Mirror of My Soul: Journey to Peace

By Viola Rose

Mirror of My Soul is a Southern womans journey to peace: one of faith and forgiveness. Its a riveting story of a journey to overcome the challenges of obstacles, abuse, and deeply hidden family secrets. This book will bring you to tears at times and absolute joy at others.

It is a must read for anyone but especially survivors of abuse who need a vivid reference of triumph over adversity. This book is dedicated to all who have suffered in silence.

May that forever be changed as we start shouting from the rooftops to bring accountability to those who cause such pain, and more importantly, may the light of Gods precious grace shine through the hearts of each of us.

May we be a beacon for him, first, foremost and always!

To him, I give all the glory!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press
• Release date: Aug 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9781504386753

Viola Rose

Viola is currently a stay at home grandmother who is dedicated to making the world a safer place and more peaceful one for abuse survivors. Viola now resides in a suburb north of Atlanta with her loving husband of 36 years. She is a proud mother, step-mother, sister, and aunt who has learned to love life. Viola also has five adorable grandchildren between the ages of seven and 22.

Book preview

A Letter to My Son

My Dearest Son,

You have always been my greatest blessing in life, not to mention my greatest joy! I am so proud of the man that you’ve become that my heart is overflowing with both pride and happiness in knowing what a gift I helped give to the world. You are by far my greatest accomplishment in life. You have a lot to offer, my son; of this, I have no doubt. Now that you’re a father, I know you realize the powerful, protective instinct that comes with being a parent. So, throughout this writing process, I could not even allow myself to think about the effect that it may have on you, simply because it would’ve stopped me in my tracks! If not for God pushing me, I have to say that it still would have. I’ve shielded you from many things throughout your youth because I wanted you to hold on to that youth, keep your innocence and be free to love both your parents equally, because that is your God-given right and I don’t want that to change now! When you hurt; I hurt. I sincerely hope that my story doesn’t cause you harm of any sort. I would still give my life for you in an instant as you would for your daughter, no doubt! That never changes; our babies are ALWAYS our babies and we will always feel the need to protect them as such because we’ll always feel their pain. The mere thought of hurting you crushes my heart beyond words. Through these pages you will discover many things about your parents, things that you’d probably rather not know. But, I somehow trust that you’re now old enough and mature enough to handle it with grace. I can only hope and pray that you’ll find it in your heart to forgive us both for the mistakes that we made in failing you. I say, still with a heavy heart, that failing you was the very last thing that I ever wanted to do and I am truly sorry. If you take anything from this, I hope that it is to view those around you from all walks of life with empathy and compassion, because you never know what has led a person to where they are in life. Although God creates us all equally, all children aren’t guarded and protected as such, including me and your father. I ask for one promise in particular: please do not allow any of this to change how you feel about me or your dad. You are the one beautifully perfect thing that he and I created together and if for no other reason than that, I wouldn’t change a thing. I love you, my precious son, with all that I am. I always will and I’m counting on the same unconditional love from you for both me and for your father. Please take the lessons of our journey to guide you to help others who are growing up in the same painful childhoods through which we came. Use our pain to serve them! If you save but one, it will have been worth it!

Allow God to guide you, my son and you cannot go wrong.

Love Always, ~ Mama

Chapter One

A  few days after Christmas 1989, I was sitting with my mom at her kitchen table during our annual holiday visit to South Georgia. She told me a story about her father, the Great C. V. Gardiner, or so I thought. Granddaddy Viovan died at a fairly young age before my birth. I’d only dreamt of knowing him and imagined him to be the most special grandfather in the whole, wide world because of the stories I’d heard growing up. The one and only, C.V. Gardiner who was born in November, 1898. Oh My Goodness! I remember thinking, how different the world must have been back then! Mom always talked of how simple yet, how hard life was back in her day, so I couldn’t imagine how it must’ve been for him and my grandma. Now my grandmother was also one of a kind – very special indeed, and I totally adored her. But back to my Grandfather, I had always envisioned him plowing fields in overalls and a straw hat with my mom, his little buddy, by his side, teaching her the value of good, hard, honest work. My mom was born in October of 1927 in the small southern town in Georgia near the railroad tracks that she wasn’t allowed to cross simply because black people lived on the other side. She was one of ten children – five girls and five boys. My mom was delivered in her parent’s bed with the use of forceps, which disfigured her face. From her childhood stories, I could tell that her father had been pretty strict, putting up with no back talk or disrespect of any sort. He told them what to do and where to do it, without question. Period! She even spoke with a laugh of how he once knocked her off of the front porch for being a little sassy with him. But through it all, she seemed crazy about him and seemed to carry only good memories of him. I’d always envisioned her to be a total daddy’s girl and was happy for her – having never known that for myself. She actually named me after him, giving me the name, Viola. I always wondered… why me? How and why did I get so lucky?

I grew up absolutely hating my name with a passion because not only had I never heard of it, but because I was made fun of and teased so much about it at school. Especially on the first day when the entire class would burst into laughter during morning roll call after hearing it read aloud. It was awful, to say the least. And it happened without fail, year after miserable year – every single, embarrassing one of them. So for that reason alone, I could never learn to like the name Viola, no matter how proud I was told I should be – to be the one chosen to carry this wonderful man of honor’s name.

