“My dad called me. Someone on social media had messaged my sister telling her that our mom had passed away. I broke down. Crying uncontrollably, I couldn’t breathe. My 2-year-old son didn’t understand why his mommy was so upset. All I ever hoped for was now shattered. She was gone, the mom I needed. We waited for the coroner to confirm it. Meth and heroin mixed together. That was the last straw. I never meant to hate her, but sometimes I did.”
“She went from surpassing all her milestones to not being able to walk, drink, or eat. I was tired of going home from the hospital with no answers, the typical run around from doctors. One day, with 10 residents, 5 doctors, and 4 nurses in front of me, I said, and I quote, ‘Discharge her again and I promise I’ll sue every single person standing in this room.’ Needless to say, they ran every test. I now know that instead of her burying me, I’ll be burying her.”
“I walked into my dad’s room and sat with him as he laid there. He was feeling anxious. He told me he couldn’t breathe. To get Mom. We phoned my grandparents to say their goodbyes. They told my Dad it was ‘okay, he could go home.’ My dad waited as my husband walked through the doors. ‘When did he pass?,’ my husband asked. ‘Right now,’ I replied. My father waited for the man he knew could hold me through this wretched pain.”
“My partner and I kept arguing. Stress mounted. Next thing you know, I was dry heaving, teeth chattering. I just lost it. All of it. For the next 24 hours, I couldn’t speak to anyone from the outside, not even my husband. The paper scrubs the emergency room had given me had to come off, leaving me naked, shaking, and disoriented. How was this even real? I felt like I was watching a scene from a movie, rather than participating in my own life. But it was happening, and it was REAL.”
“I started to call 911, but hung up. There was a more important call I needed to make. My husband at work. ‘Wiley’s dead.’ I couldn’t sugar coat this and didn’t have time to explain. I had approximately 4 minutes to explain to his twin brother that his best friend had died before 15 people swarmed our home. I asked him to pick a location where he would feel safe. Then, sirens.”
“Little by little, I was completely reeled in, under the impression I was speaking to a 16-year-old girl with a traumatic childhood. The next morning she called me names and said, ‘This isn’t going to work. I’m finding someone else.’ I was completely devastated. ‘What the hell just happened?’ This person doesn’t ask for money. They don’t ask for material possessions. She literally just wants to destroy you.”
“This morning was a battle. I worry. I worry because they are being picked on. It’s hard letting go, watching them hurt and struggle to find their way. We save our tears for the car, so they don’t doubt themselves.”
“A lot of people tell you how you should move on. You hope you’ve turned out to be every bit like Grandma. You dodge the card aisle because you can’t bring yourself to read them.”
“That first summer he came, all I can remember is the rash that covered my body for 6 months. It was my body’s way of telling me it was too much. I didn’t know how to be a mama to a then 7-year-old. As I walked beside him, I told him he never has to do that alone anymore. He looked up at me with his chocolate brown eyes. ‘Mommy, it sure is much easier to carry things together.’”
“My determination isn’t disabled, my fire isn’t disabled, but my body is. For a long time, this was hard to admit. I do my best to show up every day, but it’s not always enough. I can practically smell the resentment from my coworkers. My boss stopped believing me and asked for a ‘doctor’s note.’ Instead, I ended up hospitalized. ‘Is this good enough?’ I snarkily asked. I know I should keep my mouth shut, but I really can’t help myself. The struggle is REAL.”
