A Kind of Grace (16 page)

Momma's lips were taped around the respirator tube. She was also attached to a jangle of intravenous tubes. They pumped in the nutrients, antibiotics and other drugs that staved off the final vestiges of death. Half the room was taken up by assorted machines monitoring her vital signs.

Looking at her lying there, I ached all over. She was so helpless. I wondered if she was in pain. I wanted so badly to do something to comfort her but there was nothing to do now. She couldn't feel my kiss or hear me say I loved her. I couldn't even caress her because I was afraid I might tear her skin. It broke my heart. I was crying hysterically. Someone carried me out of the room.

I couldn't imagine the agony my mother had endured from the time the paramedics wheeled her into the emergency room at 5:00
A.M.
With the infection racing through her and her temperature soaring, the ER staff had wrapped her in a green plastic cooling blanket that looked like a sleeping bag. She was conscious and alert but the internal bleeding had already begun. Within an hour, her eyes had a vacant, glassy look. She was losing consciousness. They moved her to intensive care, but her condition rapidly worsened.

Every doctor in the hospital came by the room to consult with Dr. Julien about a diagnosis and treatment. No one had ever encountered anything like it. The fever and flulike symptoms suggested meningitis, but others didn't match. Not until several days later did they discover the cause of death. Momma had contracted a deadly bacterial infection that led to a rare condition known as Waterhouse-Friderichsen syndrome.

In ICU—hours before I would arrive—Momma's skin began to darken. Then, shortly before 8:00
A.M.,
one of the monitors blurted out a loud, long beep. The nurse in the room screamed “Code Blue!” Momma was dying.

Joyce and a half-dozen others rushed to ICU, but it was too late. A technician wheeled in the electroencephalograph to check for brain activity. The only mark on Momma's EEG was an unwaveringly straight horizontal line, indicating total brain death. The doctors immediately put her on the respirator. But over the next twelve hours, her condition never improved. The EEG readings were always the same—a long, flat line.

Back in the family room, Al and I finally managed to compose ourselves. But Debra and Angela continued to cry and cry. They couldn't stop. I really felt sorry for them. They were awfully young to have to deal with something like this.

Actually, none of us was exactly grown up. Al had just turned twenty-one, I was eighteen and Angie and Debra were seventeen and sixteen, respectively. Despite the bad relations between him and my mother, my father was at the hospital with us. But Al and I felt responsible for our little sisters. And seeing how upset they were made us realize how important it was for us to be strong. As we hugged our sisters, my brother and I looked into each other's eyes for emotional support.

The question now was: What to do? Joyce came over to the sofa where we were sitting and pulled up a chair. She said it was time to make a decision. Della was seated nearby and Rev. Owens stood next to her. He led us in a prayer for strength. Then he advised us to turn the respirator off.

“Children, it's time to let your mother go,” the minister said. “Her spirit's already gone. What you see in there is just her body. Mary is already in heaven.”

Angie and Debra just lost it. They were hysterical. Al and I held them. Tears were streaming down Della's cheeks.

Through it all, Joyce remained stoic. “Mary's never suffered a day in her life,” she said. “By keeping her connected to the respirator all you're doing is prolonging her agony and yours. Being hooked up to machines is no way to live, and Mary wouldn't want it.”

But who would make the decision? Who would tell the doctors to turn off the respirator and let what was left of my mother die? Given the deterioration of his relationship with her, Daddy had no say in the matter. Della bowed out, saying the decision was up to the children. Poor Al had his hands full consoling my sisters. He looked at me.

I didn't know what to do. Even though she was only alive because of the machine, I told myself, at least some part of Momma is still with us. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she wasn't really living anymore. That was the point Joyce was making.

After a long, tense silence, I looked at Al, Debra and Angie. We all held hands. Tears started to well up in my eyes, my lips were quivering and my voice cracked.

“This is the hardest thing in the world to say. But, I think we should take her off the machine,” I said. “I don't want to do it. But we have to do what's best for her. We'll never be able to talk to her again. We can't even touch her. Leaving her like this would be torture. If we disconnect it and it's meant for her to breathe on her own and live, she will. If not, she'll go to heaven and find peace.”

