Remembering Cory, Celebrating Life

Today would've been my eldest son's twenty-sixth birthday.

It is hard to believe it has been that long. My eyes close and I can replay 1982 as if it were yesterday. The future, back then, seemed so far away. Today, I sit in my little office with my two daughters vying for attention, and I remember when motherhood began.

Time is a fleeting thing. I was a month shy of my 18th birthday when motherhood visited me in the night and ripped through my being. This chubby, dark haired, slit-eyed, apple-cheeked being was placed into my arms. "He is such a big baby from such a tiny girl," the nurses commented. "She did well for such a young girl." They chatted back and forth while the doctor worked to stitch together the pieces of my femininity and the nurses weighed, measured, and wrapped the baby boy who was to capture all the love I never knew existed.

My journey toward motherhood began on that wee Wednesday morning. I didn't even know I was in labor, not for real. I felt the pains and of course knew my belly was stretched beyond measure. I thought perhaps it would go away, my parents were tired, I didn't want to wake them unnecessarily. Perhaps I waited too late, I don't know, but I walked back & forth in my bedroom and before it was vogue, engaged in natural labor. By the time I woke my dad and stepmother, there was no question, the contractions were five minutes apart and we were all praying I'd make it the thirty miles in time.

The nurse at the University hospital seemed a little disappointed she didn't have time to "prep me" before labor. Looking back, five children later, I'm glad I never had to endure that humiliating practice that mothers endured in the early 1980s and before! She had to help me waddle back to the labor room, another antiquated throwback to a time when labor was considered an illness and not natural. It was definitely sterile in there with the lights and table.

After I realized I was a mother, I fell so completely and overwhelmingly in love with this little creature placed in my arms. I never wanted to be away from him even though those years were when little ones were ensconced in the nursery and brought to the mother for feeding.

Cory had a little heart murmur and was taken to the infant intensive car unit for about a week. I thank God for my father's generous insurance, in the time before HMOs. I was able to stay in the hospital with him and continue my bonding. I couldn't imagine going home without him and for once, flat out rejected my father's request for me to come home. "I'm not leaving him."

When we did leave the hospital and come home, my stepmother redid my bedroom. It looked like a ray of sunshine with new bedding and a crib filled with everything he would need. Their old, southern ways didn't believe in baby showers or gifts before the child was born. We were home.

The early month of his life was filled with me graduating from high school and trying to get my father to hold my son. My dad was a big man and he was probably still saddened that his brilliant, college-bound daughter, had sex outside marriage and got pregnant. This phenomenon wasn't that common in my part of the world in 1981-1982.

I look back now on my first born and wonder what he would be like now. Would he have finished college? He'd still be too young to get married, in today's timeline, but I'm sure he would've dated. I try to see him in his five youngest siblings - three brothers and two sisters - and tell them about their eldest brother. They all know I get a little reclusive, thoughtful, and melancholy on April 1st - the day of his birth and November 1st - the day of his death.

If Cory were alive today, I think he'd be proud. My dad was certainly proud of me by the time he passed away in 1999. I think Cory's legacy continues in the lives of his creative and outgoing next-in-line, the tall and reflective Navy brother, the musical and comical youngest brother, the princess little sister, and the very determined and strong-willed baby sister of the family. He would love the loud and boisterous conversations around the dinner table. He'd smile at the way my husband can alternate from being a big shot at the University to a doting dad with the girls. He'd probably tap my shoulders as I type away the musings of my heart. I'm sure he'd try to intervene between the fighting duo of my youngest son and oldest daughter.

Today is a sunny, but cold Missouri day. My son would be twenty-six. I remember him and I smile. I'm still his mommy.

Hannah's Song

We came together last night and sang Hannah's song. Family from California was in town, it was the night before Aunt Hannah's Home Going Celebration. We met at my house late in the evening to fellowship, remember, hug, eat, and laugh. Thom felt the love in the room and I'm sure his mom would've appreciated us doing what she did all her life - love. Aunt Hannah was a gracious woman. Her gentle spirit, sparkling eyes, and constant smile will be remembered. She has left us physically, but never spiritually. The laughter was like music in Thom's ear. For the first time in weeks I saw my cousin relax. He has been in a tornado for the past four weeks from his mother's diagnosis to her death. Even in her final stage, Aunt Hannah was granted her desire. She asked to not suffer long when it was her time to go, she had been a caregiver her whole life and I'm sure her prayer was for her son. In the last days of her life, she still greeted well wishers with a wa...

Brothers, Can we Talk?

I'm a Black woman, born of a Black woman and a Black man. When my mother died, it was my father who nurtured me and instilled in me a sense of pride of self, of my race, of my abilities to do whatever I put my mind to do. He never imposed limitations on me as a Black woman. The only caution he ever gave me was to not burn my candle at both ends and to be mindful of my health, I am an asthmatic. He never stopped me from trying anything and always encouraged me. Daddy was a strong Black man who introduced me to Shirley Chisholm when I was a little girl. He reminded me of the fortitude of my late mother's quest for gender equality in the workplace and of the namesake who marched at Selma. He is the one who gave me my pseudonym, Tayé. Daddy was a strong tower of empowerment and fought all the way to his last breath for social, gender, and racial justice. It is in remembering my father this morning that I'm asking the brothers, can we talk? What is it, especially those of my g...

Ashes to Ashes

This is Ash Wednesday. For a lot of Catholics and Anglican Christians, it begins the holy season of Lent. We remember we are but dust and to dust we return, ashes to ashes. It is a somber reminder of our humanity and the finality of life. We are a mere breath. Today, as a Hospital Chaplain Resident, I am imposing ashes on patients, family, and staff. It is a visible marker of a shared faith and belief. We look with anticipation to the finished work of salvation on the cross and in eager hope of the resurrection. As my day progressed, I noticed how much hope was in the eyes of the ones giving and receiving this reminder of our existence. It was both a somber moment and a joyful moment. Two things can exist at the same time. Like the world we find ourselves in. Even as it seems like the darkest, certainly the darkest I’ve known in my six decades on this earth. Completely imperfect as a nation, there was still a glimmer of light until the nightmare became reality. We wonder abo...

The Musings of a Latte Queen: Narratives of Everyday Life

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