I remember being horrified when she told me the story later on. But the fact is that Momma was a good judge of character. She and that couple became friends. It was cute that they also later scolded her for letting them in her house. They kept in touch for years and years. Momma believed in the goodness of people and she believed in the prayer of protection, that wherever she was, God was, too.
Mom had a way of taking people under her wing and making you feel special when you were talking to her. Your story mattered. And whenever she thought I was getting a little too full of myself, she’d remind me: “Robin, your story is no more important than anybody else’s story. When you strut, you stumble.” Meaning: When you think that you’re all that and a bag of chips, you’re gonna fall flat on your face. Thank you, Momma, for that invaluable lesson.
We were overwhelmed with the outpouring of love for our mother. President and Michelle Obama sent a beautiful flower arrangement to our house. It was the first time I had seen Mom’s grandchildren smile in days. It was a proud moment for them. The president of the United States. They asked if they could take pictures of the flowers and Instagram them to their friends.
It was painful to make the final arrangements for Mom. The owners of the Bradford-O’Keefe Funeral Home were incredibly kind and gentle. Our families have known each other for decades, and they also handled my father’s homegoing service. Mom had always said she wanted to be laid to rest in a simple pine box. We were discussing what to put on her tombstone. I had been quiet up to that point, just numb. Mom and Dad were both gone. I was left with such an empty feeling. Grandma Sally had passed when Mom was in her seventies, and I remember Mom saying she now felt like an orphan. I thought that was strange. But now I knew exactly what Mom meant. There was a lot of chatter about what words to use on Mom’s tombstone. I whispered it should simply read: A CHILD OF GOD. Everyone agreed.
Dad’s homegoing in 2004 was held in a large church at Keesler Air Force Base. Mom did not want that. So we decided to honor her wishes and have her service at our church in Bay Saint Louis, Old Town Presbyterian. It has about ten wooden pews on each side of the church. Knowing there would be limited seating, we decided to make Mom’s viewing open to the public.
Bradford-O’Keefe was, in a word, magnificent. They thought of everything. Knowing there would be an overflow crowd, they were able to anticipate situations before they happened. Lines wrapped around the funeral home. It seemed that everyone who Mom had touched wanted to pay their final respects. Too many names to mention, including my fellow GMA co-anchors, ESPN colleagues, friends from near and far. At one point a large group of older black women wearing beautiful corsages decided to make their own line to Mom’s casket. They were members of the National Council of Negro Women. Mom had been a part of the group for years. It got so chaotic at one point that the funeral director had to whistle loudly to regain order. I could just imagine Momma saying: “Oh, mercy!”
Mrs. Middleton was one of Mom’s oldest friends, and when she heard of Mom’s passing, she asked her great-granddaughter to drive her from Chicago to be at Mom’s funeral. Mom and she met each other in college at Howard. Mom talked about it in her book, so this is not telling stories out of school. There was a rough patch in my parents’ marriage, and Momma wanted to leave Daddy after I was born. She was fed up with being an enlisted officer’s wife, and Mrs. Middleton was the perfect friend. Instead of insisting that Mom stay and work things out, Mrs. Middleton said, “Okay, leave him then. So what are you gonna do? How are you going to live? Do you assume you’ll get custody, or will you sue him if he challenges you?” By the time Mrs. Middleton was done, Mom was like, “Um, yeah, I don’t want to go through all that.” You could say Mrs. Middleton saved the marriage. She gave Mom time to realize she did still love Daddy and had faith that her postpartum blues would pass.
Another story Momma liked to tell was about how once she and Daddy went to visit the Middletons when Momma was pregnant with me. Daddy and Mrs. Middleton were laughing at Momma, because she was a little older and was surprised that she could get pregnant. I think Momma was thirty-seven at the time. Both she and Mrs. Middleton had children around the same age, and Mrs. Middleton sort of indicated that Momma should’ve quit while she was ahead. Well, it turns out right after that visit, Mrs. Middleton got pregnant. “I think she got pregnant that same night,” Momma would say, adding, “Don’t mess with karma, Cannie Middleton.” Nine months later, Mrs. Middleton also had a baby girl.
