Excuse My Trauma.

Excuse My Trauma is simply about understanding the Who, What, and Why of Trauma through personal life experiences. The things I’m about to go over and talk about are very personal, and vulnerable. This is a compilation of events and experiences I’ve had throughout my lifetime. The goal of this isn’t to bash anyone, or make anyone look like a bad person, but rather to prove that we’re all only human. We all make mistakes. The point of this is to bring to light some of the issues that may come with your Foster or Adoptive child. I also want to attempt to inform my readers that Biological parents aren’t always the villain. Sometimes they’re the unsung heros.  So let’s jump in shall we?

Trauma (n) /ˈtroumə,ˈtrômə/ 
is defined as a deeply distressing or disturbing experience. Trauma comes in many different forms. It’s emotional, it’s anger, it’s a response. it’s being afraid and not knowing why. I didn’t even know or recognize my own trauma until I was an adult. In fact, it wasn’t until about a few weeks ago that I actually realized how much I had. My Trauma is emotional. The world is a ball pit, and the balls in it, are triggers. Many of those triggers I’m learning and finding along the way, but I am now able to recognize it and know how to plan my next move. My goal in writing this is to inform and educate. The things I have and continue to go through, may not be the same as what you or a child you know, are going through. These are my personal experiences and stories. Take each element as a guide to maybe give you an idea of what your loved one is feeling, going though, or trying to communicate to you.

I was raised in Foster Care at the age of two until I aged out at 18. I was more fortunate than many kids who grow up in care. I had one home, and was able to have the same Foster Parents throughout my entire Foster Care experience. I don’t remember much from when I was first placed in Foster Care. I really only base my memories off of stories I’ve heard echoed from my brothers, or what little I heard from my biological parents. My brothers and I grew up together, which is another thing you don’t hear much about. Many times Siblings don’t get to stay in the same home. Some Foster families don’t have the room, or can only take a couple children in their home at a time. This means that siblings can be separated into different cities, counties, and even states. 

I knew both of my biological parents growing up. My dad who struggled with drugs, and  alcoholism, lived in Des Moines, IA most of my childhood, but eventually made his way back to Waterloo. My mother, born in Mississippi, Lived there for a while when we were younger, before moving back to Waterloo as well. I don’t remember much about the day that we were placed in care. After all, I was only two. My other two brothers, three and four at the time, remember a lot more than I do. There was abuse, and the welfare of our safety was compromised,  which resulted in us being placed all together in a Foster Home. The actual act of being taken from your birth parents, your home, and your friends is Trauma. It’s a traumatic event that isn’t easily forgotten. The stories I have in my head are from what my brothers told me of what happened that day, as well as the same recurring bad dreams. I have this particular dream every once in a while, where I’m at the apartment I spent the first two years of life at. I’m in the kitchen with my mother, who’s making something to eat. The entire apartment is dirty. The living room coffee table has cigarette ash all over it, there are cockroaches crawling under the fridge, and everyone’s yelling about something. I’m crying, and I’m not sure why. My dad is there, and he’s yelling at my mother. I usually wake up at this point. When I write the dream out, it’s a lot shorter than when I’m actually in the dream. It seems like it goes on forever. I’m not sure if this stems from an actual memory, or if it’s something that was formed in an actual dream. This is also Trauma. 

We were placed in the home of Ron and June Wilkins, who took all three of us in. They were complete strangers to us. June will be the first to tell you, it took me an entire year of living with them to smile. (Which is incredibly hard to believe, because I smile all the time now 🙂  I don’t remember that, but If you look back at photos that were taken of us when we were younger, you’d see that in every photo, I didn’t smile. This is a result of a trust issue. As we got older, I began to realize that I was here to stay. My parents made rare visits to see us. My dad was almost always in Jail or Prison, and my mother was either back in Mississippi, or living the life she wanted here in Waterloo. My mother made attempts to see us on birthday’s, Holidays, and family gatherings at my granny’s house, or a family reunion. My dad would write us consistently from jail, and keep us updated on “How quickly he was about to get out.” I remember June reading a letter from him, to us, while we sat at the kitchen table. As she read over the words that he was back in jail again, I remember all of us crying. I don’t remember why I was crying. Maybe because he said he would be visiting, and now wasn’t, or maybe because it was just another adult failing to be there. I loved my dad, but I definitely didn’t like him.

