CHECK UP FROM THE NECK UP

How are you? No really, how are you? So often we are asked or ask that question, already anticipating an automatic response of “fine” or “good” because it’s the polite thing to say. After all we can’t just go and spill our guts to everyone. I mean what if I answered, “ Awful. Menopause is killing me. I don’t sleep, I wake up in sweats, I’m showering twice a day, and I can’t wear any of my winter sweaters because I’ll die if I have a hot flash while wearing one!” AWKWARD!! Right?  So, that’s why I chose to share it with a therapist instead. That’s right, a therapist. I went recently for a “CHECK UP FROM THE NECK UP” because just as it's important get a pap smear and a cholesterol check, it’s equally important to get a mental and emotional check. Turns out I’m fine (I’m at a time in my life where I’m in transition in almost every area of my life, and I’m embracing it). 

Unfortunately, as women, as women of color we tend to put this on the bottom of our to-do list, if we put it on there at all. Instead we push our feelings to the side, or drown them in façade, food, drink, work, or worse social media; to the detriment of ourselves. We make sure that even if we shop at the thrift store or color our hair on our own that we look good no matter what, but we don’t do that for our inside. I used to be so guilty of it myself for years, but now I’m all about self-care because I know it makes me a better mother, employee, friend and a warrior. Having friends and family to support you is a wonderful thing, and I’m blessed to have both. However, confiding in them sometimes means you will be judged (verbally or mentally). And once you divulge drama about your significant other, then you can count on them to hold a grudge even if you don’t. A licensed therapist, however doesn’t hold grudges, instead they let you talk and ask you the type of leading questions that compel you to figure out how to handle your situations.  Even if you don’t go regularly (because honestly there may not be need to), go for that checkup. There may be a problem you aren’t aware of lurking in your conscious. And then again, everything might be fine. But you won’t know unless you go!  

Dance with My Mother

I’d be dishonest with the world and myself if I didn’t admit that occasionally I feel a sense of envy and hurt when I see the relationship some of my closest friends have with their mothers. They party together, gamble to together, or live across the street from each other. I can’t help but think that if my mother was alive, she’d dance with me at family parties; I’ve been told all my life that she could cut a mean rug!

Sometimes I wish that I could crawl up in the bed with her like I did when I was three and be vulnerable with her. I’m come along accepting this loss, using my poetry to deal with my emotions, honoring her with my pen name and a tattoo, and having a zest for life so I can live for both of us. Anyone who knows me, knows that I believe in spirit and that much like water, we humans only change form, but our spirits, our energy never really dies. I know her spirit is present, and I get little signs every now and then, but sometimes I just want that physical presence, arms to hold, neck to smell in an embrace. I even get the bigger picture, I wouldn’t be who I am if I hadn’t suffered the loss.  I wouldn’t have ever picked up a pen to process my feelings and written words that I can truly say have inspired others to write, reflect, or do better. I wouldn’t be the type of teacher or mentor who is on call 24/7 for babies. I wouldn’t have this relentless desire to inspire women and teens to take power over their futures instead of being consumed by the past. I know her time was limited, and her purpose was fulfilled in those 23 years (according to two different mediums and my own intuition), but sometimes it doesn’t make it any easier, and sometimes I become overwhelmed with emotions and tears fill up my eyes and I let out a broken cry. This is the reality. I never want to sound ungrateful, I’ve been more than blessed with an enormous family, surrounded by love and mother like figures, something I’m sure other people wish they had.  The older I get the more I come to understand the bigger picture, which is why 90% of the time, I can tell my story to a crowd without even a lump in my throat, but other times, l find myself wondering what would certain moments be like if she was physically there instead of just mentally. 