So this is the same woman whose great-granddaughter called the night before Mom’s homegoing. Because Mom wanted a small service in our tiny church, we were going through a seating chart and it was very difficult, thinking how are we going to squeeze all these people in.
Sally-Ann was starting to stress out and I was so excited when Mrs. Middleton’s great-granddaughter called and told us that she was going to be there. But Sally-Ann said, “I’m sorry. There’s no room.” And I just blew up and said, “That’s Mrs. Middleton! We will find room for Mrs. Middleton at Momma’s funeral!”
Right away, Sally-Ann said, “Yes, yes, of course, you’re right.”
September 5, 2012: Momma’s homegoing. We all gathered at the Pass house. Dorothy’s oldest daughter, Jessica, was great at organizing, so she assigned us to certain cars to ride in to the church. Our longtime friend and pastor, Reverend Robert Jemerson, made the trip from San Antonio to deliver Mom’s eulogy, as he had done at Dad’s service. My parents and Reverend Jemerson started a special church service in the 1970s at Keesler Air Force Base. It was called Soul Service. Before Mom’s service, Reverend Jemerson told me about a recent conversation he’d had with her. He’d visited Mom in the Pass the weekend before her passing. He said she was quite clear and coherent. Mom told Reverend Jemerson: “You know, Robin is coming to see me this week. I’m going to wait for her and then I’m going home.” Reverend Jemerson knew exactly what she meant…home as in heaven.
I was so touched that Charlie Gibson was there. He also traveled to Mississippi for Dad’s service in 2004. Diane Sawyer and George Stephanopoulos had flown in from Charlotte, North Carolina, that morning. They were there for the Democratic National Convention and would have to return right after the service. Before entering the church I just happened to look down at my BlackBerry. There was a message from Oprah. She was expressing her sympathy and then said something I needed to hear at that very moment. She talked about when Maya Angelou was mourning the death of her mother. A short time after that Dr. Angelou was asked by President Clinton to compose a poem to read at his inauguration in 1993. Dr. Angelou had no doubt that it was her mother’s heavenly intervention. Oprah went on to tell me that now my mother would do the same for me.
This is what I said at Mom’s service:
If you are sitting in someone’s lap right now, you have Momma to thank for that. Despite her vast accomplishments she was a humble woman. She said: “Butch, Sally-Ann, Dorothy, Robin…I want a small private homegoing. She’s probably saying, “NOW my children decide to listen to me?”
As I look out on this beautiful mosaic of different faces…I know we have Mom to thank for that, too. She had an authentic way of connecting with people from all walks of life. Rich, poor, black, white, it didn’t matter. She made you feel special.
She was sweet, had a wonderful sense of humor and was feisty to the very end. When she was recently in the hospital and couldn’t reach her call button, what did Mom do? She used her cell phone to call 911 for help. They asked for her address. Mom was confused and she gave them the one in the Pass.
Our neighbors were puzzled when an ambulance showed up at the house, knowing Mom was still in the hospital.
At Daddy’s homegoing I said he was a good officer. When we were stationed in a new place, he would go ahead of us to scout out everything, and we would follow. Mom has followed him to heaven. He went first to check things out. Mom told me recently: “I hope your Daddy didn’t get a place in the mountains. I’ve always wanted a lake house.” I
pray Mom finally does. She and Dad are probably co-chairing committees in heaven as they did here.
I know Mom was concerned about my upcoming bone marrow transplant. She wanted to be there but knew she wasn’t physically able. She also knew I would constantly be worried about her, because once I went into the hospital and isolation I wouldn’t be able to get to her if she needed me. Mom found a way to take away that worry and to be with me every step of the way on my upcoming journey. My siblings tell me it was her final gift to me. She was there when I took my first breath, and what a privilege to be holding her sweet hand when she took her last breath. Thank you, Momma. I love you.
