…the memories of your sickness
of pasting a life back together
on two stumps
where great trees once stood
-Rickey K. Hood-

On Sept. 13, 1997, at approximately 4:30pm in my home lying on the living room couch recovering from sinus surgery, the world I knew came to an end. That day I went into the hospital for minor sinus surgery. My brother Ronnie calmly drove me to my appointment as we joked and laughed about how I’ll feel later. He didn’t stay with me till I was prepped and ready but instead told me he’d see me after the surgery, and left. I felt like I was abandoned in my time of need. Following surgery I felt miserable and my brother was late. After I dosed back and forth to sleep he finally arrived and took me home. I called my Mom to let her know that I was home and that all went well, but no one picked up the phone. It was then Ronnie told me Mom was not home, she was in the hospital. I gasped. He said, “Mom didn’t want you to know. You had enough on your mind with your surgery.” I didn’t know it then, but he took her to the hospital about 2:00am that same morning and had been going back and forth between she and I that entire day. He was exhausted. My next questions I didn’t want to ask, “What happened?” “What’s wrong?” “Is she OK?” He told me the doctors were still doing test but they believe it was kidney failure. It was about 4:30 in the afternoon when he told me this. That day my mother’s world, my world, and that of the whole family came apart, and the long process of rebuilding a new one began.

My mother, Effie, has diabetes. Diabetes runs in our family. My Grandfather died from complications from diabetes and now his daughter has started the signs of complications as well. Kidney failure was the first of major complications. When her kidneys went bad she had to start dialyses, up to that point in my life I had never seen a dialyses machine or even knew anyone on dialyses. That first day I took my mother to 928 Baxter Street, the Bio-Medical Applications of Charlotte, literally took my breath away. When my mother and I walked through the doors the first thing the hit me was the smell. The odor was strong and sickening and reminded me of a funeral home. I looked at the faces of the patients in the lobby and all had a pale shade of gray to their color. It was odd; both black and white had a pale shade of ash. I looked at my mother and her beautiful brown skin and hoped to God that she would not turn to ash. But in time, she did.

Her diabetes was relentless. My mother loved doing crossword puzzles and reading the newspaper. Slowly these joys became chores as the light in her eyes began to dim. Her bright brown eyes, full of life, became ravaged with glaucoma. Evidence of the relentless nature of diabetes. After several laser eye surgeries, Mom managed to keep a portion of her sight. Enough sight to get around but not to make out details. Just when the family began to adjust to the dialyses and the diminished sight then came the advent of poor circulation to the legs that eventually lead to two below the knee amputations.

My Mom has always been like a tall oak tree with loving arms branching out creating an umbrella of protection over her children. But the tree is now sick and the only way to save it is to prune the dead limbs. My mother’s left leg was removed. My brother Ronnie was with her in the recovery room when she woke. She woke in tears with pain she says she had never known. The incomprehensible pain of an amputated limb being thrown into a hospital incinerator. Ronnie hugged and comforted her and eased some of her fears, but not the pain. She clung to him as to life personified and cried bitterly. It was a miracle he was in the recovery room for reasons that family members are required to stay in the waiting room. I remember before all of these changes my mother was active, loving to take gambling trips to Atlantic City. She loved to ride out anywhere, just jump in the car and go to Fayetteville, NC, Fairfax Va. or Washington, DC and tour the Smithsonian. Even when the circulation in her legs was becoming evident, she went to the Bahamas, twice. Now she’s in the recovery room, mourning the death of a limb, crying in her son’s arms.

We had to redesign our world. This time to make room for a wheelchair. My Mom’s home was small and cluttered with memories in every corner, on every wall. Clutter that had to go, if she was going to move about in her chair. As much as it broke her heart, she knew the things had to go. Ronnie and I went through the house cleaning out any big bulky items that served little or no propose and placed them out on the street for whosoever need them can pick them up. Old dressers, a couch and love seat, a recliner chair all still good but too big for the house. Things my mother had had for years, now gone. New items that were more appropriate for the size of the house was bought to replace the old to ensure mobility, yet the flavor of the house had changed.

In time the circulation in her right leg failed and her heel and big toe became gangrene. While my brother and I nursed Mom until her surgery date, her skin was raptly rotting away, like the skin of a rotten apple, down to where we could see her bones. As usual Ronnie and I were with her during this surgery as well. This time I was with her when she woke from surgery. She was calm and we talked for a time, and she seemed to pull strength from our conversation, as if my words were the words of life. I gave her a kiss on the forehead and she went to sleep.

During this time Ronnie and I began to question God. Why was He pruning Mom like a tree, taking her from us piece by piece? Just a year or so earlier Mom was at death’s door. She lied in a comma for nearly two weeks and Ronnie and I was in the hospital discussing funeral arrangements. I later got on the phone and called our eldest brother Roylee who lived in Greenacres, WA. State and told him what was going on. He had not been home in nearly twenty years, not since the late 1970’s. After talking to him and hearing his excuses, I asked him, “Which do you want? To see your mother alive or just send you an obituary?”

He booked himself on the next flight out to Charlotte. This happened during Thanksgiving ’97. Though Mom was unconscious in the hospital room, for the first time ever all seven of her children were together in one place with all her grandchildren, great grandchildren, her ex-husband (our father) Leroy, his new wife (our step-mother) Celia and our half sister Nina all were gathered around her bed. The day Mom began to regain consciousness Roylee was sitting beside her on the hospital bed. She looked up and saw him . “Hey mom, I’m home”, he told her and kissed her on the cheek. Mom’s eyes grow wide like seeing a ghost and started to breathe heavy from excitement. It scared us. But she started touching him, never saying a word but just touching him. Like to be sure she was not dreaming. And everywhere Roylee would move in the room mom’s eyes would follow. I truly believe seeing her first born son, touching him and being kissed by him was the turning point in her recovery. And speaking of healing, Roylee spoke to his father Leroy whom he had refused to speak to for nearly 30 years. They hugged one another and began their relationship anew. Thanksgiving ’97 was truly a miracle year.

After yet another below the knee amputation, Mom got discharged from Carolina’s Medical Center with no legs at all and a surgical wound that has not yet healed. I drove her home from the hospital. On the way home Mom started crying and questioned God, “What have I done. What have I done that I’m being punished? I try to treat everybody good; I haven’t done no wrong to anybody. Why is God doing this to me?” And she cried, and she cried. My heart broke for her and I told her the story of Job. That good people suffer because they just do. Not all suffering is punishment. Somehow she found strength in those words and I thank God for the words.

The tree has been trimmed, and lifeless limbs cut away. But there are more than enough branches to stretch out over our lives. Yet caring for such a tree, as loving as it is, is not easy. There have been many times I had to take a break from my mother. To care for her is a continuous job. And yes, I say again, a job. Though the family do not consider taking care of Mom a job there are times I do, and times I need a day off. These are the times Mom feels she is a burden on the rest of us. But not a burden, though at times she can be overwhelming. I live across the street from her and this makes me her primary caregiver. I work a full time job as a Correction Officer plus take classes part-time and Mom doesn’t understand or refuses to understand that when I come home from a busy day I need some down time. But instead I get hourly calls saying to come over and sit with her for a while. Most times I do, knowing full well that to sit with Mom for a while means doing whatever needs to be done: washing dishes, straightening up the front room, emptying her toilet pot, cleaning, bathing and changing her when she makes a mess, washing clothes, cooking and overall nursing care. This is meant by, “Come over and sit with me awhile.”