My mother, looking exhausted after giving me a bath

Whatever the Hell I Please

                  


It’s tax season and social media has been flooded with 

memes, some hilarious, some not so much. There are the ones about fat or ugly girls having men they supposedly wouldn’t ever be able to attract otherwise. Then there are those, which I’m guilty of laughing at, showing how women look before and after taxes, from weaves to furs and anything else you can imagine. While I have what I believe to be a great sense of humor, the feminist single mother in me cannot help but be offended by some actual written about posts about how we choose to spend our money,  or our audacity not to split the child income credit with our “baby daddy”. While I’m sure every case is different, I’m writing on behalf of the many women I know.  It’s my damn money and I will do what the hell I please!!! 
 As someone who has been in different tax brackets, I have strong feelings about this. When I was living in subsidized housing, with my fuel assistance and Medicaid, I received the EIC (Earned Income Credit) for my son. I was a full-time student who delivered pizzas, substitute taught and did whatever I needed to do pay bills. When I got that tax check, I treated myself to some new clothes to prepare myself for the professional world, bought my son things I normally couldn’t afford and gave money to my babysitters who kept my son for free all year while I worked. I also redecorated my apartment, switching out my son’s toddler size mattress to a twin bed, or upgrading a furniture set or TV ( that was a hand me down) to something newer. It felt good to have that extra money when there were times I was searching my couch cushions for loose change just to have enough for my son's lunch money. One year I used that extra money to buy a new car so that I could stop driving pieces of junk that constantly needed oil, brake fluid, coolant, tires, a jump start or a tow.  Then for two years in a row, I saved my money to use for a down payment on a house so I could get the hell out of the projects.  Fast forward years later, I apparently make too much money for the EIC. Still, I look forward to the benefits of tax season and my substantial refund.  Daycare for my toddler is $500 a month,  I’m paying back money from the my students loans, and I’m an owner of a historic home which is constantly being upgraded for myself and my tenant.  When I get my money, I treat myself first to clothes and shoes, do some home improvements and redecorating, save some, pay ahead some bills and... whatever the hell else I please! 
 A woman should not be condemned for what she does with her tax money, especially not by her “baby daddy”  because he pays child support. Child support??? Please! Unless you’re a celebrity dropping thousands monthly, child support for many of the women I know only pays for sneakers, or haircuts, maybe daycare. And then I know men who only buy their kids "what they need” because they don’t want to put money in a woman’s hands? What a joke! All year long your child needs food, electricity, hot water, heat, and if you’re lucky cable so they can watch Nick Jr.  But it’s the mother who is put down because she wants to treat herself to a mani and pedi, or a new hairdo? Again, I know there are outliers, extremes on both ends, but I’m writing for the many hardworking single mothers who didn’t plan on raising babies alone, and we deserve more respect. Instead of condemning her, why not help her out?  Expose her to some financial options or programs, teach some skills, lend a helping hand, be an emotional support system. 
While today  I'm in a much better place than I was 10 or 15 years ago, I know that the struggle is more than real, it can be  continuous, lonely and exhausting.

This is why every other year I host the She got H.E.R.S conference for young women, mothers or not. We all need a little guidance and encouragement!

FREASTS: The Right Choice...Part II

When the alarm clock went off at 5:15am, I had only napped about an hour.  Although I was exhausted I was in good spirits. I had made peace with my decision and the changes it would bring. But I did tear up when I kissed my toddler as he slept, praying I would see him again. I went in alone, which was what I needed. As I lay in pre op, I meditated and focused on coming out of surgery and healing like a rock star. I was so calm as I changed into a gown, emptied my bladder, got weighed one last time (Whoa) and let them begin to hook me up to all of the machinery. I answered the same questions over and over about allergies, last time I ate, etc. Then my handsome (in a quirky way) plastic surgeon came in and marked up my body. When I told him how much I’d miss my belly button, he told me I would still have the same belly button, it would just be moved. This gave me comfort.  
Then the anesthesiologist  came in, explaining that I would have an a an epidural that would numb my chest muscles so that I wouldn’t feel pain when I awoke.  I leaned over on a pillow; the nurse held my hand, and the needle in my lower back was the last thing I remembered. 
This is what was happening while I was completely unaware:

 My oncologist would cut and remove both of my breasts, removing the fat, the muscle, mammary glands and all. Her reputation is that she is thorough and would scrape away all of the breast tissue. Like all. Next, my brilliant plastic surgeon and his team would begin what is called DIEP flap reconstruction.According to BreastCancer.org, DIEP stands for the deep inferior epigastric perforator artery, which runs through the abdomen.  In other words, they would cut a large portion of skin and fat from my lower stomach, and then transplant them to my chest wall in the shape of breasts. Crazy, right?  But not simple. It involves microsurgery, reattaching the veins and arteries one at a time.