We ended the service the same way we did at Dad’s. By singing: “When we all get to heaven, what a day of rejoicing that will be.” Amen.
Chapter 19
Roshanda
Momma died on Thursday, August 30. Her homegoing celebration was the following Wednesday, September 5. By the time I returned home on Thursday, September 6, I was exhausted. But I was also aware that on some level, I had to put my grieving on hold. My doctors had explained to me that the transplant battle was as much a mental battle as a physical one. There was no way that I could begin to process the full force of losing my beloved mother and be strong enough, focused enough, to go through the transplant process as well. My siblings insisted that in her passing Momma had given me an incredible gift. Dorothy said, “Mom is where she is so she can do even more for you.”
As we began to ready for my transplant, there was yet another loss to endure. I had to say good-bye to my Jack Russell terrier, KJ, who had been my constant companion, my baby, for more than fifteen years. It was necessary that my home be completely sterile when I returned from the hospital after my transplant. Sergio thought it best that KJ not be there during my post-transplant recovery. It would be too easy for her to track in germs from her walks.
From the Memorial Sloan-Kettering advisement for allogeneic transplant patients:
Animals can carry diseases. They may put you at greater risk while your immune system recovers.…It is best that you do not have close physical contact.
Friends in the city offered to take KJ, but I knew it would be too tempting for me to want to see her. Jo and Kim live in Maine, where KJ would have plenty of space to roam. KJ adores Jo and Kim and is always happy to see them. They have huge Great Danes that are so gentle and loving.
We called it Camp KJ and tried to make light of the situation, but the day I handed KJ over to Jo and Kim was indescribably sad. I let her sleep with me in my bed the night before she left. All I could do was cry and hug her.
From the Memorial Sloan-Kettering advisement for allogeneic transplant patients:
Do not allow pets in your bed.
I’m normally one to follow the rules, but not this time. Amber and I found a midway point to hand over KJ so Jo and Kim wouldn’t have to drive all the way from Maine. We met by the water in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, for an early dinner. I didn’t have much of an appetite, knowing that KJ was waiting in the car.
It took me a while to actually hand over KJ in the parking lot. I kept checking and double-checking her sleepaway kit, making sure she had all her favorite toys and her bed. It was like Jo and Kim were taking temporary custody of my four-legged, furry child. People recognized me in the parking lot and wanted autographs and pictures. Many had been following my journey and knew my transplant was near. They were so encouraging and uplifting but I was a mess. I kept saying, “I’m so sorry, KJ.” But as we drove off, I knew she was going to be well taken care of. I didn’t have to worry about her, and I could concentrate solely on getting well—and getting her back. Sergio told me that at one hundred days, I could have her home with me. That became a big goal. Anyone who has loved a pet like I love KJ understands. They love you unconditionally and ask for so little in return.
* * *
After we dropped KJ off, I realized that the last time I would have seen most of my friends and colleagues was at Momma’s funeral. It was Sunday, September 9, and the following day I would check into the hospital for ten days of chemo, followed by my transplant and then isolation. I decided on the spur of the moment to have a party.
Amber and I threw the party together quickly, and the apartment began to fill up. Josh Elliott and George Stephanopoulos were there. Josh, remembering how much I loved walking down to the corner store as a kid, brought me a six-pack of RC Cola. That six-pack is still sitting on my kitchen counter; every time I see it, I smile. What a gift it is to have friends who really know you. What a gift you give someone when you listen with your whole head and your whole heart. That story of me and my RC could have gone in one ear and out another. But Josh was, and is, so fully present when we spend time together. If you’re reading this book and wondering, “What can I do for someone I know who’s going through his or her something?” Know that your gesture doesn’t have to be grand. Be present. Listen.