I remember wondering, as I got older, why my mom couldn’t have been just a tad more creative and gone with something different; anything that at least sounded better. But, oh no – I couldn’t be so lucky! Not in this lifetime.

It just wasn’t meant to be and eventually made me tougher, like a boy named Sue, I suppose. So Viola would be the name that I am forever stuck with, and aside from disliking it, I can’t even pretend to be proud of it.

This name, as I was about to discover, held more shame than honor. What my mom was about to share would bring clarity to her and open a whole new door for me. Probably not exactly what she had in mind, or perhaps she did and I just didn’t know it. All I know is that, she was about to dig up some bones that were meant by some to be kept buried for all of time. What she was about to reveal to me would give new meaning to the phrase… Gardeners know the best dirt. She certainly did! My mom and one of her younger sisters, whom she wanted to protect, had carried a deep, dark, ugly family secret for nearly forty years. The family name had to be protected. Mama felt bad physically and was weepy like I’d never seen during this visit. So, I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it when she started talking about old hurts, mistakes and regrets. And I couldn’t help but feel pure relief when I realized that it wasn’t my childhood that she was referring to, but that of her own. She talked of hidden skeletons and of honoring her roots, about misplaced loyalty, shame and the price of the guilt that came with it.

I wasn’t sure where she was going when she started to cry and with visible pain on her face, she said in a low voice, I’m not even sure if Mama ever knew. I’m thinking, knew what? She then mumbled that Grandma certainly never said anything if she had; and that she would’ve taken it to her grave like a girl raised in the south is supposed to do, if indeed she had known.

All for the sake of protecting the honor, dignity and respect of the family name. Right or wrong, she said as she passed the letter she’d written to one of her brothers more than a year earlier and not mailed to me to read. She looked at me with a tear now rolling down her cheek and said, I cannot take this secret to my grave with a clear conscience and I need for you to make sure that this information reaches the hands of my brother in the event of my or our sister’s death. Promise me. Please? She was really starting to scare me by now, especially knowing that she wasn’t feeling well. I couldn’t stand the thought of my mother dying and I couldn’t help but have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach as I reached for the letter that I was now very curious about. It was then and there, as I read between the lines of that letter that my own sad, twisted and unworthy life, as I had always known it to be, actually started to make some sort of sense to me… for the very first time. I had just turned twenty nine years old the month before and the dots were finally starting to connect like never before. I had grown up so fast that I, like a dummy, thought that I actually knew all that I needed to know and even more than I wanted to know about life, people and this crazy, mixed up world that we all call home. I’d been through and seen enough to block any vision or hope of positive change. I honestly thought that nothing in or about life could shock me at this point, but I thought wrong. I guess you could say that this was my first major Aha moment. It would ultimately lead me to take that first step of my own personal thousand-mile journey that I now feel compelled to share, just as my mother had with her letter.

I was then well into my sixth year of my second marriage to an incredible man. Sadly, he was still working to earn my trust because of a past that I hadn’t yet dealt with – a very long and painful one that started with my youth. I’d known very few people who had happy childhoods and had always thought of ours as the typical, all American dysfunctional family with scars that time simply could not heal, thinking that nothing really could. I had a long road ahead of me but had been given the gift of a good man – one of true honor, with the patience of a saint that would help me see it through. Eventually, he became the one that I now call my hero and the healer of my heart. He is, by far, the gentlest man I’ve ever known. His name is Mike a.k.a. Max because, as corny as it may sound, he has maximized my world in ways that still amaze me. He is the incredible Mike Nichols (not the famous movie producer) who holds the key to my heart, the one who swept me off my feet, stole my heart… the man of my choice who eventually, in spite of me, won my trust and renewed my faith in the human race – more specifically, men. I can only see him simply in a league of his own and as a gift of the very special sort, given by a very special source of a much higher power. Boy, that’s a mouthful but true just the same. I believe that my mother, with her deep understanding and intellect, even got that back then, even though she and I had never discussed the sadness of my past, my childhood or my first marriage. I had pretty much mastered the art of keeping my mouth shut as a child from the be touched – don’t tell policy that had been enforced by our mother’s second choice in men – our stepfather, Steve. He was another so called great man as thought by many. They too, thought wrong. He was more like a monster you’d think must’ve been touched by the devil himself to have been so mean-spirited, twisted and cruel. He was anything but great and would be missed by few as he entered the end of his life’s journey. He had definitely left his mark on the world and it was anything but a pretty one. Even strangers suffered the consequences of the life that he’d led because he changed who we were and who we could’ve become; a whole lot to carry and own up to. Steve was indeed a predator with not one, but two faces. One displayed a kind and gentle nature to the outside world, the other - was the picture of evil for those of us looking for an escape. Steve was all about control; he ruled me, my mom and my siblings.

