Everybody's Got Something (12 page)

W
hile I was returning from Italy, Dorothy got a call that Mom was in a semi-coma. The oxygen wasn’t releasing from her body so she went into what they call a carbon monoxide coma. Dorothy was so scared, because in the last conversation she’d had with Mom, Mom was still afraid that we were going to place her in the nursing center. Dorothy stood at her bedside at the hospital, telling her over and over again, “Mom, we’re gonna take you home. We’re gonna take you home. You said you didn’t want to be here and we’re gonna take you home.”

When Mom finally regained consciousness, she was in a state of delirium. The doctors later told us that this was because Mom was hallucinating. Dorothy spent the entire night in Mom’s hospital room, and Mom did not sleep at all. Dorothy begged the hospital attendants to give Mother something to help her sleep. Once she’d had some rest, they released her, and Dorothy took her home.

They say when it rains, it pours. On the Gulf Coast, as we know all too well, sometimes when it rains, it storms. Dorothy and her daughters, Jessica and Lauren, were running back and forth to the house, caring for Mom, when Hurricane Isaac rolled up to the Coast.

I could hear the strain in Dorothy’s voice. She had taken a leave from work to care for Mom, and she was at home with our mother from seven in the morning until seven at night. At 7 p.m., a hospice nurse would arrive, and Dorothy would get some sleep. Mom came home with a feeding tube and a whole array of medicines that needed to be administered, and symptoms that needed to be monitored. Dorothy had a little notebook that she carried around with questions she had for Mom’s doctors and all of their responses and instructions. I could look at that little notebook and see how tightly she clenched it; in between the names of medicines I’d never heard of, medical symptoms that none of us could pronounce, there was all this worry and fear and love that was scribbled onto every page.

I kept telling Dorothy, “You’ve got to get more help. You’ve got to get more help.” And I know that she was concerned about the cost. Anyone who has cared for an aging parent knows how costly it can be. Medicare only pays so much, and when you want to stay in your own home, as Momma did, all of that attendant care? That’s on you—and the family. Mom has always been fiercely independent. Never asking or wanting her children to provide for her. Dorothy knew I had the resources to chip in more, but she was resistant to me paying more than what she saw as my fair share. But when your mother is so ill and there is one sibling who is doing the majority of the on-the-ground legwork, it’s not about splitting the bill. I thanked the good Lord in heaven when Dorothy finally let me hire some more care and ease, even a little, the burden she had so generously and lovingly taken on.

On August 28, 2012, I was with Sally-Ann and her husband, Ron, at Memorial Sloan-Kettering as she prepared to donate her stem cells. At the same time Hurricane Isaac was preparing to make landfall on the Gulf Coast. Dorothy and her girls were with Mom and they had already, wisely, had a generator set up at the house in case they lost power.

Sally-Ann was in a hospital bed, watching her New Orleans TV station on her laptop. Anyone who’s ever been to New Orleans knows that my sister is the Oprah of her market, and the love that the good people of N’awlins have for my big sister is rivaled only by the love she feels for them. Sally-Ann is always watching her local station, even when she’s far away from home. For her, it’s like keeping track of her people; the whole city is her extended family.

I watched in awe as the apheresis machine recycled blood from her body, removing the stem cells into a pouch with my name on it. I remember just staring at the bag, knowing how many in my situation would give anything to see a bag of lifesaving stem cells with their name on it. It took two days for Sally-Ann to have her cells harvested, and this was day two. All I could do was cry. Sally-Ann insisted she wasn’t in any pain, and she didn’t appear to be, but I was still a basket case witnessing such a selfless act.

My dear friends Lois Ann and Cathy had traveled from the West Coast to spend time with me before my upcoming transplant. Although Lois Ann lives on the West Coast, she is a true Southern belle. She was a sorority girl at the University of Alabama. Roll Tide! A mutual friend introduced us in the early 1990s. We’ve been thick as thieves ever since.

Lois Ann and Cathy wanted to be in the
GMA
audience for my last show, which was supposed to be that Friday. Wednesday night we went to dinner at one of my favorite neighborhood restaurants, Loi, which had delicious Greek dishes. We talked about the wonderful vacations we had taken together and the ones we would take in the future. Before dessert, everyone went to the restroom, so I decided to check my messages.

