Even though there is a part of me holding on to the belief that I am now, have always been, and will always be unworthy, I am still willing to love and accept myself.
CHAPTER 15
THE UPWARD
DOWNWARD SPIRAL
Gemmia was doing great! It had been six months since her surgery and almost three months since her chemo ended. She felt good and she looked even better. She was busy packing, preparing to sell her house, and working on her product line. She had four staple fragrances, with three products each: shower gel, hand soap, and body oil. She often used the Inner Visions faculty and student body as her guinea pigs. We didn’t mind. Her products were wonderful. She came to the office less frequently, but she continued to teach her classes at the Institute.
The day she called to tell me she was sick, I did my best not to panic. She assured me that it was not the cancer. She had eaten some Chinese food, and it upset her stomach. Could I pick up Niamoja from school? By the time I got to her house, she was sweating bullets and in terrible pain. I had to fight the flashbacks in my mind. I told her that I was going home to pick up Oluwa and I would be back. If she wasn’t better by then, we were going to the hospital.
Two hours later, when I returned, she was weak and vomiting but would not leave the house until I promised her that I would not, under any circumstances, leave her in the hospital. I promised but my fingers were crossed. It turned out it was food poisoning. That would pass, but her blood test showed there was something else going on. The ER doctor recommended that she go back to her oncologist. My heart sank. It just couldn’t be happening again!
It took ten days before we could get her to the doctor. The food poisoning really took her down a long and winding road. It was, however, nothing like the one we were about to get on. The cancer was active again, and the CAT scan showed a small growth in her abdomen. He wanted to do another round of chemo, eight weeks, two different medications this time. “Let’s kick this thing in the butt,” he said. We started the following week, but this time it wasn’t so pleasant. I prayed over everything she used: the sheets, the towels, the blankets, and of course, the medication. By the time we got to the parking lot in the basement of the building, she was heaving. She never vomited, just dry heaves. I would stay to make sure she and Niamoja had dinner. Then I would drive home, help Oluwa with his homework, and write for a few hours before I went to bed. Gemmia was usually able to get up the day after the treatment, but it took her two days to really get back on her feet. By then, it was time to go back for the next treatment. Her hair was not falling out, but she was dropping weight rapidly. And she was regressing emotionally.
At first, I acted like I didn’t notice it. But then, it became obvious to others. Any time I went near her, she would turn away. If I tried to touch her, she would block my hand. Then she started to raise her voice at me. One day she told me I was crazy. Another time she told me I was a pain in her ass. I knew she was feeling like crap, but I was dismayed. Often I had to excuse myself and go home. Before I was ten minutes down the road, she would call me. “Mommy, are you coming back?” Gemmia had never called me Mommy, not even as a child. She called me Mumzie or Ma or Yeye. Not even as a child did she call me Mommy. Many times, I would turn around, go back to her house, and sit with her until she went to sleep. But that was a problem too. One of her medications kept her awake. The doctor prescribed a sleeping medication that made her hallucinate. She would call me at 3 or 4 A.M. and ask me to come right away because there were people in her bedroom. Sometimes I went. Other times, I would calm her down and stay on the telephone with her until daybreak.
Yawfah had her on a strict juice regimen to counteract the effects of the chemo. “We have to boost her immune system and protect her liver” was the mantra. This required 24 ounces of carrot juice three times a day, 4 ounces of wheat grass juice twice a day, and a combination of vegetable and fruit juices throughout the day. But by the fourth week of chemo round two, things were not looking good. Gemmia rarely got out of bed anymore. She weighed about 100 pounds, which was 44 pounds less than her normal weight. She was starting to have pain again, and she rarely slept at night. By now, I was also noticing a change in Niamoja. She spent most of her time in her room with the door closed. When I knocked, there were times she didn’t answer. Gemmia said she was angry because she couldn’t sleep in Mommy’s bed. But because Gemmia wasn’t sleeping and because Niamoja slept like a wild banshee, Gemmia had sent her to sleep in her own room. Niamoja could hold a grudge for weeks if she was upset about something. It was difficult for her to see how much her mommy had changed. It was hard for me and I wasn’t a child.
The one thing Gemmia would do every week as usual was braid Niamoja’s hair. Gemmia was a master braider, and Niamoja had five pounds of hair on her head. They would get in the shower together where Gemmia would wash her hair. Then, they would get out naked and soaking wet, run around the bedroom for a while, and then the ritual began. Gemmia would blow dry Niamoja’s hair while they watched cartoons or a movie they had already seen 20 times. The process usually took about four hours. It was an amazing thing to watch. So, I was quite alarmed when Gemmia asked me to wash and braid Niamoja’s hair. She was too weak, she said, to blow dry it. If I washed it, she would try to braid it. Of course I didn’t mind, but I was very, very alarmed.
