration. I had prepared a wonderful Christmas dinner with all the soul food trimmings, and I wondered if going to the cemetery before dinner would zap our appetites along with our spirits. But Rod said, “We’ll be all right. Let’s go now.”
Very nervously and anxiously, I took off my Christmas apron and grabbed my jacket, and the three of us hopped into the car. We had a poinsettia to bring, but I wanted to keep it beautiful for as long as I could, so we decided not to take it yet. Rod had seen a little holiday bear with some flowers encased in a clear tube while he was out earlier in the season, and suggested that we place that on Lauren Grace’s grave.
Lauren’s grave was at the extreme rear of the cemetery. It broke my heart to leave each time we visited; it felt like I was leaving my baby back there all alone. “Oh, my Lauren,” I thought. “How I wish you were here with us this year, as you were last year.”
As we approached her grave, we all called out, “Hi, Lauren Grace, Merry Christmas. We miss you, Lauren!” We stood around the grave in silence for a moment, and then Rod affixed the little Christmas bear around the urn of flowers. As usual, we wiped the headstone off to make it presentable. We stood close together at the foot of the grave. As I stared down at the grave marker, I noticed that the lamb carved there—which had been tiny, about the size of my pinky—was now much larger. I said to Rod, “Do you notice something different about that lamb?” He replied, “Yes, it’s bigger.”
How could that be? When the marker was first placed, we had been a little upset that the lamb was so small; we’d wanted one that would be more proportionate to the size of the stone and would balance the wording on the stone.
Garrett, in his slightly stuttering little-boy voice, said, “Mommy, mmmmommy, I, I, I know how that lamb got to be so big! Naybe”—he couldn’t at the time say maybe—“God came on a rainy night and just made the lamb get bigger! God did it, Mommy, on a rainy night.” Rod and I just looked at each other and smiled.
“Garrett, I think you’re right about God coming and changing that lamb,” I said. And with that Rod offered up a beautiful Christmas prayer. Of all the many times that I have visited my daughter’s grave, I have never again left in such great spirits and without tears. I felt a sense of hope and healing, assured of God’s presence with us on Christmas day. Afterward we went home with more of the true spirit of Christmas in our hearts.
CHALLENGES, NOT OBSTACLES
Norma Gaines-Hanks, Ed.D.
In the fall of 1997, my mother, the Reverend Naomi Gaines Winchester, was diagnosed with breast cancer. She was sixty-seven years old and had recently started a new career, serving as the pastor of three small churches in New Castle County, Delaware.
We were very fortunate in that the surgeon was family-oriented and insisted on meeting with the family before the surgery. He was extremely reassuring. On the day that he performed the biopsy confirming the malignancy, I broke down in tears. As my mother was coming out of the anesthesia, she realized I was crying. When she asked me why I was crying, I lied and said that my contact lenses were bothering me. The doctor, overhearing my response, immediately chastised me for being dishonest and suggested that we needed to be up front with my mother. She accepted his report, said a prayer, and immediately asked what she needed to do next.
Mom underwent aggressive chemotherapy prior to her mastectomy. The chemo weakened her and she lost her hair, but never lost her spirit. She kept the faith and continued to serve the churches, as well as tried to keep up with her busy schedule of serving on various boards and committees. Just a week or so before her scheduled surgery, she participated in her mother’s hundredth-birthday celebration, despite her discomfort from the chemotherapy.
On the day of her surgery, my mother had been giving instructions to everyone who had come to the hospital to support her, including expressing concern about my then ten-year-old twin nephews, who lived with her part time.
The surgery took longer than expected, and the recovery was difficult. There were some days when it was hard for Mother to be optimistic, but she never gave up the fight. As soon as she awoke following surgery, she wanted to be sure we were all right. She expressed concern that her grandsons were not being fed properly and that someone at one of her churches might have needed her. It was very hard for her to accept that the tables were turned and that she was the one who needed attention.
Her Delta Sigma Theta sorority and church members assumed responsibility for providing meals for her a few days a week. Her grandsons developed survival-cooking skills and willingly washed dishes, did the laundry, and vacuumed the carpets so that their grandmother could rest properly.