Dorothy had left me a voice mail that Mom wanted to talk to me. I was so excited, because Mom’s stroke had made it difficult for her to speak. My excitement was short-lived when I returned Dorothy’s call. Hurricane Isaac made it impossible for the hospice nurses to make it to the house. Dorothy knew Mom had suddenly taken a turn for the worse, and over the phone described Mom’s condition to the nurse. The nurse said to Dorothy: “If there’s anything you want to say to your mom you should do it tonight.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I immediately told Dorothy that Sally-Ann and I would get home as soon as we could.

When I returned to my apartment, Sally-Ann was sitting at the window, having her quiet time. Ever since my sister was a little girl, you could find her upstairs in her room, sitting in a rocking chair, sometimes doing a crossword puzzle, sometimes not. The crossword puzzle was a legacy from Dad. He loved them; my brother Butch does, too. But the sitting and the rocking, that’s all Sally-Ann. And I could see that she wasn’t absorbing the full force of Dorothy’s news, she was so still, so silent, just staring out the window. I said, “Oh, Sally-Ann, I’m sorry to do this to you, but, do you understand what our sister is saying? Our mother is on her journey home.”

Back home in the Pass, Dorothy had reached out to a tight circle of friends with the news that the end might be near. The thing about living in a small town, news travels fast. While the Sisters Three, as we call ourselves, and Butch were trying to absorb the news, care for Mom, figure out what we wanted and needed to say to her, the phone was ringing off the hook. Mom had sooooo many people who felt they were like family. She touched their lives, and they wanted to know how she was doing, could they come see her, what could they do for her in the time that was left. It was all too much to bear. The doctors said Mother was transitioning, which sounds so peaceful. But it felt like chaos all around.

When the hospice people got to the house, they asked Dorothy, “Have you eaten since morning?” She wasn’t sure. Then they asked, “Have you showered?” And my niece was so tickled that in the midst of it all, Dorothy was offended. She asked, “Do I stink or something?” But realizing that it had been a while since her last shower, the hospice workers took over and Dorothy got showered.

The next morning they got Mom cleaned up, gave her her medicine and fed her. It actually seemed like she was doing okay. There was a moment when we all thought, “She’s going to do what she always does. She’s going to rally.”

Momma was still having trouble communicating, but she managed to let my niece Lauren know that she wanted to go out to the sunroom. Lauren’s fiancé, Brian, picked her up, put her in the wheelchair and they took her out. The rain was still coming down but it was, everyone remembers, oddly peaceful. Mom looked at pictures and, in particular, paused at a picture of Harneitha.

Harneitha was Mom’s best friend, and she perished in Katrina. Harneitha and her husband, Dr. Maxey, decided to ride out the storm in their home in Long Beach. Dr. Maxey had health issues that made it difficult to evacuate. One of their sons stayed with them in the house. Tragically, the Maxeys were literally swept from their home in the raging floodwaters. Miraculously, their son survived. Mom managed to ask Lauren to tell her the date. It was August 29, the day that Katrina hit. It was also the day her dear friends died. My mother might have rallied, but I think by pulling out Harneitha’s picture, by reminding us of the date, she wanted to send a message: Gather near, children, the clock is ticking.

The night before, on my frantic walk home from the restaurant, I called my executive producer, Tom Cibrowski. I told him about my conversation with Dorothy. I needed my last show to be the next day, Thursday, instead of Friday, as we had originally planned. I explained to Tom that I could do one more show, but then I needed to fly back home to Mississippi right after. I knew that the producers had a lot planned for my final show, but I needed to get home. Tom was totally understanding and sympathetic.

Early the next morning as I was preparing to leave for my final show, Sally-Ann said: “Are you sure we should try and go? The airports are still closed because of the storm; it could be dangerous. Mom always rallies.”

I looked her square in the eyes and said, “Sister, dear, I’m going home. If you want to hitch a ride, fine. If not, I’ll go by myself.”