This is a diagram showing one breast. I had both breasts removed and reconstructed

For my surgical team, it took 15 hours total.

 This meant that while my family thought I’d be done by 8 or 9pm, I was not out of surgery until after 1am (Tuesday).

            When I opened my eyes, my two aunts were there like angels…

Gloria(L) and Saundra(R) my mother's sisters

 because my vision was blurry. I was distracted by the breathing tube that was still in my throat. Panic set in, medical staff tried to calm me, but I kept trying to speak. I could hear myself saying, I can’t breathe, I was gagging telling them to please take it. When they didn't listen, I tried to remove it. I felt people grabbing my arms and I heard “Sedate Her” , which they must have because the next thing I remember  (12 hours later apparently)  I was waking up with straps on my wrists. But at least the breathing tube was gone. What I didn’t understand in my panic was that they had to keep it in because, just like with any transplant, there was the risk that my chest wall wouldn’t take its new FREASTS. If the tissue didn’t stay alive, they would have to take me back into the OR and remove those. Not to mention, they needed to make sure my throat wasn’t too swollen and that I could breathe on my own. Which was kinda important.This is why I was in the ICU, being checked in half hour intervals. I was under heavy IV pain meds (thank God) so the first 24 to 36 hours were a blur of nurses brushing my teeth, wiping my dry cracked lips and putting petroleum jelly on them, cold cloths on my forehead, I remember them being so great, and feeling comforted despite the fact that I could only open my eyes seconds at a time, and my voice was weak. Unfortunately, I also had a fever of 102 and they worked vigorously to drop it down with IV medication. What I also was unaware of was that they were trying to keep me awake and get my body’s systems going. One of the nurses had me verbally complete the health care proxy form and sign off on it.  I had no concept of time; I just remember when they told me it was safe to move me out of ICU and into a regular room because my FREASTS were still viable. As they wheeled me on a stretcher, I passed a blond haired, fairly young, handsome doc. He introduced himself (I can’t remember his name) and said that he was on the surgical team. He told me I was brave and bad ass for my decision and that I made the right choice.

          According to my family, I was out of ICU by mid-morning on Wednesday and into my room. It was there I remembered that I was going to be a rock star in terms of doing what I needed to heal quickly. I asked that the catheter be removed so I could go to the bathroom on my own. (Why not, I was on morphine?).  It was so weird. I didn’t feel pain, I just felt stiff and tight as I walked in  cave man like baby steps, escorted by a nurse. I still had a low grade fever, so they were constantly checking in on me; they still needed to check the FREASTS every 1 to 2 hours.  I remember it was hard for them to find that swooshing sound in my left breast, so that had to put it in a special spot.

They put on a surgical bra, which I would grow to hate over the next 3 weeks, which matched my waist binder, which I’d grow to love and hate. They wanted me to sit in a chair. I did, and I slept there. But I also walked the hall, ambulating like it was suggested. I was determined to be model patient.

 The next few days would include daily visits from my angel aunts, my fiancé, and my uncle, and special visits from cousins, my dad, my brother, my oldest son, and my sister.   It was my sister and one of my closest friends who took a lesson in how to change my drains (we’ll discuss those in part 3).  I had my friend take this picture of me:

I wanted to document this journey, which would be hard because apparently I had multiple conversations under the influence of drugs that I don’t remember. It was a blur of Law and Order SVU reruns in the TV, multiple sleep interruptions, wraps on my legs to prevent blood clots, breathing into devices to restore my lungs, picking out my meals, taking sponge baths. Great nurses and PCAs, and awful nurses. Looking at the clock, not sure if it was 4am or pm.

