Lois Ann and Cathy wanted to be in the GMA audience for my last show, which was supposed to be that Friday. Wednesday night we went to dinner at one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants, Loi, which had delicious Greek dishes. We talked about the wonderful vacations we had taken together and the ones we would take in the future. Before dessert, everyone went to the restroom, so I decided to check my messages.
Dorothy had left me a voice mail that Mom wanted to talk to me. I was so excited, because Mom’s stroke had made it difficult for her to speak. My excitement was short-lived when I returned Dorothy’s call. Hurricane Isaac made it impossible for the hospice nurses to make it to the house. Dorothy knew Mom had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and over the phone described Mom’s condition to the nurse. The nurse said to Dorothy: “If there’s anything you want to say to your mom you should do it tonight.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I immediately told Dorothy that Sally-Ann and I would get home as soon as we could.
When I returned to my apartment, Sally-Ann was sitting at the window, having her quiet time. Ever since my sister was a little girl, you could find her upstairs in her room, sitting in a rocking chair, sometimes doing a crossword puzzle, sometimes not. The crossword puzzle was a legacy from Dad. He loved them; my brother Butch does, too. But the sitting and the rocking, that’s all Sally-Ann. And I could see that she wasn’t absorbing the full force of Dorothy’s news, she was so still, so silent, just staring out the window. I said, “Oh, Sally-Ann, I’m sorry to do this to you, but, do you understand what our sister is saying? Our mother is on her journey home.”
Back home in the Pass, Dorothy had reached out to a tight circle of friends with the news that the end might be near. The thing about living in a small town, news travels fast. While the Sisters Three, as we call ourselves, and Butch were trying to absorb the news, care for Mom, figure out what we wanted and needed to say to her, the phone was ringing off the hook. Mom had sooooo many people who felt they were like family. She touched their lives, and they wanted to know how she was doing, could they come see her, what could they do for her in the time that was left. It was all too much to bear. The doctors said Mother was transitioning, which sounds so peaceful. But it felt like chaos all around.
When the hospice people got to the house, they asked Dorothy, “Have you eaten since morning?” She wasn’t sure. Then they asked, “Have you showered?” And my niece was so tickled that in the midst of it all, Dorothy was offended. She asked, “Do I stink or something?” But realizing that it had been a while since her last shower, the hospice workers took over and Dorothy got showered.
The next morning they got Mom cleaned up, gave her her medicine and fed her. It actually seemed like she was doing okay. There was a moment when we all thought, “She’s going to do what she always does. She’s going to rally.”
Momma was still having trouble communicating, but she managed to let my niece Lauren know that she wanted to go out to the sunroom. Lauren’s fiancé, Brian, picked her up, put her in the wheelchair and they took her out. The rain was still coming down but it was, everyone remembers, oddly peaceful. Mom looked at pictures and, in particular, paused at a picture of Harneitha.
Harneitha was Mom’s best friend, and she perished in Katrina. Harneitha and her husband, Dr. Maxey, decided to ride out the storm in their home in Long Beach. Dr. Maxey had health issues that made it difficult to evacuate. One of their sons stayed with them in the house. Tragically, the Maxeys were literally swept from their home in the raging floodwaters. Miraculously, their son survived. Mom managed to ask Lauren to tell her the date. It was August 29, the day that Katrina hit. It was also the day her dear friends died. My mother might have rallied, but I think by pulling out Harneitha’s picture, by reminding us of the date, she wanted to send a message: Gather near, children, the clock is ticking.
The night before, on my frantic walk home from the restaurant, I called my executive producer, Tom Cibrowski. I told him about my conversation with Dorothy. I needed my last show to be the next day, Thursday, instead of Friday, as we had originally planned. I explained to Tom that I could do one more show, but then I needed to fly back home to Mississippi right after. I knew that the producers had a lot planned for my final show, but I needed to get home. Tom was totally understanding and sympathetic.
Early the next morning as I was preparing to leave for my final show, Sally-Ann said: “Are you sure we should try and go? The airports are still closed because of the storm; it could be dangerous. Mom always rallies.”