A friend in New York—Susan Taylor—suggested that I take Gemmia to a naturopath, acupuncturist, and Chinese herbal master in New York who had great success with all sorts of cancers. He had a three- to four-month waiting list, but she got us an appointment. By then, I think Gemmia felt so poorly she would have done almost anything. Dr. Nyuen was great, very gentle. Gemmia made her usual objections to the needles, and he promised not to hurt her. By the time we left, I had spent over $1,000 for the treatment and three weeks’ worth of herbs. He made her promise to come back in three weeks.
By that time, though, Gemmia could barely walk. Things were really getting bad. She was now down to 95 pounds. She rarely got more than two hours of sleep a night. The only thing she could keep down was oatmeal, and that made her furious. Gemmia loved to eat, and she was fed up with the juices. No matter what I said, she would argue with me. It got to be so tense between us that Yawfah offered to come up and give me a break. Gemmia loved Yawfah, and Yawfah didn’t take no mess!
I was both relieved and jealous at the way Gemmia responded to Yawfah. Then again, Yawfah knew how to do things about which I knew nothing. She would massage Gemmia until she went to sleep. Because all she had to do was provide care, she answered her every beck and call. In fact, she gave Gemmia a bell so that whenever she needed something, all she needed to do was ring. She said that yelling throughout the house disturbed the energy. She stayed for ten days and when she left, Gemmia cried. It was clear that whatever was going on with her and the cancer had something to do with me. Or at least that was the way it felt.
I hadn’t received one of those 3 A.M. calls in a while. When I did, I knew that something must be wrong. She was crying her heart out. “What’s wrong, sweetie? Tell me what is the matter.” She couldn’t speak. I told her to hang up. I would get dressed and come over. I would call her from my cell phone when I got in the car. I scooped up the sleeping dead weight of Oluwa, put him in the car, and tore off like a lunatic. On the phone again, I got a few words out of her about being tired and scared. She told me that she had told Niamoja about menstruation. She was nine and she needed to know. Then she told me that she could not see her life beyond age 30. She felt like her life had come to an end, and she felt incomplete.
Then she asked me a very strange question. She asked me if I had wanted her when I was pregnant. Oh my Lord! I told her the story about the Bellevue abortion clinic and how Nett had stopped me from doing what I planned. I told her that I wanted her, but I did not know if I could provide for her. I told her that her father was in jail then and I was scared to even try to raise two children alone. I also told her that she might have an in vitro memory of not bein
g wanted because I had spent so much time contemplating the abortion. She said she understood and thought that might be the reason she could not see a vision for her life beyond age 30. She said she tried but, she just couldn’t see it.
By the time I reached her front door, she had started crying again. I ran into her room, scooped her up in my arms, and held her as tight as I could. When she could catch her breath, she asked me:
“Am I going to die?”
“Do you want to die? Are you ready to die?”
“No, but I can’t see how this is going to get any better.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at this.” It was then she showed me the opening in her navel. There was a small white mass. It looked like an oozing blemish.
“How long has that been there?”
“About a week.”
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Did you tell the doctor?”
“No.”
“Well, before we start making plans for the funeral, let’s ask him what it is.”
“You are so silly.”
“I learned it from you.”
We curled up in the bed and rocked each other. I knew then. I knew in that moment, but I could not allow myself to even think it. I was her mom. As long as she affirmed life, I would affirm it with her and for her. No more thoughts! I held her tighter. No more f——g thoughts!
“Mumzie.”
“Yeah, sweetie.”
“You are squeezing the life out of me right now.”
“Oh Lord! I am so sorry.” And we both laughed a very tearful laugh. hree seconds later I jumped up, startling both of us.
“What’s the matter?” she asked as I disentangled myself and scrambled to my feet.
“I left Oluwa in the car.”
Self-pity in its early stages is as snug as a feather mattress.Only when it hardens does it become uncomfortable.
— Maya Angelou
CHAPTER 16
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
How as a mother do you watch your child die? How do you make sense of it? You don’t. You go through every day, day after day with a huge wad of despair in your throat. At times you want to gag. At other times, you try to swallow it; but you can’t. Instead, you put your face in a pleasant position and you keep it there, no matter what you see or hear. When people ask you how you are, you lie and babble something ridiculous that even you don’t believe. When people ask you how she is doing, you just say that you are hoping for the best. In your weak moments, you call your best friend who has enough sense to just listen to you cry without making any false promises. Then, if she is like my best friend, she will pray for you. When you’re a mother whose child is dying, you listen to the prayer and hope with all of your heart that you can believe it. You muster up every fiber of faith you have left to force yourself to believe it. If you don’t, and the wad of despair in your throat becomes too much to bear, then you do your best to pray for yourself. It is not, however, a real prayer. It is a begging, pleading, angry prayer that you don’t even believe yourself. I was losing it fast but my face stayed pleasant.
Yawfah came up from Atlanta for another ten-day stint. Lydia came down from New York to support me with Oluwa. Almasi and Helen told me not to come into the office. Everything seemed to be moving in slow motion, and I felt totally alone. I must admit, when I called to ask my estranged husband for support with Oluwa he usually came. The energy between us had become pleasantly unpleasant. We never came within three feet of one another. We never looked each other in the eye any more. And we never talked about anything of substance.