My transplant specialist, Dr. Sergio Giralt, urges his patients to Keep It Boring. He means that everything should just tick along without anything interesting happening. In the world of transplants, interesting is rarely good. But that night at my apartment, looking out onto the Hudson River, with New Jersey and my fond memories of my father’s family—my Jersey relatives, I call them—twinkling in the distance, we absolutely did not keep it boring. We caused a ruckus. It was a rager. People were doing shots and telling jokes, dancing and crawling all over the couch, you would’ve thought it was a frat party, not a party in the home of a distinguished (wink!) television journalist.
It got so late that I had to start kicking people out. “This is great,” I kept saying. “But I am going into the hospital tomorrow. I should probably try to get a couple of hours of sleep.” Josh was one of the last to go. I swear he is like a teenage boy. He is a bottomless pit. After the caterers left, I found Josh in my kitchen, rummaging through the fridge, looking for leftovers. Hilarious.
Throwing that party was the best way to head off to the hospital. I know there are some people who would save the celebration for the other end, when the transplant is over and the numbers are up. I always believe better days are coming, but I’m not going to wait to embrace the perfectly imperfect moment that is now. That night of our party I felt it so strongly in my bones: “I’m still here and I want to live. I want to show the people who love me that this is a chapter I’m about to go through; it is not the end of the book.” Was it going to be any better if I had spent that night in the apartment crying alone or with Amber? That party gave me strength before embarking on ten consecutive days of chemo: It reminded me that despite the devastating loss of my mother, I was still alive and I had so many people who wanted me to live.
* * *
I was going to shave my hair completely before I went into the hospital. Then I decided to have the party, and I knew George would bring his two young daughters. And I thought, “You know, I don’t need to be completely bald with these young girls here.” And even though they’re really cool girls, Elliott and Harper, I wanted to spare them a little. So I asked Petula to just cut it short, kind of like a buzz cut. I called it my Halle Berry.
When I checked into the hospital, Petula came to cut my hair all off because it still wasn’t short enough. Dr. Giralt said, “You don’t want to wake up with clumps of hair falling out.” And there was going to be a time when my platelets would be so low that they couldn’t shave it, for risk of infection. So Petula came to the hospital and I said, “Really, we’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Having my hair shaved again was such a difficult moment for me. It felt so unfair to have to go down this road again. I had agreed to let ABC tape various moments of my journey for a future 20/20 special, but I also was firm that I wouldn’t decide until well after the transplant what I wanted to share on air.
The special has since aired, and for all the moments of vulnerability, there’s only one moment that makes me flinch—seeing myself having my hair shaved—because I can see
on the screen how angry I was. I’m not that kind of person. I’m never that harsh. But when I was speaking, it was as if I were speaking to the disease and I kept saying, “I’m in control. I’m in control. I will decide when my hair comes off. Not you.”
I might not have liked how I looked at that moment or the venom in my voice, but what I was feeling was real. I am not Saint Robin. I have good days and bad days. Triumphant moments and moments that make me weep like a baby who just wants to be held by her momma. Petula shaving my hair before I endured chemo, again, was one of those weeping moments. Just pure vulnerability.
I know I’m not alone in how punishing it felt to lose my hair. There are studies that show that many women find losing their hair more painful than losing a breast. It’s not all vanity. Hair is how we express ourselves. Our hair frames us. I was drawn to the song India Arie wrote for Melissa Etheridge after she had chemo and would appear on stage with a bald head. And I used that as my anthem:
I am not my hair / I am not this skin / I am a soul
that lives within.
And I’m like, that’s right, that’s who I am. The inspiration she provided me on my breast cancer journey led to me getting in touch with India Arie for a GMA segment on alternate careers for the show. We all took tests and I was assessed as having strong potential as a stand-up comedian. I love to joke around, and one of my catchphrases, as GMA viewers know, is the Dr. Evil/Austin Powers quote, “Magma!” The tests also said that I had the potential to be a good songwriter. I decided to try the latter, and India Arie helped me write a song, “A Beautiful Day”:
Wake up in the morning
And get out of bed
Start making a mental list in my head
Of all of the things that I am grateful for
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