I looked her square in the eyes and said, “Sister, dear, I’m going home. If you want to hitch a ride, fine. If not, I’ll go by myself.”
Honestly, I don’t remember much about my final GMA. I do recall saying at the beginning of the show that tomorrow was supposed to be my last day but things had changed and I needed to get home to Mississippi. I didn’t go into any more detail, because Mom became very private after suffering her stroke in July. She didn’t want anyone outside of the family and close friends to know of her declining condition. Such a proud woman, my mom. During the show we had a story about my journey to that point. Revealing my diagnosis in June, all the doctor appointments and showing Sally-Ann’s stem cells being collected. Leading into the piece I shared one of my favorite quotes: “Life provides losses and heartbreak for all of us—but the greatest tragedy is to have the experience and miss the meaning.” I was determined not to miss the meaning of what I was experiencing and to share it in the hope of helping others.
My sister joined me in the studio after the piece aired. Many were just as concerned and curious about Sally-Ann…was she in any pain? Remember, she had just gone through two days of having her stem cells harvested. Sally-Ann smiled brightly, as she always does. Her daughter, Judith, would later tell her: “So many people, Mom, wonder what their purpose is in life, and now you know your purpose. Your purpose is to give bone marrow to your sister Robin. Every cell in your body is about the business of giving your sister new life. How beautiful is that?”
Martina McBride was also part of my final show before medical leave. I’ve gotten to know Martina and her husband, John, over the years. I had the pleasure of being in her music video for her hit song “I’m Gonna Love You Through It.” It’s a beautiful song about family and friends being there for a loved one going through cancer. Martina was on tour but made a detour to be with us that morning in New York and sing that inspirational song. What a dear friend. It was the first time I saw Sally-Ann break down in tears. Martina was singing “I’m gonna love you through it” and Sally-Ann just lost it. Then everyone in the studio started crying, too. I joked, “You guys have to stop crying, you’re supposed to be comforting me!” But I meant it when I hugged Sally-Ann and said, “Come here, sister, it’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna love you through it, too.”
Many colleagues were in the studio that morning holding #TEAMROBIN signs. We all should be so blessed to feel the love that I did that morning. Humbling. My last words were: “To my GMA family, my family there at home, I love you and I’ll see you soon.” I then defiantly pumped my fist. While I believed I’d be back in the mix, deep down inside I just didn’t know. When the cameras stopped rolling, I stood and told everyone in the studio how much I loved them. How proud I was of them. To keep on keepin’ on in my absence.
My thoughts were never far from Momma. Before we could fly home that Thursday, Sally-Ann had to be checked out by Dr. Giralt. He examined her, she was fine, and he also went over options with us. Dr. Giralt was aware we were going home to be with Mom, and I didn’t know how long I would be there. Sally-Ann’s freshly harvested stem cells had to be implanted within a certain time frame. It was Thursday, and I was scheduled to be admitted into the hospital on Monday. Dr. Giralt understood my only concern was Momma. My transplant would have to wait.
He also gave Sally-Ann a gift. She was consumed with worry about her stem cells. Would my body accept them? Would she be to blame if it didn’t? Dr. Giralt assured my si
ster: “You have done everything we have asked of you. If the transplant is not successful, you need to know it’s not your fault.” His caring, thoughtful words were another confirmation I had made the right choice in switching to him.
We got word that the airport down home had just reopened, so we headed to the plane. In the car I sent Dorothy a message that we were on our way! She sent a text that Mom was resting comfortably and also said: “Our dear mother is on her journey home.” I showed Sally-Ann the text, and she just stared out the window in disbelief. We were in constant prayer that we would make it home in time.
It seemed as if the flight to Gulfport took forever. A driver met us at the airport and had to maneuver around downed power lines and trees. Streets were flooded, forcing us to turn around several times. It was an eerie reminder of when I flew home to find my family after Hurricane Katrina.