My dad was in the Vietnam War. When he came back, he was diagnosed with PTSD. He also suffers with Bipolar Disorder. He was, and still is a heavy alcoholic. I remember my brothers and I visiting my dad one day. We were at his apartment, where he had a Karaoke Machine. My oldest brother, Shaun, got on the microphone and began to make helicopter sounds. My dad stopped in his tracks and yelled at Shaun to stop. I remember thinking, why is he so mad about that? He would later explain that he had PTSD and the sound of the Helicopter was a trigger. 
When my Father would plan a visit with us, he would call us and give us a date of when he would be there. He was the man of broken promises. Countless time’s he would say he would be there and never show up. Sometimes he would call us the next day and explain why. Most time’s we wouldn’t hear from him for weeks or months. There was a specific time I remember him coming into town for a visit with us. He picked all three of us up and we went to different family members’ homes. We saw my aunt, some cousins, and some of my dad’s friends. We went to this Seafood market/restaurant in town. My dad told us about how good it was, and that we would stop back later and grab dinner. We rode around with him, every once in a while he would sip from his bottle of Gin that he kept in the center console. We stopped at a home on the East Side of town. It was one of my dad’s buddies. I don’t know his actual name, but he was referred to as the Candy Man. He greeted us at the door and gave us some candy. He talked to my dad for a few moments before we got back into the car and left to go home. Once we got back, my dad said that he was dropping me off, and taking the boys to get dinner. I remember telling him I wanted to go with, but he said he was just spending time with his boys, and he would be back with dinner in no time. I reluctantly went inside, and sat in the living room watching T.V. My Foster parents ate their dinner at the table, and I waited for the boys to return. I waited, and waited. A few hours go by, and it’s well past dinner. My brothers come into the house, empty handed. I got up and asked, “Where’s dinner? where’s Dad?” One of my brothers heads to his room and shuts the door, and the other tells me Dad had to leave, but said he loves you and will see you when he comes back to visit. I scratched my head on this for quite some time. Why wouldn’t he just come in and tell me himself? What was he hiding?
It wasn’t until days later, after reading one of my brothers’ journals, that we found out my dad had returned to the Candy Man’s home, where he did drugs in the kitchen, and left my brothers in the living room to watch inappropriate adult movies. He brought my brothers back home, and didn’t bother to come in because he was high. After this incident happened, We no longer were allowed to have visits alone with dad. Everything was supervised. We had to see therapists, DHS workers, and counselors. This is just one reason why I struggle with people who fail to follow through on their word. It’s a Trigger, and has made it’s way into my adulthood. I get upset to the point of tears sometimes when someone habitually cancels on me. This is Trauma. 

Any time there was a visit with one of our parents, I would get so anxious. I would tell June I didn’t want to go on any visits. I never really could give her a reason, I just really felt bad because I didn’t know my family like I was “supposed to.” June would tell me that I never had to go if I didn’t want to go, but I had to tell my dad, or my mom that I didn’t want to go. She wouldn’t do it for me since it would seem like she was putting words into my mouth. I NEVER wanted them to know that I didn’t want to see them, or go with them. I just hated being anxious, and nervous about what could potentially happen. I stayed quiet about it. We would go see family, and many would approach me and say things like, “You know who I am right?” and “What’s my name?” I never knew the right answers. I hated not knowing who my family was. It was embarrassing. After spending time with family, I would have a good time, but I was all ready to go back home. When I envisioned home, I saw the bridge that crosses over the Cedar River, dividing the “east side” from the “west side” of town. You see, my home was on the West side. My biological family lived on the East side. Every time we got ready to head back home from a visit, I would just think, ‘Everything will go back to normal once we cross the bridge. As soon as we get over the water, Everything will be familiar.’ Still to this day, I think of that any time I cross over that bridge. I’m much more comfortable with that side of town since I lived there for five years.  Even as an adult, I see familiar faces that I recognize as family, but I wouldn’t be able to tell you their names, or how they’re related. I hate that about myself. This is Trauma. 