One evening after he had stayed with Oluwa, I asked him a question—I don’t even remember what it was—and he blew up.
“You know, one of the reasons it was so difficult to be with you was the drama. You always have some kind of drama going on in your life.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want to live in peace, and you don’t seem to know how to do that.”
“I’m not sure what you mean by drama.”
“Well, you wouldn’t know about it because you create it all the time.”
“Are you talking about Gemmia being sick? Is that drama? Or are you talking about the fact that I have spent every dime I have taking care of her household and this one? Is that drama? Why not tell me what you are talking about?”
“Why didn’t you tell someone where you were going? Why would you just disappear like that?”
Now I knew what he was talking about. The week before, I had become so unfocused that I could barely find my way home. My mind was racing. I was awake for two or three days at a stretch. One morning, I was praying and I heard, “Go to the ocean. Take a bag and leave.” So I did. I took my Bible and two nightgowns and I drove to Ocean City, Maryland. I stayed in the hotel room for three days, sleeping and reading scriptures. In the day, I would walk on the beach. At night I would read. I thought about calling home, but since I knew Gemmia and Oluwa were being cared for, I opted to remain in silence. When I returned, I went directly to Gemmia’s house. She told me that she thought I was off with him so she had called him.
“Are you upset that I went away without saying anything?”
“You had everybody worried. I thought something had happened to you.”
I told him how it happened and that I really felt guided to be in silence. It didn’t seem to matter. He rolled his eyes, got in the car, and tore off down the driveway.
On a warm Sunday afternoon about two weeks later, Yawfah was with Gemmia and I was home, piddling around the house. I had just made some iced tea, and I was sitting on the deck outside the bedroom thinking about not thinking. When I looked up and saw him, I was pleasantly surprised. A part of me wanted to tell him that it was no longer appropriate for him to show up without calling. I shooed that part of me away and decided that I would simply be nice. I gave him an update on Gemmia. He seemed concerned but had nothing to offer other than positive platitudes. Then he told me that he was going to move forward with the divorce. Nothing in my body shifted or moved, so I listened.
“Isn’t that what you want?”
“It isn’t, but at this point the ball is in your court.”
“No, you filed the papers.” So he had received them after all.
“I never completed the paperwork. I was angry and I started it, but I was told to be still and let you take the lead.”
“You never told me that.”
“You never asked about it.”
“I don’t understand why you want to be married to me. I just don’t.”
“Well, if you don’t understand, there is nothing I can say that will help you understand.”
“You know, your mouth has always been an issue.”
“Please forgive me. Right now, I am too exhausted to fight with you. I am facing the possibility of losing my child. Fighting for a man who doesn’t even like me is not an option.”
“I love you, Iyanla. I just don’t think we were meant to be together as husband and wife.”
Maybe he was right. Or maybe he was covertly trying to get me to say something that would make him feel better. I didn’t know, and at that point, on that day, I really didn’t care.
“What do you think? Do you think we can ever be together?”
“That has been my dream since I was 13-years-old. I have loved you all of my life. I thought that when I closed my eyes for the last time, I would be looking in your face. Right now, I don’t have the strength to fight for you or with you. This just isn’t the time.”
“It will never be the right time. I started to do this long ago, way back when you were on Oprah, but I knew that wasn’t the right time. Then you had your show, and that wasn’t the right time. So I guess there will never be a good time for something like this.”
After he left, I kept sipping my tea with no response whatsoever anywhere in my body. Done!
Gemmia’s deteriorating condition was just one of the large problems lo
oming over my head. I had fallen out of compliance with my IRS payment arrangements. There simply was no money to pay them. I was down to one staff member. Almasi and I were scraping by on whatever came in from the sales of my books and tapes. We did our best to keep the faculty paid so that we could continue the Institute classes. We were three months behind on the rent for the Inner Visions Center, and to the tune of $5,700 per month, the landlord was getting a bit aggressive. The other challenge was my publisher. They wanted me to deliver my manuscript, or they were going to cancel my contract and sue for the advanced they had paid. “When it rains, it pours” took on an entirely new meaning in my life. So did “God never gives you more than you can handle.”
Thank God for good accountants! Mine was a former IRS investigator. He knew the ins and outs of the bureau. He contacted the right people and provided the right information, and they agreed to give me a year of grace. Somehow, we were able to send the landlord one month’s rent. That calmed him down, but not for long. The truth is that he wanted us out. The neighborhood had changed drastically and he could get much more for the building than what we were paying. I turned the matter over to the prayer team and told them they needed to pray for him to be amicable.
There was absolutely nothing I could do about the book. I had produced over 600 pages and still had nothing that was worthy of being published. It felt like I was about to end my publishing career. Everything that I had worked for was about to go up in smoke, and for some reason, I could not get upset. I had done all I could do, and I was doing the best I could.
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