The Bad Religion Plaguing my Black Family
By: Chelsie Bennett
Tags: Personal Growth, Spirituality, Life Lessons, Religion, Self

The Bad Religion Plaguing my Black Family

The curse ends here.

Photo by Aarón Blanco Tejedor on Unsplash

3:55 am:

I get a call from my mom and groggily awake from my sleep. Usually, when we call each other in the wee hours of the morning, we begin with “Everything’s okay” or “Nothing’s wrong” to ease the anxiety that comes from imagining all of the horrible things that happen at that time of day.

I don’t receive that greeting this time.

My grogginess immediately turns into a frantic fury after she tells me she’s headed to the hospital because my aunt’s had a stroke. While she’s assuring me that she’ll keep me updated, I’m gathering my clothes and preparing to make the 45-minute drive.

Before I finish the drive, my mom informs me that my aunt’s being transferred to a hospital in Nashville, just ten minutes from my apartment.

I keep driving anyway.

4:44 am:

As soon as I make it to the hospital, my mom, the strongest person I know, is in a full-bodied bawl.

I never see her cry.

At this point, my mom, grandma, two cousins, and I are all standing around in quiet anticipation of what’s to come.

Watching the events unfold over the next 12 or so hours reveal to me the one thing we all have in common, besides our bloodline…

Approximately 7:45 am:

I sit in the Neuro ICU waiting room and I begin to focus my attention on each of our reactions after learning of the severity of the stroke.

One of my cousins never makes it to the second hospital. I meet him to grab my grandma’s medicine bag — she can’t be that far away from home for an unpredictable amount of time without it. During the exchange, he tells me that he feels like it’s his fault because he didn’t call the ambulance sooner.

He’s the one that found her on the floor in the middle of the night.

I try to comfort him by saying, “There are many things we can control, but this isn’t one of them.” He just needs to go home and sleep it off.

My other cousin, who was also at the house when it happened, sits straight-faced, making phone calls to update the necessary family members as he counts down the minutes before he has to leave for work. We interject the silence with comments on the death of Representative Elijah Cummings and an 18-year old who was killed on the campus of a nearby HBCU, on the eve of their Homecoming week.

Of course, the depressing ass local news is blaring from the wall above us.

My mom is back and forth from my aunt’s room in ICU, talking to the nurses. She’s the Power of Attorney, so she’s signing off on every life-altering document under the sun. There is now no evidence of the tears she shed not so long ago.

My uncle comes in before long and he goes straight to the room in ICU. By the time he makes it to the waiting room, my cousin has now left to take care of his work duties. My uncle is making phone calls and on his computer, just a bit of distance across the room from me.

My grandma seems wildly calm, given her nature. She’s silent, which is far from normal. When the doctor comes to dish the details, I notice her leg start to shake and she turns her body towards the wall, one leg now in the chair, left hand on her forehead. Seconds later, she turns back and her body language is back to normal.

Perhaps she was praying.

And then there’s me — I’m a thinker by nature, so I sit and allow my mind to wander. I sit and recount every traumatic experience, in my awareness, of each family member in the room. We’ve seen the loss of a daughter, mothers, fathers, the imprisonment of relatives, and many more, just among the five family members inhabiting the room.

I’m tingling from head to toe, trying my best to be strong, but every bit of my recently vowed “never-to-be numb again” body is communicating how we all feel. The tapping of my grandma’s leg radiates distress. My mom’s stern face, with no evidence of the tears dried, emits exhaustion. My uncle’s actions and cousin’s demeanor both read ambivalent avoidance.

None of us want to feel the reality of the situation, but we are, in the best way we know — in the way we’ve been conditioned to do so for many years too long.

Hold it in.

The doctor tells us there’s a blood clot on her brain, but they can’t intervene. Due to being out of the allotted time window and given her prescribed medications for diabetes, high blood pressure, and congestive heart failure, it’s too big of a risk.

I step out to cry so no one can see me.

Within two minutes, I’m back like nothing ever happened.

We are hurting, but no one dares to show it.

Approximately 11:00 am:

Now it’s down to just three of us — the three women. By this time, my aunt’s stable enough and the doctors have asked us to step out for a moment. My mom and I go to the snack shop and grab a quick bite.

The initial sting is over, but we’re not yet in the clear.

We make the decision to have someone at the hospital around the clock. Since I live the closest, I’ll go home first to regroup so that I can relieve my mom and grandma a bit later when rush hour traffic dies down.

Approximately 1:00 pm:

I make it home, and all I want to do is wash off the morning.

I get in the shower and while I’m washing my hair, I can do nothing but drop to my knees and let out a silent scream. I’m not even sure if tears fall from my eyes, but all of my gestures are hurling out whatever will come.

I stand, and before long, my body collapses again.

I can feel everything.

Every emotion we had each chosen to mask is suddenly pouring out of me.

I hear the lyrics, “If it brings me to my knees, it’s a bad religion.”

Frank Ocean.

Then it hits me.

I told my cousin we weren’t in control. And of the impact and timing of the stroke, no we weren’t. But I come to the realization that my statement wasn’t completely true.

I’m on such a pain-high when I finish showering that I cut my hair, something I’ve been griping about doing for months now but hadn’t found the courage.

I’ve just experienced firsthand and felt how quickly and uncontrollably life can change from a series of decisions that are extremely within control.

What’s the use in holding on to something that isn’t serving me and is actually hindering my growth process?

A pproximately 6:00 pm:

I return to the hospital after regaining my composure because I know that’s “just what we do.” We’re strong for those around us because that’s what our ancestors had to do for years, back when they were building this country.