Honestly, I don’t remember much about my final
GMA
. I do recall saying at the beginning of the show that tomorrow was supposed to be my last day but things had changed and I needed to get home to Mississippi. I didn’t go into any more detail, because Mom became very private after suffering her stroke in July. She didn’t want anyone outside of the family and close friends to know of her declining condition. Such a proud woman, my mom. During the show we had a story about my journey to that point. Revealing my diagnosis in June, all the doctor appointments and showing Sally-Ann’s stem cells being collected. Leading into the piece I shared one of my favorite quotes: “Life provides losses and heartbreak for all of us—but the greatest tragedy is to have the experience and miss the meaning.” I was determined not to miss the meaning of what I was experiencing and to share it in the hope of helping others.

My sister joined me in the studio after the piece aired. Many were just as concerned and curious about Sally-Ann…was she in any pain? Remember, she had just gone through two days of having her stem cells harvested. Sally-Ann smiled brightly, as she always does. Her daughter, Judith, would later tell her: “So many people, Mom, wonder what their purpose is in life, and now you know your purpose. Your purpose is to give bone marrow to your sister Robin. Every cell in your body is about the business of giving your sister new life. How beautiful is that?”

Martina McBride was also part of my final show before medical leave. I’ve gotten to know Martina and her husband, John, over the years. I had the pleasure of being in her music video for her hit song “I’m Gonna Love You Through It.” It’s a beautiful song about family and friends being there for a loved one going through cancer. Martina was on tour but made a detour to be with us that morning in New York and sing that inspirational song. What a dear friend. It was the first time I saw Sally-Ann break down in tears. Martina was singing “I’m gonna love you through it” and Sally-Ann just lost it. Then everyone in the studio started crying, too. I joked, “You guys have to stop crying, you’re supposed to be comforting me!” But I meant it when I hugged Sally-Ann and said, “Come here, sister, it’s gonna be okay. I’m gonna love you through it, too.”

Many colleagues were in the studio that morning holding
#TEAMROBIN
signs. We all should be so blessed to feel the love that I did that morning. Humbling. My last words were: “To my
GMA
family, my family there at home, I love you and I’ll see you soon.” I then defiantly pumped my fist. While I believed I’d be back in the mix, deep down inside I just didn’t know. When the cameras stopped rolling, I stood and told everyone in the studio how much I loved them. How proud I was of them. To keep on keepin’ on in my absence.

My thoughts were never far from Momma. Before we could fly home that Thursday, Sally-Ann had to be checked out by Dr. Giralt. He examined her, she was fine, and he also went over options with us. Dr. Giralt was aware we were going home to be with Mom, and I didn’t know how long I would be there. Sally-Ann’s freshly harvested stem cells had to be implanted within a certain time frame. It was Thursday, and I was scheduled to be admitted into the hospital on Monday. Dr. Giralt understood my only concern was Momma. My transplant would have to wait.

He also gave Sally-Ann a gift. She was consumed with worry about her stem cells. Would my body accept them? Would she be to blame if it didn’t? Dr. Giralt assured my sister: “You have done everything we have asked of you. If the transplant is not successful, you need to know it’s not your fault.” His caring, thoughtful words were another confirmation I had made the right choice in switching to him.

We got word that the airport down home had just reopened, so we headed to the plane. In the car I sent Dorothy a message that we were on our way! She sent a text that Mom was resting comfortably and also said: “Our dear mother is on her journey home.” I showed Sally-Ann the text, and she just stared out the window in disbelief. We were in constant prayer that we would make it home in time.

It seemed as if the flight to Gulfport took forever. A driver met us at the airport and had to maneuver around downed power lines and trees. Streets were flooded, forcing us to turn around several times. It was an eerie reminder of when I flew home to find my family after Hurricane Katrina.

When we arrived home late that afternoon, Momma did not take her eyes off of me. The stroke made it difficult for her to speak but she was communicating with me through her compassionate eyes. Her voice, when she could summon it, was softer than a whisper. It was as if she waited to make sure that we would be okay. She waited to see that Sally-Ann was okay after having millions of her stem cells harvested. And she waited to know that I had what I needed, that her baby girl was going to be all right.

The house was full of activity. Dorothy; her daughters, Jessica and Lauren; Lauren’s young son, Ryan; Sally-Ann; Ron and hospice nurses. Sweet, spiritual music was playing softly in Mom’s room on her boom box. Mom’s doctor made a house call and examined her. He said he had no idea how long Mom had. She recognized him and even joked with him. She was receiving nutrition through a feeding tube since the stroke left her unable to swallow.