My father drank more than anyone I knew. He was always so goofy and loud when he drank. My dad went to prison in 2011 or 2012 after having a barrage of charges against him. Public intoxication, impersonating a Police Officer, Terrorism, probation violations, and assault with a deadly weapon just to name a few. I remember learning about the incident after watching the News. I had never been so ashamed to have the last name Cody. I was in my last year as a Police Science student at the time. I was preparing for finals when my aunt called me. She informed me of my dad’s upcoming court date, and that I should be there to see him before he got transferred to prison. I remember telling her that his court date and time fell on a day where I had a final. I told her I was fed up with how he had acted all through the years, and how I wasn’t going to his hearing. She was so angry. She yelled at me on the phone, told me I was a horrible human being for not being there for him, and called me a number of names I wouldn’t dare repeat. I hung up on her, and went in to take my final. I wished that she would’ve understood my feelings in that moment. I wish she had taken the time to think of how his decisions had affected me both, emotionally, and mentally. Before my dad was transferred to the medical classification center, my brother’s went to visit him. They called me and told me that he wanted to see me. He had so many charges stacked against him, I didn’t see how he was ever getting out. There was no way he was going to take any accountability for his actions either. He never did. My other brother, Cortez tells me that he actually was easy to talk to. He wasn’t drunk, or on any drugs. He was calm, and collected. It was in that very moment I realized, With my dad in custody, he wouldn’t be under the influence of anything. and it was then that I realized I had never seen my father sober. After he received a sentence that would have had him locked up for close to 25 years, He got out in 5. You see, my dad is a very intelligent man. (When he’s not on any drugs or alcohol.) He has this ability to speak to people in a way that’s very persuasive. He read a lot of books, spoke to many lawyers, and was able to get a reduced sentence. 

My dad was more active in our lives than my mom seemed to be. She was around a lot more after she moved back from Mississippi. She and June always got along. Unlike my father and June, they were able to have conversations without yelling, and talk like adults. I had a difficult time figuring out what the word “Mom” meant. When I spoke about June to my friends, or really anyone, I would refer to her as my mom. If I was introducing her to anyone, I felt weird because I would get weird stares and confused looks if I called her my mom. Any time I would introduce her to a teacher, or another adult, I would say, “This is June.” She would smile and then correct me by telling them she was my mother. When I was younger, I always referred to her as Mom. That all changed after a visit.
My Biological mother, Diane, took us on a visit to my Granny’s house. I was getting my hair done, when someone asked, “who normally does your hair?” Without thinking, I responded, “My mom.” My Biological mother was sitting right next to me. When I realized what I had done, my heart started beating outside my chest. The Lady doing my hair smiled kindly and said, “Oh, you mean June.” In that moment, I had never felt so bad for Diane. What did she feel in that moment? Was she sad? Did I hurt her feelings? I never wanted anyone to feel bad because of the decisions I made, or the things I said. After I got back home, I started calling June by her first name instead of Mom. After a few weeks she asked me why I started doing that, and I didn’t really give her an answer. This is Trauma. 

