This Is Me

By Marty Tilley

A baby, destined to die, lives. Here, Marty’s story begins in a small, rural hospital, with no hope. And yet, hope and miracles surround her as she enters the world. Follow her journey as she struggles to overcome each hurdle that enters her world while trying to raise a family and maintain her professional career – one she has come to love. Relive her fears as she is told of a mysterious illness for which there is no cure, thus losing almost everything she holds dear to her heart. Walk with her as she presses forward, with her limited accessibility to her environment shrinking and her mobility in her lower extremities weakening each day. Never giving up, she transforms into a survivor determined to toss the label of degeneration out the window. She stands strong, unencumbered by insinuations and innuendos, and begins her process to identify true validation for her illness, lurking deep in the shadows. Giving up will never be an option again. May her journey inspire each of us to delve further into our inner soul and find our own strength, regardless of life’s issues, and continue towards our own personal mission on this planet.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Nov 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781645752875

Marty Tilley

Marty Tilley, with a degree in psychology and post-graduate work in communications, has spent almost twenty years adapting to a disease that is steeped in a cloak of mystery and darkness. Today, she continues her research on their farm in Adams, Tennessee, alongside her husband and their rescue tabby named Kitty, who has blossomed into a mighty hunter.

Book preview

Prince

Prologue

Given a life sentence in May 2002 paralyzed me to the core. Feelings of sadness, yes, and even awe, swirled inside me as I sat while the specialist loaded my arms with books and pamphlets. To get here, we must return to the beginning.

Part One

1

Weighing less than three pounds, fitting in a shoe box, with the face of a tiny, shriveled rat, this is me. A screaming preemie, mad, and quite vocal about it, I enter the world one Thursday evening so long, long ago. A lifetime ago.

Earlier, my mother calmly sits in the automobile, while dad tosses the suitcase into the backseat. This suitcase is different. No soft blankets nor hand-smocked gowns from her mother, are tucked inside. The little one will not make it. The two of them understand and drive to the hospital in silence.

The toxins are raging throughout my mother’s body now and she can no longer wait. Delivery of the fetus is the only cure for eclampsia.

During the beginning of her pregnancy, she had waited. Against her doctor’s advice, she had waited. As her family and close friends urged her to proceed with the delivery, she still waited and for this reason, in that small, rural hospital, to the amazement of the doctor, the staff, and my parents, I survive. I was their noisy, scrawny miracle. I had survived. Three years later, my mother did not.

Remaining in the hospital for the next two months, I thrive. Parents of premature infants today, are given literature detailing possible outcomes for their little one-learning disorder, blindness, deafness. One half will have abnormalities in the brain. Support groups are available today. But in 1955, they were not. My parents took me home and prayed.

2

At the age of three and motherless, Dad and I move into his parent’s home. My aunt, Dad’s sister, recently divorced, had moved in as well, with her baby boy. The two of us immediately bonded, like true brother and sister, growing up in this loving, safe environment for many, many years.

In that tiny home, with a gigantic backyard, in proportion to our tiny legs, we played together, climbed trees together, and our imagination soared. Why, we even ran away together, to join the circus!

We, however, did not get very far. Fifty feet. Then, we knocked on our neighbor’s door, who had the farm with the farm animals, always waving to us whenever grandmother drove by her house. Announcing to her our bold plans of running away and in desperate need of a drink of water, please ma’am, she obliged and immediately, phoned our grandmother.

The disappointment seen in the eyes of someone you love and hold so dear in your heart, truly does hurt more than any quick pop on your bottom. And we never spoke of running away again.

Years pass, and Dad offers me a tiny glimpse into his inner thoughts, which was a very rare occurrence. Right after the move and burial of my mother, he allowed himself only one week to mourn. At age twenty-four, now widowed, and with a stubborn child to raise, he knew he must return to some type of normalcy. So, he returned to work.

He had, after all, promised my mother, as she lay dying, he would take care of me. He has never let her down.

I remember very little of the farmhouse we called home, while my mother was alive. The home had no bathroom. None did, in the ’50s, in rural America. I, thankfully, still wore diapers.

Happiness is what I do feel with the memories I recall – tiny kittens scratching my arms, while I stuff them into my baby stroller; little ducklings, dyed purple, circling my feet, as I squat for a photo, in my Easter best.

Quite poignantly, and somewhat foretelling, I recall us leaving a church service. Giggling, I sail through the air, leaping from the church’s highest step, into the arms of a teenage girl. I can still see her face. Not my mother’s – the girl’s.

Coming from strong genes, I continue to flourish, like my Dad, still working each and every day at 86. My maternal great-grandfather, born in the late 1800s, began a logging and sawmill business with a team of mules; with no one questioning his sanity whatsoever years later, as he spat tobacco juice on the floorboard of his brand-spanking new Cadillac, and my paternal great-grandmother, cooking over a wood-stove, birthing babies, and working in the fields, alongside her husband.

Living to be almost 100, she was baptized, in her late 80s, in a bathtub. St. Peter had a huge smile on his face when Ma Nettie appeared at the pearly gates. Dipping for as long as I can even recall, I believe the first question she probably asked upon arrival was quite simple: Where do we get our snuff?

And to this very day, I still use an old snuff can to cut out my angel biscuits, in remembrance of Ma.

So many ancestors, with unique strength and resilience, and I find that I am, thankfully, becoming one of them. This journey has opened my eyes to the plasticity within each of us, if we allow the growth to take root.

I understand we all have our crosses we must bear. Some people decide to