In 2000, Mom participated in the Relay for Life campaign, sponsored by the local chapter of the American Cancer Society. It was the first time it had been held in Wilmington, Delaware (it was usually held in a suburban city), and this time it was targeted at the Black and Hispanic communities. With the support of her sorority sisters, Mom became the highest individual fund-raiser, and Delta Sigma Theta became the highest g
roup fund-raiser in both 2000 and 2001.
Today, despite lymphedema and diabetes—both outcomes of her chemotherapy—Mom works a few days per week for a local United Methodist church, visiting members in nursing homes, hospitals, or at home. She also substitutes for the senior pastor when he is absent. This is all in addition to providing support and care to her sister (who at age 81 underwent a leg amputation), her 104-year-old mother, who is exhibiting symptoms of Alzheimer’s disease, and her 80-year-old brother, who serves as my grandmother’s primary caregiver. Plus, she is still chief cook and bottle washer for her beloved 15-year-old twin grandsons, who split their time between their own mother’s home and the house my mother lives in.
My mother does not just preach about faith and healing, she lives it. Her example serves to give all of us a goal. Four out of her five children are college graduates. This woman, who once dropped out of high school, earned her associate’s degree at forty-four and her bachelor’s degree at the age of forty-eight, and just prior to her sixtieth birthday completed her master’s in social work.
Mom has faced and overcome many things in her life. But she sees them more as challenges to be overcome rather than paralyzing obstacles. She has come through as a result of her faith. We are thankful for her love, her resilience, and her example.
DEALING WITH DEMENTIA
Kathy Davis
As I walk into my mother’s house, her eyes, which used to be so full of life, stare at me blankly. I begin to say, “Hi, Mama,” but change my greeting to “Hello, Mozelle.” My mother does not readily respond to “Mama,” but she still recognizes her first name. Alzheimer’s disease has torturously, inch by inch and step by step, taken my mother away from me. She really does not know me anymore. Her frail body is on death row, and only God knows when her sentence will be up. In the meantime, we make sure she eats and gets her fluids and makes it to the rest room in time.
I give big kudos to my youngest brother and older sisters, who are full-time caregivers for my mother. Mozelle is seventy-nine years old and behaves like a three- or four-year-old. Most families would have put their loved one in a nursing home by now (it has been over ten years), but my sisters are insistent that, as a family, we shoulder this responsibility.
I was the one who wanted to put Mozelle away and hide this shame from the world. I was newly remarried, and my children were still very young. I did not have time to “baby-sit” an adult, as I put it. Taking care of Mother was a constant battle. But my sister Gussie stated, “The only way Mother would go to a nursing home was over her dead body.” At this point, I gave up. Gussie moved in with my mother and began a journey that none of us would ever forget.
My younger brother, who was unable to work at the time, had been living with Mother. He first noticed the changes in her and became alarmed. Mother, he said, would bounce back and forth between reality and fantasy. She began to see things that were not there; her paranoia was downright frightening. When we tried to convince her that it was all a part of her imagination, it made her angry. She was convinced she was being watched, and tried to cover every window in the house. The biggest problem we had with her were her wanderings.
It was a nightmare. That is the only way to describe the behavioral changes my mother has gone through. As the side of her brain she used most started disappearing, personalities we never knew existed came to light. There was the workaholic domestic, always sweeping and wiping and trying to cook. Then there was the runaway. This was the most dangerous personality of all, because in her mind she was never at home; she was always threatening to leave, and if you turned your back, she would. Mother had wandered off many times. We never knew what happened on many of her outings, but in each instance, she came back unharmed; a few times the police or someone in our extended church family would bring her home. But not knowing where she was, and the panic of searching, was one of the worst experiences we had to face.
Mozelle had been a quiet and reserved woman and a dedicated wife and mother. She loved to cook and clean; worrying about her children was her favorite pastime. She would gladly baby-sit her grandchildren and would call us every day, listen to our problems, and give us advice that we rarely heeded. I really loved my mother, but I also resented her for getting this disease. In my own limited understanding, I felt Mother was selfish to cause her children anxiety and stress by running away.
I brought up the possibility of nursing facilities again years later. Mother needed round-the-clock care and had to be watched to prevent her from running away. And my brother, who was her live-in caregiver most of the time, was getting burned out. But my sister didn’t want to hear it. She knew that if we put Mother in a nursing home, her care could be compromised. We had heard about the abuse and neglect that went on in those places. My sister got that look on her face, and I reluctantly gave in.