The day my fiancé finally brought my toddler to come see me, it all came full circle. He was soooo happy to see me. At one point I glanced up at my wall chart with all of the nurse’s names and the date. It was Friday, September 4th. The anniversary of my mother’s transition. I looked at my toddler, I was about his age when I would go see my mother at the hospital, and like I saved my dessert for him, she’d save her dessert for my sister and I. It was mind-blowing to me, and I was rushed with emotion.  I was sad for the little girl in me who had no idea that one of the times she left the hospital would be the last time she saw her mother. I felt sad as a mother, for my mother, who at 23 knew she wouldn’t be around to see her kids, and that one of those hospital visits would be that last time she’d hug her little girls.  But I felt grateful that because of modern medicine, I would be there. I would be there for my toddler, and despite missing me dearly, he’d see me again. That doctor was right; I’d made the right choice.

My oldest son

My 4 year old

Bittersweet Choices

   

     Even though I’m consumed with
 my dissertation, I am also

 preparing for the biggest, most complex surgery of my life; my mind and spirit are all over the place.  First off, I am beyond grateful that because of technology I am able to take steps to prevent the breast cancer that took my mother away at such a young age. But when I look at my toddler, I’m sad because my sister and I were so close to his age when she passed away. My baby is 3 ½ and he comes looking for me in the middle of the night. I couldn’t imagine not being there for him, and knowing that I was dying and wouldn’t get to see him grow up. My oldest son just graduated high school, and last week I took him to get his college ID. My mom missed that. My grandmother missed that. And so many other things in between. So lately I’m extra attached to both of them (even though the teen is totally not feeling mom). 

    Then I feel blessed again because it was my choice to wear 

my fabulous wigs, and to chop all my hair off, and it wasn’t the case for my grandmother. I remember coming home from school one day and she was sitting on the couch with a pile of hair in her lap. She explained to me that it was an effect of her chemo. Looking back, her wigs were in no way as beautiful as her once long dark hair.  And when it grew back, it looked a lot like mine does now, just gray. I have options, and it’s amazing, and it’s still scary and bittersweet.

      Then there's my mortality, something I struggled with so

much as a young person, so much that I refused to wear bandanna scarves because I remember my mother wearing them while she was in treatment. 

Now that older, and I’ve outlived my mother, it’s coming into a play again.  I’m going under the knife for 10 to 12 hours. YIKES!!! I’ll be in ICU;  in the hospital away from my baby for 5 days. I’ll have to look at my breasts without nipples or areolas for about 6 months. I will have a huge horizontal scar across my abdomen; I’ll try best to look at that with gratitude because I have a choice. That choice doesn’t involve radiation, chemo, or not being here to see my sons grow and evolve. I have a choice, but it doesn't mean I'm still not apprehensive.

I FINALLY LOVE MY BULKY BELLY

There is something awesome and mind blowing about really, truly beginning to love your body. As I am thinking more and more about my impending double mastectomy, which involved taking the lovely fat from my abdomen to replace the breast tissue, I’m thinking about the parts of miss I’ll miss. Each blemish and scar tells a story, and I am just now getting it. The stretch marks I abhorred as a 19 year old, I now treasure as a reminder that my grown man was once a baby growing inside of me. A baby.  A baby who I loved and shaped into a grown up. Not one baby, but two babies. 

 I have scars from having my gall bladder removed at 22, which reminds of when I was highly over weight and unhealthy.  According to the doctors chart, I’m still over weight. But at 22, I was living off snickers bars, Pepsi soda, and KFC because I was working so much and on the go. I wasn’t exercising, I was eating lots of white starches and simple crabs, and mindfulness was a foreign concept to me. It was after this procedure I rediscovered exercise, switched to ground turkey and whole grains, and made water an addiction. Not to say, I still don’t crave fries and pizza, but I made life long changes that I could commit to. I discovered, meditation, pilates, yoga, zumba that I could do a 5k.
 On my lower right side is the scar from when I had my appendix removed.  And I was 7, so it was the old school "cut you open", in the hospital for 2 weeks, type of surgery. This little 2 inch long scar transports me back to that moment when I was in the hospital crying   “No” because the doctors said that I would need surgery immediately.  My father was so disturbed by my tears, he cried.I remember overhearing my grandmother tactfully tell him to basically man up, come back in the room and tell me that I was having the surgery and I would be okay. I was okay. I missed Halloween that year, but I got to get a happy meal with a chocolate shake in one of those jack-o’-lantern trick or treat buckets 
 as one of my first meals in the hospital. 