We were all left with scars that time cannot fade let alone make disappear. We were all left to bury the hurt and keep those skeletons hidden deep within the closet for no one else to see. What happened in the family, stayed within the family – period! Even that group was only a select few. That’s just the way it was and what families did, or at least ours during those times. My mother was born in the 1920s. I can only imagine what it must’ve been like for her being raised during the depression, in a time when men not only ruled the world, but also the women within their homes. Women were fully expected to be subservient to the man of the house with not much, if any room for discussion. It was just a fact of life that women of that time had to deal with – like it or not. Unfortunately, some of that carried over into my generation and in my case, went to a deeper and uglier level. I was to eventually become a puppet in the worst way, particularly for my spirit. Through this letter, I was about to discover the correlation of secret keeping that my mother and I share, among other similarities. We had both been taught that family dirt belonged under the rug; so, we swept. We became very good at it, in fact, too good for our own good, no doubt. It was simply no one else’s business. Any deep, dark family secrets were simply to be taken to one’s grave. Period! No ifs, ands or buts about it. So the fact that she’d shared this bit of information/family dirt with me was probably the biggest shock of all, in and of itself. My mother didn’t talk about these things and I’d never before seen this side of her. I wasn’t really sure what to make of it or if I should react at all. I think that I just sat there like a deer in the head lights. I was on the verge of realizing that my mother and I together held enough dirt to create one huge, and rather messy, mud gully – more than enough, no doubt, to do some major mudslinging. I can surely think of a few faces that I’d like to have dipped in it and have them wear it as a mask for the world to see to warn everyone of who and what they were. Now, there’s a thought: painless branding. No, that’s too easy. Maybe a very dark and bold tattoo with bright red ink on their hands that read: Don’t let these touch or Warning… Stay Away tattooed across their foreheads.

Yeah – I like that one better.

But my mother’s only intentions were to have the ones most special to her to be protected, loved and looked after. I’d like to think that maybe she knew that the time had come to shake out that rug in order for change to happen… to bring about peace. In hindsight, I believe that she must’ve sensed that her own time was short and that she needed to get certain things in order. So, she entrusted me to deliver this information when the time came, a time that I could not have even imagined facing. I had slowly watched my mother’s spirit become broken from the loss of her mother, some two years earlier. She had actually written this letter to her brother the same year of her friend’s passing and had held on to it all that time. She’d even written on a separate sheet of paper, her name and address, her brother’s name (my uncle, Johnny) and address and marked it as personal, underlining the word, personal. Uncle Johnny had apparently stopped by to see her on his way back to Florida after a trip somewhere and she’d written this letter to him that same day, after he’d left. She wrote of how good it was to see him, of how proud of him she was. She also wrote of how good she felt that there was still love between them, even though they were worlds apart in lifestyles (meaning their financial status). She told him that they were still family and that was why she felt compelled to write this letter. She spoke of a childhood friend she’d gone to school with who had died and was being buried that same day, and how it reminded her of death enough to realize her own mortality. She said that she wasn’t going to die without at least one of her brothers knowing the truth. She wanted him to know how one of their sisters had suffered at the hands of their father and had dealt with it for more than forty years. She wanted to inform him that one of their nephews was actually their half-brother, saying that he had unfortunately belonged to their father, none other than, the great Vern himself. Oh My God! I remember thinking while trying to keep my jaw from dropping to the floor as I read. She talked of the few who knew of this, and of how she never knew for sure if their own mother had known. Saying that, she’d never gotten up enough nerve up to ask her. I certainly knew that feeling. She talked of how incest was swept under the rug in those days and of not being sure that she was ever even able to convince their sister that she had in fact been the victim.

Please be kind to her, she asked of her brother, for she has suffered enough. She talked of how their sister had wanted to hate their daddy, yet had found it in her heart to forgive him before they buried him. She went on to say something that was to give me my first glimpse into my own mother’s mentality, and totally threw me for a loop in the process. She said to her brother, about their father, He was a good man, Johnny. What? I remember thinking as my eyes were glued to these words on that page. Oh my God; are you crazy? That was all I could think. She went on to explain that he was a good man and that he just had a weakness. A good man with a weakness… hmmm? Now, that’s a first – even for my mother. I couldn’t believe my own eyes as I read her thoughts and beliefs. At this point, I was totally glued to this letter and feeling so much emotion that I was honestly afraid to even look up at my mother, who was watching me as I read for fear of her getting a glimpse of my own pain. I knew full well that I did not want to go there with her in that moment, if ever. She told her brother that their father had left a mark on the world which was still with them and of how she hoped that their mother never knew. Yet, another reminder for me to most definitely, not go there with her about the pain of my own youth. Hurting my mother was the last thing that I would’ve ever wanted to do and rehashing my childhood with her at this point would’ve only done just that, as far as I could tell. She had suffered more than enough herself and I wasn’t about to cause her any more pain. She talked of how strong of a person their mother was and of how she could have taken this secret to her grave for the good of the family. She told her brother that she wasn’t sharing this information with him to hurt him, but because she saw him as the head of the family now and knew that he’d help a brother in-need, if need be. She told him that she thought that he’d want to know, saying that she most definitely would herself. She asked him to search his heart and soul before telling anyone else. She told him that she loved him and simply signed her name, Buddy. I wasn’t exactly sure what to say to her as I looked back up at her standing before me. Part of me wanted to scream. I’d have to say that I was pretty much overwhelmed, to say the least.