If we had not found the Adult Day Care Center my mother attends, I believe our family might eventually have reconsidered that decision. Getting help with the daily supervision of our mother allowed my brother to regroup and get some much-needed time away from her. Occasionally all the siblings lend a hand as well. It has been a long ten years, but we have hung in there.
Mozelle is winding down now. She no longer tries to clean everything in sight and does not have enough energy to run away. Although these traits have lessened, we still have other obstacles to face. Dehydration, loss of appetite, and loss of control of some bodily functions are just a few of them.
We always knew that Mother was forgetful; it was a family joke. The words we said to her most often were “Now remember, don’t forget!” We also learned that Alzheimer’s disease can be hereditary. Now, the reality of being forgetful is no joke for any of Mozelle’s children. The fear of becoming like my mother in my old age has made me look at life much differently. Each day scientists make great strides in the race to find a cure for this devastating disease, and I pray that they are successful in time for my family. I have already started hearing my children say, “Write this down, Mom,” or the dreaded phrase “Now remember, don’t forget!”
No one knows the length of time we have on this earth. Most people agree we want to live our lives with dignity and respect and to be as comfortable as possible. Our family has given these things to our mother. But in return she has given us much more. She has shown us how to be strong when it would have been much easier to give up. She has shown us that love can conquer all if you let it. I have grown in acceptance of the burden our family shares. Although my shoulders bear only a small portion, I have been made a better person for the experience.
The blank stare that I receive from Mozelle used to hold love and joy when I came to visit. That wonderful voice, so like my own, would call me “baby girl” and “Miss Kat” and ask me if I wanted something to eat or drink. Her biggest joy was always her large family, because she was an only child. I cannot say that I have always been there for Mozelle. But I want to let the world know that she has always been there for me, and she will always be with me in mind and spirit.
A MOTHER’S STORY
Paula Penn-Bradley
Over the past three and a half years, I have experienced a lot of personal pain. My husband and I separated after many years of marriage, and my son, my only child, was diagnosed with inoperable brain cancer. Everything happened so fast, and I was unprepared to deal with all of the loss. I knew that my marriage wasn’t perfect, yet I was willing to work through whatever our issues were. I had supported my husband through his military career and I thought, naively, that we could make it through the hard times if we just worked together. When he walked out of our lives in August 1998 my whole world started to crumble apart. My son, who was seventeen years old, took me by the shoulders and told me no matter what happened to hold my head up, everything would be all right.
Paul was born March 29, 1981, and died June 22, 2001, at the age of twenty, after battling cancer for two years. It is truly his journey and wisdom that I share. The sadness that I feel is overwhelm
ing, yet it is also where I find comfort in the early-morning hours or the dark of the night. Paul and I loved each other. Paul used to tell me that life with me was an adventure. You never knew on any given day what would happen or how we would adjust our lives to meet the needs of those around us. When he was diagnosed with cancer in May 1999, my heart broke. I was a substitute teacher and had just gone back to work after the summer break, so we didn’t have much money. My husband was unable to assist us, and I worked as much as I could to make ends meet. The symptoms that Paul exhibited in the beginning were not significant; I thought his skin discoloration was due to a fungal infection. Months went by before we found out what was wrong. In March 1999, Paul was admitted to the local hospital the week before his eighteenth birthday. We were told there was no evidence of a brain tumor. They thought he had a neuromuscular disease. He was scheduled for an appointment at the University of North Carolina (UNC) medical center at Chapel Hill. Due to conflicts in schedules, Paul was unable to be seen until May of 1999. The ophthalmologist who saw him, Dr. Cooper, told us that the original hospital had missed the diagnosis and that there was in fact a tumor on Paul’s brain. Paul, a skater and basketball and football player, soon experienced physical changes that quickly became more pronounced. By the time Paul was admitted to UNC in May, he had lost his sense of balance, had palsy in his eyes, and was suffering other symptoms. During the summer of 1999, Paul received thirty-one treatments of radiation. During his treatment, without adequate finances and no other immediate family, my son and I struggled along the best we could. I would bring him home from the hospital, make him comfortable, and leave to go to work. Meals were difficult because he could no longer hold plates or glasses without spilling the contents. Yet Paul never complained. He focused on going back to school. He told me that it was stupid to get this far and not finish. I arranged with the school system for him to return and finish in the fall of 1999.