My latest scar is from having my ovaries removed the beginning of my journey to combat a disease that my grandmother and mother didn’t have the opportunity to.  And perhaps the most precious part of my stomach is my belly button...  proof that I was one connected physically to my mother by this remnant of an umbilical cord. And though a flat stomach is stomach I’ve always desired since Janet Jackson first introduced me to midriff, I love my ample, imperfect stomach, rolls and all. It still surprises me that today I’m so enamored by a part of my body that was the bane of my existence from age 11. 

The Mixed Feelings of Motherhood

            There’s something so bittersweet about the anticipation of my first born’s graduation from high school. I've been reflecting so much lately. I remember thinking,  "I just have to get him out of high school and I’m good”. But looking at him on the verge of 18, I start to think:  it’s not enough, but it will have to be enough.  In a couple of month’s, he will be a legal adult, able to make his own decisions. And while I can offer my opinion and give my unsolicited advice, in the end, it’s his choice, his life. That is hard for me because he’s been my baby for so long.

            Since the day I found out I was pregnant with him,  most of my life’s big decisions have been centered on what would be best for him. I changed my major, trading the unstable writing world for a more secure career in social services; I bought a house an adjacent town from where I grew up, so my son could be away from gangs and street violence; I pursued my dreams, not just for me, but so that he could see it could be done.  I worked two jobs so he would not want for anything; I took him with me when I worked with those were less fortunate so he could appreciate what he had. Most people look at him and think I've done a pretty decent job, me and my village of course. But lately, I've felt a sense of resentment towards his father resurfacing that I had long vanished.

            While trying to get my master’s degree and working 2 jobs, and struggling with my new home ownership responsibilities, I became frustrated that he had not been leading by example, or spending quality time, or providing financially since we broke up when my son was three. It took until my son was 11 to begin to let it go, forgive. But still, every now and then when I gave my son my last 10 bucks for lunch money, or if I saw his father in a brand new coat, or heard about him having another child, I became incensed. My son was his first child, and he was 21 with a high school diploma and an able mind and body when my baby was born, but he chose street life over being a present parent.  So I’d get upset, then I’d get over it because that’s what mothers do. As my son became more dependent and older, I had to deal with his fatherless, so the resentment became dormant. Besides, I had my father, who was doing more than his share to help raise him.

  Now that this momentous event is upon us, I feel that resentment brewing again. Why? Because now I have another son, a toddler, and because his father is present, I get to be the soft, nurturing mommy. Daddy can be the stern baritone voice, and mommy can be… mommy.  I was once that way with my older son, but then when the realities of the world set in, when I saw my boy growing into a Black man, an endangered species in America, fear crept in. I had to be tough, I had to be on his back. I had to teach him about sex, how to behave if pulled over by the police, model work ethic, school him about the streets; I had to be the crazy mom to show up if he wasn't where he was supposed to be. I feel like I was robbed of being the pushover mom... the sweet mom I wanted to be because his father didn't step up. 

Now he will be there on graduation day, and at the party, and I honestly have mixed feelings about it. On one hand, that is his father, and I've never discouraged their relationship, despite my feelings.  On the other hand, he will get to celebrate something he had NO PART in making happen. And that has me feeling… “Some type of way.”  But I guess I’ll get over, because that’s just what mothers do.

Uptight Alright

This weekend I realized how up tight I can be!!!!! I totally have a hard time relaxing. Now, when I am home and I plan my couch potato day, it works, but more than one day...not so much. I was so excited about going to New York for the Harlem book fair, then for once in I don't even remember how long, I was going to go to the club.  I would not have to get up in the middle of the night or at 6am for my baby because he was with a sitter.   I was FREE, but I didn't feel like it. I had a brief moment where I realized that my mind was always thinking, and I wasn't in the moment because I was preoccupied with what was next. How uncool of me! I was thinking about the highway ride home and laundry the the mess I left when I rushed off to leave that morning. I couldn't turn my mind off of all the things I had to do when I got back. I was reaching for my purse when I heard my inner voice said STOP IT. BE IN THE NOW. And I listened. And I'm glad I did because I really did have a much needed good time. I needed to turn off the to do's in my head and let things be. I am glad that I am able to hear that voice when it speaks. Sometimes we can't hear it over all of the chaos, but apparently my inner voice is just as loud and assertive as my actual voice because I wasn't even in meditation and I heard it.