The links of a broken chain were finally starting to come together for me like the pieces of a jumbled up puzzle that had never seem to fit quite right before. I couldn’t help but want to scream for my grandma, the only grandparent that I had grown up knowing, and totally adored. How she must have hurt, had she known, for my mom who had been through a hell of her own with two more men with, so called, weaknesses of their own. My sweet aunt, who was the most kind-hearted of all of my mother’s sisters, had apparently suffered in silence more than anyone could’ve possibly imagined for her son/brother and for my cousin/uncle who are one in the same and I cannot name for obvious reasons. There was so much twirling around in my head that it was a small wonder that it didn’t spin right before my mother’s eyes. I thought about my own siblings, what we’d all been through, and wanted to scream for us all. But, did I? Oh no – not this well-trained, zipped-mouth, little southern belle. I sat there and held my tongue as usual.

No comment was usually the safe path I’d choose, simply because any expression of my opinion might seem critical and unwanted. The words, If you can’t find anything good to say about someone then don’t say anything at all, had been embedded in the back of my brain from my youth. And I didn’t want to disrespect my mom by going off on a rampage that would do anything but help the situation or my mother. I, at twenty-nine years of age, was just beginning to find my own voice and my opinions were pretty strong at this point and they were anything but good toward this situation, so I thought it best to keep them to myself, as usual. I did manage to ask her if Granddaddy had ever molested her or any of her other sisters - she unequivocally denied, at least as far as for herself. She did say that she had asked a couple of them and that they too had denied it, which really didn’t surprise me, given their roots. It gave new meaning to the phrase, Silence Is Golden. Yes, golden for the predator, yet horrid for the prey who must suffer in silence; possibly for the rest of their lives – all in the name of honor. Bull crap at its best! I seriously wanted to puke, it made me so sick. I could not make myself believe that out of five girls, that only one would be sought after and raped. It seemed highly unlikely, given what my siblings and I had experienced and from what I was beginning to understand about sexual abuse. But as illogical as it sounded, I wasn’t about to dispute my mother’s word. What did I know after all?

I was just starting to find my way. There were a whole lot of things that I didn’t understand back then and at the point, more than ever, my first name came into question - the very one that I am supposed to be so proud of… hmmm? I couldn’t resist pointing out the fact that I was pretty low on the list of grandchildren being at least the eleventh or twelfth one to be born, and asked why I was the chosen one to honor his name. Not that it couldn’t use some honor, but why me? And not only that, why would you? How could you? I asked in a soft voice, not wanting to sound sarcastic, yet fuming inside remembering being told so many times that I should be proud of my namesake. It seriously disgusted me to my very core. Mom, how could you? Knowing what you knew? Why on earth would you? I don’t understand! I just want to understand! Why? Please explain!

She just looked at me, lowered her head and smiled her I’m sorry smile, saying that she did it for her mom. It’s what she wanted and I couldn’t say no, she replied. Please keep in mind that you were among the first born after his death and no one had yet named their children after him. No damn wonder, I thought as I shook my head in disbelief and total disgust. She went on to say, I simply did it out of respect for my mother. She’d never really asked for very much and I didn’t have the heart to say no to her, she explained. That, I understood, so what else could I say? I simply looked at her and said, Okay, Mom; I think I understand, while thinking, I still don’t like it, even more so now, and may never. My mother and I shared a connection that day like never before and seeing things through her eyes was the beginning of opening my own. She seemed to have sensed the deep affect this information had had on me and she looked back at me as she started to walk away and said, you know I haven’t always made the right choices and I know that I didn’t protect you kids like I should’ve, and for that, I am truly sorry. There are many things that I’d undo or change if, I could. Please, know that, she said in a whisper. I just sat there holding my head down, not wanting to face this moment for her as much as for myself. It was just all too painful to deal with. Just please know Viola that I did the best that I could with what I had. She held her hands over her heart saying that she loved us all, each and every one with her whole heart and soul. I could only simply say once more, Okay, Mama; I think I understand." I wanted desperately to change the subject.

That’s all that needed to be said in that moment and the only thing that I could say, not wanting to rehash a painful past that couldn’t be changed. I did see for the very first time why people may want to take certain secrets to their grave, not only because of shame, but also to try and protect those that they love. So many things started to click for me during this visit that I would later come to realize was simply meant to be. I was exactly where I was supposed to be and didn’t even know it, nor would I fully understand the significance of it until much later. In hindsight, I probably should’ve seized the moment of opportunity and ask many more questions of her. But, I didn’t! ‘Coulda, Shoulda, Woulda.