Al agreed, “That's what she'd want.”

Debbie and Angie nodded slowly. We embraced each other. One at a time, everyone went in to say good-bye to Momma. The process took a long time. Everyone had to put on white clothes again. People cried and consoled each other. More of my mother's colleagues and friends came into the family room and told us how sorry they were.

Finally, it was my turn to bid my mother farewell. I dreaded this moment. Slowly, I walked in the room and approached her bed. I looked at her for a long time, gently stroking her arm. I still couldn't believe this was happening. The lump in my throat burned. The tears stung my eyes. I could barely talk. I bent over and whispered in her ear: “Momma, I'll never forget you. I love you and I'll miss you. Rest in peace.”

We were all in the family room and most of the crowd was still scattered along the corridor when Joyce walked down the hall and into Momma's room to supervise the respirator shutdown. All of a sudden, a woman's anguished voice echoed down the hall, piercing the silence. It was the head ICU nurse whose job it was to turn off the respirator. She ran out of my mother's room wailing, “I can't do it! I just can't do it to my friend! They're not going to make me do it, Mary!” When we heard her, all of us started crying.

Joyce stepped over to the respirator. She glanced upward. “Lord, this isn't what I planned for this lady. This must be your plan.”

Then she looked down at Momma. “Old friend, you know I love you. This is the last thing I get to do for you.”

She flipped the switch to the off position. It was 10:00
P.M
. After several minutes, the pulse monitor flatlined. The doctor pronounced Momma dead at 10:30.

Della and Marcella led us out of the hospital an hour later, after we signed the pile of medical papers Joyce shoved in front of us. It was a clear, crisp frigid night. But everything looked foggy to me. I felt lost and helpless. Like an explorer who's lost her compass, I had nothing to steer by.

My mother meant everything to me. She was my confidante, my teammate and my best friend. Whose words would pump me up when I was deflated? Whose shoulder would I cry on? And who on earth would listen so patiently while I yammered on and on about my athletic feats?

Irrationally, I blamed my father for her death. If he hadn't been so mean to her and caused her so much pain and torment, she might have been strong enough to fight off the infection. And now that she was gone, I didn't know if I'd ever be able to forget what he'd put us all through.

Immediately after Momma's funeral, an avalanche of problems, responsibilities and decisions fell on my family. The top priority was providing for Debra and Angie. Al wasn't sure he wanted to return to Arkansas State; and I was considering taking the semester off and getting a job.

“Oh, no. Mary would have a fit if you and Alfrederick didn't go back to college,” Della said when I told her what we were thinking. She sat us down on the sofa in her living room and looked us straight in the eyes. “I know it will be hard. But you just have to get through it. The last thing Mary would want is for you all to quit school.”

Della invited Angie and Debra to live with her while they finished high school. We learned that Momma had taken out a life insurance policy on herself and named me beneficiary. I don't know for sure, but I suspect she purchased the policy with the money she made me give her from my earnings that summer I worked at the movie theater. The policy proceeds only added up to about $12,000. But the sum was enough to support my sisters through graduation, with some left over for Al and me. It was just like Momma to make sure we were protected in case something happened to her. Our welfare was always her first concern. Knowing that she left the money to me made me realize how much confidence she had in me.

She saw in me the possibility to have the things she missed because she got pregnant as a teenager and had to drop out of school to raise her family. I always felt I was living not only my dreams for success, but hers as well. Dreams that she wasn't able to realize. Dreams of going to college and finding a better life in the world beyond East St. Louis. I considered that money a message from Momma that she was relying on
me
to make sure those dreams didn't die with her.

As I packed my bags to return to UCLA, I was a jumble of emotions. I wanted to be strong and self-reliant. But I wasn't. Though I had the love and support of Della, Marcella, Joyce and my brother and sisters, and though I carried Momma's spirit and energy around in my heart, I felt terribly insecure. I felt like a motherless child.