When we arrived home late that afternoon, Momma did not take her eyes off of me. The stroke made it difficult for her to speak but she was communicating with me through her compassionate eyes. Her voice, when she could summon it, was softer than a whisper. It was as if she waited to make sure that we would be okay. She waited to see that Sally-Ann was okay after having millions of her stem cells harvested. And she waited to know that I had what I needed, that her baby girl was going to be all right.
The house was full of activity. Dorothy; her daughters, Jessica and Lauren; Lauren’s young son, Ryan; Sally-Ann; Ron and hospice nurses. Sweet, spiritual music was playing softly in Mom’s room on her boom box. Mom’s doctor made a house call and examined her. He said he had no idea how long Mom had. She recognized him and even joked with him. She was receiving nutrition through a feeding tube since the stroke left her unable to swallow.
After the doctor’s visit we all gathered in the living room, where for decades we had celebrated Christmases together as a family. Mom’s spirits were always lifted when she heard laughter in our home. She came to understand that having a sense of humor offset the challenges of growing old. She told Missy, her confidante and co-writer: “I often think that humor may be God’s gift to those of us in late life, a salve for challenging moments.”
At this moment it was challenging to find anything to laugh about. I was scheduled to be admitted into the hospital back in New York in four days. But how could I leave Momma? And if I went back to New York and began the transplant process, I would not be able to travel back home if she passed away. Knowing that was unbearable. My sisters insisted Mom would not want me to jeopardize my health by delaying my transplant. I thought of Sally-Ann’s stem cells in the freezer waiting for me. We decided we would take it one day at a time.
Everyone was exhausted. Sally-Ann, still wearing a bandage from her procedure, had been away from her home in New Orleans for a week. Dorothy had not left Mom’s side since she brought her home from the rehab center more than two weeks ago. Butch, who spent a lot of time with Momma in the hospital, is a schoolteacher in Houston. He was going to drive to the Pass after school on Friday. So Sally-Ann and Ron decided to go on to New Orleans, which is only about an hour from Mom’s house. And Dorothy and her girls would go home, too, to Long Beach, only twenty minutes from Mom. I would stay with Mom, and we would all gather again in the morning.
I was emotionally and physically spent. The house seemed so quiet, except for the music coming from Mom’s room. Eating was out of the question; my appetite was nonexistent. Whenever I came home Mom would always have my favorite dinner waiting for me. When I was younger it was her fall-off-the-bone barbecue spare ribs and potato salad. But lately it was Mom’s pork chops, cabbage and fried corn bread. She always added sliced tomatoes and cucumbers with Italian dressing. I think the cast-iron pot she cooked the cabbage in is older than I am. Before we would even finish dinner she would already ask me what I wanted for breakfast. Her fried apples were simple and delicious: a little butter, cinnamon and nutmeg and a lot of love. Unfortunately, I did not inherit Mom’s knack for cooking. The best thing I can make is…a dinner reservation.
That evening I went into Mom’s room. The gospel music was still playing softly. The night attendant, Jeanette, had just fed Mom, and she was resting comfortably. Jeanette told me that Mom usually became very coherent in the middle of the night and they would talk. I told her if that happened tonight to please wake me if I was sleeping. I kissed Mom on her cheek and was about to leave the room when Jeanette asked me if I wanted to sit and stay for a while. We sat on Mom’s chaise lounge in the corner of the room. It was usually covered with books, mail and clothes, but Jeanette was using it to nap while Mom rested a few feet away. I was thankful that Jeanette decided to turn off the music. It was becoming a bit much, and I think we all welcomed the break, even Mom.
Jeanette started to tell me how much she was learning from my mom. What? Mom could barely communicate—how was she inspiring this young woman? Jeanette said Mom talked to her about her life, and listening to Mom’s stories was uplifting. Mom never referred to someone as being a stranger; she said “strangers” were people she just hadn’t met yet. People were drawn to Momma: black, white, young, old and everything in between. Folks were drawn to Mom’s humility, wisdom and spirituality. She loved to talk, but she was also a good listener. She taught us that everyone’s story has significance. I carry that invaluable lesson with me every day.