About four years ago, I decided to try and get to know my mom’s side of the family a bit more. I wanted to know where I came from, Who my family was, and Where I got what features or habits. I called her and we made plans to go to lunch. She was living with my Granny and Grandpa at the time, so I always saw her when I went over. I told her about my achievements, I told her about me going back to school, I even took her to my house so she could see where I lived. I’ll be honest though, It was weird. It was like I did all the talking. It was like she didn’t know how to be a mom. She didn’t ask too many questions, and there was some awkward silence. I was kind of upset by this because here I was putting myself out there and trying. I put myself in a very uncomfortable position to try and make things better between us, and she acted as if she didn’t want any part of it. This was discouraging to me. She was hardly around when we all became adults, and now when I was making attempts, she was still absent. This was a trigger for me because I would see pictures on Facebook of my bio family gather for get together and events, but I would not get a call from her, or anyone else. The worst part of it all, was when I did actually try, the first thing she would say was, “Why don’t you ever call? You have my number right?” This enraged me every single time. How could she even say that to me? I haven’t heard from her in years, and then when I try and make amends, I get nothing from her. But she has the audacity to ask me why I never call? Does she not remember the past? Or even that she has not once apologized for anything that has happened? This made me push further away. I was happy where I was, but I still longed for some kind of a relationship with my family. This is Trauma.

When I met my husband Trevor, I made the decision to have him meet both of my bio parents because he needed to know where I came from. I knew my parents we not horrible people, They just lived lives that weren’t healthy. I had never brought any of my boyfriends to meet me biological parents before, so this was the first time. Trevor met my dad first. We arrived at his apartment building, and he came down the elevator to greet us. He shook Trevor’s hand and was very polite to him. We went upstairs to his apartment where we chatted and caught up. Things went pretty smooth until he started to drink and get a bit loud. We left shortly after that.
When we went to meet my mother, I didn’t know how it would go. I had no expectations going in. However Things went smooth. She met him, we asked lots of questions, and made a point to make sure our families weren’t related…since that would be weird if they were. (Ha!) Since I don’t know my family history super well, this was the only way I could make sure we weren’t related. This was always an issue when I dated a black man. There had to be so much background checking, and family history checking to do before anything moved forward. After all, I didn’t want to accidentally marry my half brother! 

Kids in Foster Care get a lot of labels. They get a lot of questions asked when their family shows up to an event. “Were you adopted? Your parents are white, and you’re black.” Not all, but many kids in care struggle with cognitive disabilities. This can be Trauma related. If children are being moved around from a number of foster homes, they have to change schools multiple times, make new friends, and try the bonding system over and over again. This is where Trust becomes distrust. How can you expect a child to trust healthy adult relationships, Have healthy boundaries, or even have acceptable behaviors  if they have never experienced what it’s like in a stable home? 
Many children, like myself also struggle with disabilities. I had a difficult time getting through school. I had a hard time focusing, and was eventually placed on Ritalin to help with that. I hated being on it because it changed who I was. I wasn’t my goofy fun self, and my friends were noticing. so I stopped taking it. I barley passed the 3rd grade, and was in special needs math courses all throughout grade school. Back when I was in Elementary school, neither my mother or teachers knew why I wasn’t understanding the work that I was given. They even took me to the eye doctor because they thought I couldn’t see the board, even after I told them I could. I was constantly embarrassed when I was called to write an answer, I never knew on the board in front of the entire class. My teacher sent home these math sheets for me to work on at home with my mom. Anytime she would try and help me with them, she would always ask, “How are you not getting this?” “Why don’t you understand?” I don’t fault her for this. Back then, they didn’t have all the answers to cognitive learning disabilities. She wasn’t the only one who would ask those questions. I’d get it from teachers, who would just give up, or even friends who tried to help. To this day, I have difficulty with those phrases. I was never the smart kid in school. So when I got to college, I vowed I would be better than a statistic. I would prove everyone wrong. I would make something of myself, and break the system. I worked my butt off to get through college. I did it by myself. I graduated from High School in 2009. I received my degree in Police Science in 2012. I graduated in 2018 with a BA in Family Services from a University. When I hear someone say, “How did you not know that?” or “I don’t understand how you’re not getting it.” I immediately go into Fight mode. This is Trauma.