Had I only known that that was to be my one and only glimpse into the window of my mother’s heart, mind, and soul, not to mention the wisdom that came from her personal insight. Hindsight can be painfully crystal clear at times and this was no exception. I had absolutely no idea of what this time with her would come to mean to me in the near future, not that every moment with her wasn’t treasured; I valued each and every one, having left home at such a young age. My time with her was always precious; I just didn’t know how precious this particular time would turn out to be. I had simply planned to make the most of my recovery time, following a surgery to remove one of my fallopian tubes due to a cyst that was feared to be an ectopic pregnancy, by spending it with her before having to return to work at the animal hospital. She and I both felt pretty bad during my stay – she was sick with the flu, or so she said, and I was still pretty sore. I had wanted another baby since the time my son, Toby, was small and I feared him being my only child. I also feared the possibility of him moving in with his father. He was now at the age where he could make his own decision about who he wanted to live with and although I understood where he was coming from remembering how I had missed my own father, I couldn’t imagine him actually leaving my side. I knew all too well how he felt and would’ve loved the opportunity to have lived with my father as a child, simply because he was my daddy and I felt like that’s where I was supposed to be. I had wanted my parents to be together and for all of us to be a family thinking that things would be set right.

Though I understood how he felt, it broke my heart to think of him actually leaving to live with his dad. Mom and I had discussed the possibility and the probability of this becoming a reality more than once and she tried her best to prepare me for what we both knew was coming… eventually. She said, You know, Vi? It really is true what they say about loving something or someone enough to set them free. My heart sank with those words… at the mere thought. And then she said, Trust me, Sweetheart; he’ll be back. If you don’t let him try it, he’ll want it even more. So when and if the time comes, I can only advise you to let him go while believing in your heart that he’ll return because he will. Mark my words. He knows how much you love him, but some things we just have to find out for ourselves; you know that. And, that I did. I had already miscarried three times by this point and was now facing even greater odds of having another baby, so I was feeling pretty blue in general now.

Mom was like I’d never seen her before. She was usually so strong, showing very little, if any, emotion when it came to her own pain. That’s just the way she was. She usually had the patience of a saint, especially with children, but I noticed this time that her tolerance level was much lower than usual. I knew that she must’ve felt really bad to have been so short with the kids. It was so unlike her that it really took me by surprise. I remember thinking that she must really need a break and some time to herself – not realizing that it was more to do with her health. She was totally worn out to the point of being exhausted, never taking time for herself. Being a single foster parent, I don’t know how she did it and kept herself going all time, but somehow, she did. She went nonstop, day and night it seemed. No rest for the weary. She had no other option but to keep going, she’d say. She most always had a full house, usually babysitting during the day, on top of being a foster parent 24/7 with no relief in sight. She’d have to ask a neighbor to sit with the kids or trade off with another foster parent just to be able to do her own grocery shopping. She had no me time, period – yet alone any time for illness. She had to keep going, so going she did – denying herself, as usual, her own needs. Forget wants! Her own medical needs couldn’t even be met. I begged her to give it all up and to come live with me and Max so that she could enjoy her life without anyone else to worry about for a change, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She was determined not to be a burden on anyone and I could not convince her otherwise.

I would’ve loved having her live with us and to be able to spoil her like I’d dreamt of doing as a child. But she, having been the primary caregiver for not only our stepfather, but also for both his mother and his stepfather until their deaths, would hear no part of it. She wouldn’t even discuss it except to say, you have NO clue! Just put me in a nursing home when the time comes, as she threw up her hand in a stop motion. Over my dead body, I boldly informed her. Absolutely, no way you will ever go in one of those places as long as I have a breath in my body! She just shook her head and laughed, knowing full well that she wasn’t about to convince me anymore than I had her. I had, after all, inherited her strong head and could only hope to inherit her strength, courage, stamina, insight, and wit. She had a keen ability to get through most anything while managing to keep a positive attitude and even find some humor in most situations… eventually. That alone always amazed me. I would imagine that her sense of humor was what kept her sane, that along with her undying faith. I could find very little humor in my own life at that point, even though there was some that I can only laugh about now. Hindsight can also be good I suppose and humor is always good, not to mention, very much needed. We were both in need of it after that letter. Later that afternoon, we were sitting in her living room watching TV when a tampon commercial came on, the one that said you could go swimming, horseback riding and so on – pretty much whatever you wanted to do and actually feel great doing it – when my mom looks over at me and says, Don’t just sit there, Viola. Get up and go and get us some of those! If they can do all that, I definitely want some, Don’t you? Pronto! Hurry up and get going." She says as she shooing me away with her hand. I thought that I’d die laughing, almost literally. Even though I was still so sore from my surgery that it honestly hurt to laugh, I couldn’t keep from laughing even harder from watching her laugh.

I’m not sure that I had ever seen my mom laugh so hard before and it still brings a smile to my face every time I think of it. I can only imagine how freeing she must have felt to have unloaded the heavy burden of that letter, but her precious smiles are the memories that warm my heart.

It really is the little things in life that bring us the most joy.