Now when I woke up the next morning, I went back into go mode and found myself pensive, and somewhat guilty  over brunch with getting back to my 9 month old, and cleaning up, and the phone calls I had to make. So while I'm a work in progress, I'm grateful I received the message even if I only followed for  24 hours. It reminded me to listen more intently and more often. I will be in go mode for the next two days as I prepare for my vacation, but I made a solemn promise to myself to let loose and remain in the moment from the time my vacation starts until the time it ends!

"Happy" Mother's Day

Mother's Day wasn't always a struggle for me. When I was younger I absolutely loved making gifts in school for my ga-ga (my maternal grandmother). Let's see, it was the plants in a Styrofoam cups, homemade candy (which she couldn't eat because she was diabetic), and plenty of specially written and decorated cards. Mother's Day became harder after she died because it wasn't until I'd lost her that I began to feel like a motherless child. All of the love in the world couldn't stop me from feeling this emptiness when Mother's Day arrived.


When I became a mother, it got easier; I saw my son come home with the cards and plants, and I'd smile. But then I found myself missing Brenda, my real mother. As an adult, I wanted that special relationship I saw all of my friends have with their mothers, so I still felt empty. To cope, everyone knows I deemed myself Brenda's Child, and I became that parental figure to other kids who were missing a mom for whatever reason.


Three weeks before Mother's Day also marks the anniversary of the death of my mother's sister ( she died unexpectedly at 36 from a seizure, which was a reaction from her medication. She had been on dialysis for years due to kidney disease.) Two cent was my homegirl. I use the old school term because growing up in the '80s, she was who you wanted to be: creative, stylish, sexy, and cool. What made her most important to me was that had if not been for her babysitting my son free of charge, I would not have been able to finish college and work full time. It's because of her that my son developed early on a love of reading and learning. That was 2002, and again I learn to cope. She was the 3rd person whose name would be tattooed on me, and I honored her memory by publishing some of her poetry in a chapter dedicated to her at the end of my first book, A Piece of My Mind.

In 2009, my friend Gail died the week of Mother's day from Leukemia. She was a mother of four, and like my mother, my grandmother, and my aunt, she liked working with kids. I used my words once more to honor her in my memoir, The Right Amount of Sunshine.

This is the only way I know how to deal, I keep their memory alive through the work I am still able to do while I'm here on this earth.

I'll light a candle for each of them this Sunday, knowing they are present in spirit always. And although I may shed some tears of remembrance, I will have "Happy" Mother's Day just for them!
:

Ga-Ga ovarian cancer 1991

Brenda Breast cancer 1982

Gwen a.ka. Two Cent 2002

Gail Leukemia 2009

What's that saying?

Oh yeah, it's something like, if you want to make God laugh, make plans.  It's been over two months since my last entry because I've been busy....growing life (and vomiting) that's right, Brenda's Child is with child! Are you as shocked as I am? Then again I guess I shouldn't be because if you read my post about the tarot card reading I received back in July, the woman told me she saw a baby for me and the man I was with. Funny, I only seem to focus on the stuff I wanted to remember from the reading...like all of the money I am going to make off of my words!  
 I won't turn this blog into a pregnancy one, it will still be about all my complexities, which will become more complex since I'm becoming a mom again after 14 years. In some ways it will be easier, I'm older, wiser, more established, and I know what to expect. The hard part is, I know what to expect. I love babies, but pregnancy and labor suck to me. Some people say they love it, me... not so much. I give props to both of my grandmothers for birthing eight babies each, with no epidural! I'm telling you, we are not made like that anymore.
My first time being a mom was difficult because I had to go to college full time and work full time. Looking back, I really can't believe I did it, starting 4 weeks after delivery! This time I have stable employment with maternity leave (AWESOME). The downside is I am forced to slow down...Zumba, traveling, and writing.

As I approach my second trimester this week, I'm hoping my energy will pick up and I'll be back to hustling (so can make the other prediction about the money come true).