Fight, Flight, or Freeze is a trauma related response. These are self protected responses that help us survive. Sometimes our brains react to situations differently because of a traumatic event, even if we’re completely safe. The Amygdala, located in the temporal lobes, operates kind of like the brains security guard. If the Amygdala feels unsafe, it goes into one of those three categories.  Mine happens to be Fight. I don’t physically go out and fight people, but I get incredibly defensive. When someone says anything that makes me feel stupid, unintelligent, or questions my intelligence, I IMMEDIATELY go into fight mode. When the Amygdala feels threatened, it automatically responds, even though we don’t realize in the moment why we feel as if we’re in “danger”. When one of these responses are activated, It causes the brain to focus on negative memories, or traumatic events. So, to the parent who doesn’t understand why their Foster, or Adopted child responds to different things more negatively than your other children, This is the way they communicate to you of what’s actually going on. I didn’t even realize this until about three months ago, and I’m 28. When in the moment, It’s incredibly difficult to come down from where I’m at. My body overheats, my breathing gets heavier, and my heart beats faster.
My husband and I have experienced this first hand. I didn’t even realize that I had this response until after my brain had calmed down enough for me to sort through it all.
Trevor and I were chatting about some Photography business, and something came up that made me realize I had misunderstood the terms of a contract. Trevor immediately begins to say, “How did you not get that? How did you not understand that? What made you think that was what we were doing? Wow, I can’t believe you didn’t know that!” Trevor didn’t realize that was a huge trigger. I Immediately start clenching my fist. I tell him in a calm tone, “I just messed up. I don’t know how I didn’t know that.” He continues, “Wow, I can’t believe you didn’t know that.” I blow up. “OKAY TREVOR, YOU’RE SMART, I’M STUPID. GOT IT, THANKS FOR MAKING THAT KNOWN!” my breathing picks up, and Trevor starts asking why I’m upset. I tell him that he made me feel stupid with his statements. He doesn’t understand.
“All I said was I don’t get–” 
“YEAH I KNOW WHAT YOU SAID.” I respond. “You don’t need to repeat it over and over again…”
This festered ALL DAY. I even went to our guest room when we got home, shut the door, and stayed in there for hours. I even fell asleep, and was there all night. The next day, we talked about it, and I was at a better place where I could gather my thoughts and sift through why I reacted the way I did. I explained to him of my past triggers with the phrases he used. 
Another instance, Trevor had a long day, and was super crabby, and I was getting irritated because of it. He had asked me before leaving town if I had a phone charger in my bag because he had left his in our home. I told him I had one, so he could use that. Once we got to our destination, he asked me if I had the plug in portion of the charger. I told him no, I had the actual charging cord. He slouched his body and says, “You just told me you had one!” I immediately become escalated. I think to myself, “Great. I let you down too, and now I feel dumb for not understanding what you meant.” This also festered most of the evening. We tried talking it out in the car, and his voice begins to get louder. My voice also get’s louder, until we’re yelling at each other about things that have nothing to do with why we’re upset. I open the door to get some air.
“WHY ARE YOU WALKING AWAY?! COME BACK” He yells, 
“I’M JUST OPENING THE DOOR FOR AIR! IS THAT OKAY WITH YOU?! JEEZ!! GOSH! I JUST WANT TO THROW MY FREAKING HEAD THROUGH A WINDOW!” and then out of no where, tears. Lots of tears. My fists are clenched, and my nails are digging into my palms. My body is burning up, and my head is pounding faster than my heart rate. Trevor instantly turns his body to face me. Leans back as if he was taking a step away, and with a calm soft voice, says, “I’m so Sorry.” He realized what was happening before I could, and was bringing me down to earth again. This is Trauma. 

Some people don’t understand the differences between Foster Care and Adoption.
Foster Care is when a child lives in the home of a certified caregiver who isn’t their biological parent. It’s a placement for the child because the child’s former parents/guardians/or caregivers are unable to take care of them for a variety of different reasons. Having the child’s best interest, the ultimate goal is to have the child placed back with their biological family. Foster Care is temporary– At least it’s supposed to be.