Sometime that same afternoon, she decided to, as she would put it, get some order to the disorder… toys were everywhere, dishes were to be done – the floor needed sweeping – the carpet was in need of a good vacuuming – there was laundry that needed to be folded, you name it, there was much to do, and not enough hours in the day to do it. No matter how bad she felt, she just kept going. I’d say, Mom, move over and let me do those dishes. She’d say, No! Thanks, but I need the warm water on these arthritic hands of mine. Ole Arthur can be mean, ya’ know. It helps to soften him up a bit, She’d say with a smile. Seriously, this warm water does wonders for my arthritis. I wish I could soak my whole body in this sink, She snickered. I ‘said, go soak in the tub, Mom; I’ve got the kids. Oh, I will later on tonight, she’d say. So, I swept the floor, moving like a turtle while she washed the dishes. Then, as I moved on to dry the dishes, she grabbed the vacuum cleaner. Knowing she felt bad, I offered to do it and she said, Girl, what do you think that I do when you’re not here? I do appreciate the offer, but I have to move this body in order to keep it going or this rheumatoid arthritis would do me in, and I cannot let it beat me; I have too much to do! Yea, Mama, I know. But you’re sick and you need to give yourself a break. I reached over for the vacuum cleaner and took it away from her, knowing full well that I shouldn’t be doing it either because of my surgery. But like her, my own health didn’t matter; I’d just do it anyway. I could barely stand up straight and I knew with the first push of that vacuum cleaner that I’d made a huge mistake - a very painful one that I would later pay for, but I wasn’t about to quit. I don’t think I’d ever struggled with something so hard before, yet been so determined not to stop. I was, however, very grateful for her living room being so small. She’d walk by and asked if I were okay if I should even be doing it, and I told her that I was fine. Then she asked again, Are you sure? Are you trying to spoil me? I said, Yes ma’am; I am! You know… I could get used to this, she said. Me too, I replied, If only you’d move in with us. Oh, I wouldn’t know what to do with myself having so much free time, she said. "Have fun, Mama; just enjoy life for a change. Wasn’t it you who used to say that we needed to stop and smell the roses? When, exactly, do you plan to take the time to do that? I don’t have time to stop and smell the roses. Just look around at all of these little faces that need to be fed and looked after.

They need me she said as she walked away laughing and shaking her head. I don’t have time to stop, not even to be sick. I’m tough though and I’m not going anywhere; I’ll be just fine. Will you at least go to the doctor? I asked. With what; may I ask? I’ll pay for it! With what? You’re as broke as I am, Viola! Well, we’ll find a way, Mom. Besides, I have plastic! I’ll watch the kids. Mama, please make an appointment and go before I have to leave to go back home. Please? Do it for me? I’ll think about it, she replied. Like she really would. She laughed later that evening about it taking the two of us to vacuum that little bitty floor, saying that we were a pitiful pair and that we really could use the power of those tampons! Don’t just stand there Vi; go and get ’em, she repeated, laughing so hard that she was now crying and about to wet her pants. I’ll never forget that smile. That was a gift that I still have, along with her special recipe for homemade goulash. I could, without a doubt, literally gorge myself on it! It was my all-time favorite comfort food and no one could make it like my mama. It was my treat every time I came home for a visit; she’d make it especially for me – that alone made it special. It became a homecoming ritual that I so looked forward to each and every time I entered her door. I was never even interested in making it for myself; it just wouldn’t have been the same. So I only had it when I came home and she, of course, would make it for me time and time again, without fail. Sick or not, she was determined to make it even though I told her not to this time. I don’t need it, Mama. I will survive without it; I promise! It’ll be fine; please don’t worry about it. I don’t have to have it this time, seriously. Yes you do, she said as she started to chop the onions and the bell peppers. Okay then, let me do that," I said as I took the knife from her hand. I chopped and she started frying the ground beef and without even realizing it, I was being handed a gift – one that I will always treasure – her precious recipe for goulash was forever embedded in my head as I prepared it alongside her. I was to leave to go back home soon, my time was almost up – in more ways than I could’ve ever imagined. I was due to return to work in a couple of weeks and Max was to have back surgery soon thereafter. Saying goodbye to my mother was never easy and this time would be no exception. I absolutely hated to leave her, even more than usual this time, although I couldn’t pinpoint exactly why.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had in the pit of my stomach as I hugged her goodbye. I can still remember not wanting to let go. I asked her once more, Won’t you please go and see a doctor? Please? Mama, please? If I’m not better by next week, I will. I promise, she insisted, Really, I will. IF, is the biggest, little word in the dictionary, and ironically sitting smack dab in the middle of the word life itself. I somehow didn’t believe her and pretty much told her so. She just laughed it off and said, I’m fine, sweetheart! Don’t worry. You know me; I’m tough! I’ll survive. It’s just the flu – it’s no big deal. My mother, being sixty two years old, had endured more stress than anybody should ever have to at any lifespan, no doubt! She was a diabetic and had been a smoker for many, many years. She was, without a doubt, one tough cookie but she was NOT fine, and it was not the flu that she had. It was a problem with her heart, and apparently a very serious one. But, did she go to a doctor? No! She ended up going into congestive heart failure during her sleep one night soon thereafter and probably only woke up because of a crying foster baby who was in her care. Her sugar was off and she couldn’t even see clearly enough to dial the phone for help when she woke up in trouble. She was finally able to reach one of her cousins who lived around the corner by counting buttons on the phone. Her cousin later told us that Mama’s flannel gown was so soaked with sweat that it could’ve literally been rung out, as if it’d been drenched with water. I will never forget that 3:00am phone call from Aunt, one of Mama’s younger sisters, saying that she may not make it through the night. Max had just had his back surgery a few days earlier and was due to come home from the hospital by ambulance that same morning. So needless to say, I was just about to freak out, not knowing which way to turn. I was half asleep, in shock, and couldn’t think straight to save my life. I felt so torn, knowing that Max needed me home to help with his recovery and fearing that my mother may not recover at all. So, after a few calls to family members, I called the hospital to speak with Max. He answered right away, asking me what was wrong. I started to cry at the sound of his voice and said, It’s really bad, Max! It’s Mama! She’s in congestive heart failure and may not make it through the night. I don’t know what to do! He told me to calm down, take a deep breath and pack a bag and go. I can’t just leave you! I insisted. Yes, you can, Viola! Go!