I was surprised when Jeanette told me one of her last conversations with Mom was about how she raised her children. She questioned whether or not she was there for us enough. Granted, Mom didn’t have homemade cookies waiting for us when we got home from school, but I can never remember her not being there when we needed her. Off and on she was a schoolteacher and had held other jobs to help make ends meet. But, for the most part, she put her dreams on hold until I, the youngest, went to college. It was only then, and with my dad’s blessing and encouragement, that Mom accomplished lofty goals outside the home.
She never made it her goal to be the first woman of anything, but she certainly was. Mom served on numerous boards of directors; she was the first woman to chair the Mississippi State Board of Education, the first woman to serve as president of the Mississippi Coast Coliseum Commission and was one of the chairs of the New Orleans Branch of the Federal Reserve Bank of Atlanta. Both she and Dad were also very active in leadership positions for the Presbyterian Church (USA) on a national level. Mom served on the church’s Self-Development of People committee and literally traveled the world, visiting such far-flung countries as Egypt and Guatemala to see how lives were being changed because of the church’s participation.
Sitting a short distance from Mom, I told Jeanette that my mother had no need to worry. She was an amazing and caring mother. That I was proud of her and blessed to be her daughter. When people ask me what is the secret of my success I tell them: “Being the daughter of Lucimarian and Lawrence Roberts.” Just as I finished saying that, my mom coughed. We jumped up and rushed the few steps to her bedside. She turned her head and took her last breath. I was kneeling next to Mom’s bed, holding her hand and looked up at Jeanette, who checked her pulse. She nodded her head. Momma was gone. Absent from the body, present with the Lord.
Chapter 18
A Lake House
I couldn’t believe that Momma was gone. I also couldn’t believe that I would be the one to call and tell my siblings. I had always dreaded receiving “the call” from one of them.
I was too numb to phone Dorothy, so Jeanette did. It seemed as if it took my big sister only a few minutes to come rushing back into the house with her girls. Sally-Ann didn’t answer her cell phone, so I called her husband, Ron. He handed Sally-Ann his phone, and she wailed when I told her Momma had just passed away. Then I called Butch. He’s so much like Dad, the strong, silent type, rarely showing emotion. It was one of the few times I’ve heard my big brother cry.
When Mom was living, police officers in the Pass would stop by every so often, just to check on her. Bless them for that! The night she passed, we called the funer
al home and they sent not a hearse but what looked like a minivan. They backed into the driveway and they came inside and began preparing to take my mother.
There was a knock at the door and my nieces said, “That’s a police officer’s knock.”
I was a little surprised, and it was an unexpectedly light moment in the darkest of nights, because I asked them, “Excuse me, how do you know what a police officer’s knock sounds like?” And everybody laughed. We all needed to laugh.
I opened the door and, lo and behold, it was an officer. He saw the minivan and was concerned that Mom was being robbed. He said, “Is everything okay with your mother? I’m just checking things out.”
I felt so bad, I said, “Our mother just died, and that’s the funeral home.”
You should have seen the look on his face, he kept apologizing. “I’m so sorry,” he said over and over again. “I’m so so sorry.”
And I got a glimpse about how the next few days were going to go. Because as much as I wanted to close the door on the world, this was not a private loss. We had lost our mother, our matriarch, but Pass Christian had lost Lucimarian Roberts. Everyone in town wanted to share their grief over losing our mother. Ours wasn’t a private loss.
The officer came in and sat down for a second. He told me that his wife had breast cancer, and he’d seen me and Sally-Ann on the show that morning. We start talking, and I was crying and hugging him, wishing his wife well, and through it all, I knew that the thing that connected us was Mom.
We appreciated how the patrol officers kept an eye on Mom, because sometimes people found out where she lived and came by the house. Once a couple came by and knocked on the door and they said, “We’re just visiting from Florida and we’re really big fans of your daughter.” Mom said, “Come on in.”
Everybody's Got Something Page 11