12

Mourning

I
bravely tried to pick up where I'd left off at UCLA. I rejoined the basketball team and threw myself into classes, practice and our games.

I'd missed only one game, a loss to Louisiana Tech, while I was at home. Coach Moore was sympathetic and supportive throughout the ordeal. At one point during my mother's funeral, I looked around the church and to my surprise, there was Coach sitting in one of the pews. She'd flown all the way from California. I never guessed a college coach would take the time to do that for an athlete, especially in the middle of the season. I hugged her and thanked her when she came over to express her sympathy.

Later, I called her to discuss my plans. Although I was a starter on the team, she advised me to withdraw from school and take the semester off to grieve and heal. “The team needs you and will miss your contribution,” she said. “But I think the best thing for you would be to take some time off. We'll keep a spot open for you next season.”

Although I decided to return to UCLA and finish my freshman year, it meant a lot to know that she was willing to put my welfare ahead of her own needs. It took a week or two for me to get back in the groove. I didn't start the first game back, against Delta State. It was just as well. During the short time I was on the court I wasn't very effective. I didn't score a single point, though I managed to get three rebounds. The team performed just fine without me and we won easily, 90–65.

Necie Thompson, who played center and power forward and was a freshman like me, tried to bolster my spirits. She dragged me along on shopping trips and to the movies. Necie was from Cerritos, a community just south of Los Angeles. On weekends, we drove to her house and spent time with her family. The house was always filled with laughter and the aroma of food cooking. The Thompsons made me feel welcome, like a part of the family. It was nice to experience that kinship so far from my own home and family, especially after Momma died. I went to church and ate dinner with the Thompsons before going back to the dorm on Sunday evenings. When it was time to leave, Mrs. Thompson wouldn't let me out of the house unless I accepted a loaf of banana bread, warm from her oven, wrapped in aluminum foil. She didn't have to twist my arm.

I couldn't eat too much of it on Sunday night, because Coach Moore conducted a team weigh-in every Monday. Except for one time in high school when I had to lose a few pounds to get ready for track season, I've always been able to control my weight.

But Coach Moore's hard-nosed philosophy kept even me on my toes. A disciplinarian and a fanatic about conditioning, she said weight control had to be a team effort because basketball is a team sport. So, even though I didn't have a weight problem, I was treated like someone who did because some of my teammates were overweight.

Every Monday afternoon before practice, we stood in line in our practice uniforms, barefoot and anxious. The heaviest girls stripped down to their underwear to be as light as possible. One by one, we stepped up to the scale. It was so tense in that room during weigh-ins, you'd have thought the scale was a guillotine. The weekly ritual never failed to be foreboding. While an assistant adjusted the scale, Coach Moore stood in the background, expressionless. She peered over our shoulders at the numbers and recorded them on the sheet attached to her clipboard. After the last girl stepped off the scale, we stood around, fidgeting while she silently added up the total and compared it to her targets. It was like being on trial for murder and waiting to hear the jury's verdict. For each pound we were overweight as a team, we had to run a minute after practice.

Our worst nightmare came true one day during freshman year. Coach Moore finished her calculations and looked around the room. “This is terrible! You're thirty pounds over. After practice, it's suicides for thirty minutes,” she said, pointing to the door. “Everybody out on the court!”

Coach was furious. We were miserable. We knew practice would be a back-breaker and the running would kill us. Just as we feared, she treated us with disgust during practice. It turned out to be more of a scrimmage than a practice. She drilled us on offense and defense from one end to the other, back and forth. First we played offense, then hustled back on defense. By the end of the session, I felt as spent as if I'd played the first half of a competitive game. I looked it, too. My jersey was drenched. But the fun had just begun. Now we had thirty minutes of suicide drills.

They're called suicides for a reason. Half the team lined up shoulder-to-shoulder on one end of the court under the basket, while the other half did the same on the other end. In the drill, we ran from the end of the court to the center line, then back to the end, then up to the three-quarter line, then back to the end. Next time, we ran the full length before returning to the end. We had only thirty seconds to complete a cycle and we had to repeat them continuously, without a break, for thirty minutes.