Stay calm, pack what you need and just go. I’ll be alright, he said. But… you’re coming home in just a few hours. I can’t just leave!" Yes you can!

I’ll call Suzy, ‘his daughter. She’ll come and stay with me. I feel sure she will. Just go baby; be careful and stay calm. I felt so torn and ask once more, are you sure? Of course I am! I’ll be okay! Your Mother may not be! I’ll be alright, he assured me. Just go. I’ll be fine, I promise! I’ve only had surgery. Your Mother may be dying! Just be careful and call me when you get there. Do you have any cash? $5, I told him, but I have my Amoco card that I can use for gas, and even to get a cash advance, if need be. He was so sweet and understanding. That was just Max. He was just like that. Always! With most everyone! I or anyone really could wake him from a sound sleep most any time no matter how tired he was, he was always kind and patient and he absolutely thought the world of my Mother.

The two of them had hit it off from the start. I thanked him for being so understanding, told him that I loved him, and to call me at Mama’s if he needed me for anything. I then threw a few things together, awoke the boy’s to tell them what was going on, went and filled the car up at the Amoco station and took off by 4:00 am. I’d never been as scared as I was during that drive. The four hours it took to get there seemed more like twelve. It was 1990, and I of course had no cell phone at the time, so I had no way of knowing if she’d be dead or alive when I arrived. I was absolutely petrified the whole way there as my mind feared the worst needless to say. I’d cry, and I’d pray. I’d pray, and I’d cry some more while trying to make deals with God and beg him to not take her. I drove straight through trying to get there as fast as I could and as I got closer, I couldn’t help but feel terrified as I walked through the front door of the hospital not knowing what I’d find on the other side. I was however pleasantly surprised to discover that she was actually in regular hospital room and not in I.C.U. And I had never felt more relief than I did when she looked up at me smiling with a surprised look on her face and said, "Viola Rose, you’re here with the sunrise! ‘How did you get here so fast? Fast, I replied. It seemed like forever to me. She was extremely pale in color, almost gray really, but still a beautiful sight.

I’d never been more glad, or grateful to see her sweet face, touch her hand, or hug her as I was in that moment. I silently thanked God, knowing full well that I should be on my knees in doing so. She was as weak as a newborn kitten and she couldn’t hold her eyes open for very long at a time. She’d dose, off and on, talking in her sleep saying things like "Not yet, Mama! I’m not ready yet! I can’t go! No! Not yet! I just knew that my grandma, who had passed some two years earlier, had come to meet her and to ease her passage. But I hoped that I was wrong and that she was just delirious. My siblings arrived soon thereafter and we, along with a cousin or two, ended up on our knees in the hospital chapel. Everyone loved our mom. She was everybody’s buddy and we all silently prayed for her, feeling hopeful that God would spare her for her good deeds. After having chest pains all night and throughout the following day, she was finally moved into I.C.U. This was a catch twenty -two because I wasn’t able to stay by her side, yet felt better about the care she’d be receiving, or I should say, somewhat better. This was a small town with a small hospital that we all knew she didn’t trust, nor want to be in. It took days to even get basic test results back – time that she may not have. We all wanted to have her moved, but couldn’t seem to make it happen until she got much worse. It was only then that the hospital changed their mind and decided to transfer her to a hospital in Augusta where our sister Jesse and her husband Ricky lived.

An entire team of doctors was assigned to her care upon arrival. We all finally felt a ray of hope just having her there, but it was to be too late. Her body had been through too much and she died in the early morning hours with her only living son, Larry, helplessly watching from a distance through a glass door at the end of the hall. My sister Jesse and I had spent the night before and it was Trish and Larry’s turn. Jesse woke me before daylight with the news that I somehow knew before she spoke; yet my mind couldn’t quite absorb. I remember sitting alone at her kitchen table just a few minutes later and staring into space thinking, God! Please? Not my mama! Not now! I beg you! Please don’t take her! I pleaded with my head down buried in my hands. Please let this be a dream! I still need her so! Then for some unknown reason, I looked up: almost as if someone had lifted my head.

