Everybody's Got Something (13 page)

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.

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 funeral 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.”

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:

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.