My eyes were drawn to an image of a woman standing behind me with her hands on my shoulders that I was seeing a reflection of on the front of the microwave oven which sat on the countertop across from me. I saw no face, just a body wearing a pink terrycloth robe with hands that looked like Mama’s sitting on my shoulders. I just saw her for what seemed like a split second before I immediately looked back over my shoulder thinking that it was my grandma. And when I did, she was gone, just like that! I looked and looked again while hoping and praying that I’d see her once more, but I didn’t. The rest of that morning is still somewhat a blur, with the exception of not wanting to call Max because speaking the words aloud would somehow make them truer. I think it’s safe to say that we all wanted to crawl out of our own skin that miserable morning. None of us could stay out of the bathroom for very long. It’s amazing what effect the mind and nerves can have on the body during such a time and I think that we all feared the journey before us in more ways than one, as we headed out in different directions. Larry, Trisha, Jesse, Ricky and my niece, Linda took off towards Mama’s to start the funeral arrangements while Melissa and I went toward my house to pick up my son, Toby and to see Max for a few minutes. Melissa was so sweet. She drove the whole way saying that she needed to be doing something, which I was grateful for because I couldn’t have seen to drive had I wanted to. I could not stop the tears no matter how I tried, and I did try. I almost couldn’t deal with all that I was feeling. I would’ve done most anything to avoid or stop it, but I couldn’t! I simply wanted to crawl into a hole somewhere and cover myself up to keep from facing what I knew lie ahead, especially because I knew that Max still couldn’t travel. And I feared how Toby would deal with the loss of his grandma, having just turned thirteen. He loved her and she adored him. He was her first grandchild, or at least the first one that she actually got to know and claim as her own. But, that’s a whole other story which involved my brother and Vietnam. My mind drifted to many places during our ride home. I just didn’t know how to deal with all that I was feeling and I didn’t want to think or feel anymore. I was afraid I’d scream. I felt so lost, so alone and so cheated! The mere thought of being in this world without my mother, my rock, my home base, was in and of itself absolutely terrifying to me.

I simply couldn’t imagine my world without her and I didn’t want to believe that she was gone. I just could not wrap my mind around it nor did I want to. I wanted to wake from this nightmare. I couldn’t turn my mind off, no matter how I tried. It kept drifting back to our visit and to all of the things that we had talked about, the connection that we’d shared and the door that had been opened only to be slammed in my face! I caught myself wanting to remember every word that she had said and wanting to embed them in my brain so that I’d never forget a single one of them. I wanted to hold on to every glance that she had given me, every smile, her laugh, her touch and her scent. Part of me would have rather gone with her than to be here without her. It all seemed so unfair! Not just for us, my family, but for her and all of these beautiful babies that filled the hours of her day. I thought about all that she had been through and of how she had suffered throughout her life; and for what? Why? I prayed that God would take her to the softest place in Heaven and finally spoil her like she deserved to be spoiled. Her life here had been so hard; she deserved at least that, I boldly informed Him. I couldn’t help but feel somewhat angry with Him for having taken her in the first place. That was the least that He could do for her, I told myself and Him, actually having the nerve to be bossy with the man upstairs. I was also angry with her for not taking better care of herself, along with my own self for not making sure that she had. I wanted for all of this to be a horrible nightmare and to simply wake up from. I couldn’t stop thinking or feeling and I honestly thought that I’d lose my mind there for a while along with my faith. I didn’t want to feel anymore and would’ve given just about anything to be able to turn it off. That hole that I had wanted to crawl into was looking better by the minute. Anything, but this! I simply wanted to disappear, or at the very least, become numb for a little while. This was one of those moments that had someone offered me a pill or a drink in which to numb the pain; I felt I would’ve taken it without a second thought. I would’ve done anything to escape the awful reality of what was. Thank goodness that Melissa carried a bit of our mother’s wit and knew how and when to use it. She had us both laughing while wiping away tears by cracking jokes trying to make light of things. She said, "Viola, you know that our mama will be running whatever section of Heaven God puts her in charge of because you know as well as I do that she will most definitely request this.

And we all know that… the older Mama got, the bolder Mama got!

So I feel quite sure that she will have a few choice words for those certain souls that entered the gates before her of whom she wasn’t sure should’ve even been allowed there in the first place. I couldn’t help but laugh and agree with her on that one. Our mother had definitely gotten bolder with age; funny how that happens. But she had a heart of gold to go with that strong will and would’ve become God’s buddy in no time at all. That I feel sure of! We could both see her wanting to be his personal assistant and being more than happy to help keep everyone in check. I saw more than our mother’s wit out of my little sister that day. I saw her strength, and a stubbornness that we had all most definitely inherited. This was a part of her that I hoped would live on through all of us, along with her compassion for others. I wasn’t even remotely sure that I was capable of such forgiveness, which is what it would take to find such compassion, or even if I wanted to at the time. I wasn’t even sure of how I was going to get through this day! The ride from Augusta had seemed so long and I was never more relieved to see my husband’s face or to be held in his arms as I sobbed on the bed beside him until it was time to leave again. And although our visit was short, I somehow felt almost rejuvenated in a strange way just from having that reconnection with my family. My head still felt like it was about to explode, but I was now ready to drive. I needed an escape and wanted to keep it together for my son’s sake. Melissa was ready for a rest by now and to silently fall apart herself as she rode in the passenger seat beside me on the way to Mom’s. Traffic getting out of Atlanta was heavy as usual and that kept our minds occupied for a while and was even welcomed for once as it prolonged what we didn’t want to face. I think that we were both grateful for the distraction, although short-lived. Once we got through Atlanta, there was a long stretch of nothingness which led us straight back into our misery and the realization