Adoption is permanent. There are a couple different ways this may look. There are foster to adopt homes, which means that the child is placed in a home with a family that is approved to adopt children, and hopes to adopt the children that come through their doors. For adoption to occur, the birth parents’ rights must be terminated. This is decided by the courts. A termination hearing is called, and they remove all rights from the biological parents because they are unfit to care for their child. This makes the child adoptable. Sometimes, the parent takes initiative and voluntarily terminates their rights. This takes so much courage. To know that you’re not ready or able to raise a child, but want to allow them to go to a family that has been called to care for them, is so admirable in my book. Not all Biological parents are bad. There is this nasty stigma around biological parents when regarding Foster Care or Adoption, and that’s completely unfair. Not every bio parent is drug strung, or alcohol driven. Everyone has a story, and it’s their right to tell it, and not our right to assume.

When I was planning my wedding earlier this year, the question of who was going to walk me down the isle came up. I had no issue figuring this out since I didn’t have a super great relationship with my dad. I asked my oldest brother Shaun to walk me down. He was more than happy to do so, and honestly I think he expected it. I did not think about the fact that my dad would probably assume he was walking me down. That conversation did not go well.

Trevor and I consistently went over the things we wanted for our big day. I kept wondering if I even wanted my bio parents at my wedding. They were both still heavy drinkers, and I didn’t know how they would do at my wedding. It’s because of them that I have never had a drop of alcohol before. We didn’t even have it at our wedding. I was nervous because I knew that even if I didn’t have it at my wedding, that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t bring it, or drink beforehand. I pondered on this up until a couple months before the big day. My dad was so confused as to why he hadn’t gotten an invite yet, and I had to tell him. When we spoke on the phone, I was interrupted every time I opened my mouth. He knew what was coming, but didn’t want to accept it. He was upset with me and swore at me telling me I was a horrible person for not having my dad walk me down the isle. I attempted to explain to him why Shaun was walking me down, and he didn’t want to hear it. I tried to tell him that I never got an apology or any sign of remorse for everything we went through with him. He definitely didn’t want to go over it either. He just kept yelling and asking why we wouldn’t leave the past in the past. Trevor attempted to talk to him, but to no avail. We ended up deciding that we were fine if he attended the ceremony as a guest, but not the reception, since I had a difficult time with telling my dad he wasn’t allowed at my wedding. He was so upset by our decisions that he decided he wouldn’t go at all. This gave me every sense of relief, but this was an incredibly difficult conversation to have. Just like how people have different meanings and definitions of what makes a family, there is a difference between BEING a dad or mom, and having the biological link that makes you the “mom” and “dad.” My father contacted me days after, and said he was going to be a “Good person” and still wanted to send us money for our wedding costs. I told him I didn’t need it, and it was unnecessary. He was persistent in saying that he wasn’t going to be awful like Trevor and I, but he would actually keep up his end of the deal. I’m not sure what he meant by that. We never gave him any indication that he was going to our wedding, let alone, what “deal” he was referring to. He made arrangements to have his lady friend drop the money off with us after church one day, since he was in Kansas for Treatment. Weeks passed, and he would text me asking how the wedding went. I would reply and tell him, we hadn’t gotten married yet, and that he kept getting the date wrong. He was always like that. Getting confused about anything and everything that was said to him was a frequent issue.

When I prepared to explain to Diane that she would be a guest at the wedding, she was going through chemo pretty heavily. I was informed not long before our wedding, that she had been diagnosed with stage 3 throat cancer. If I’m being honest, my first thought was, “what if that runs in my blood too?” I didn’t have a good relationship with her, so it was equivalent to a stranger telling me that their friend had cancer. I felt bad and sad for her, but I wasn’t in distress or anything. She didn’t seem to be too concerned about it either. When she told me she kind of had a peace about it. Every time I would go to try and visit her and chat about the wedding, she wouldn’t be home, or she would forget to tell me that she had chemo that morning.

On October 4, 2019 I got a text from my cousin who informed me that my mother was in the hospital and it wasn’t looking too good. Trevor and I had just begun a photo shoot with a couple from Chicago, and wasn’t going to be able to reschedule it. I waited to tell Trevor about the text until after the shoot. I knew that he would try and reschedule right then if I had told him at that time, so I chose to wait. After the session, I told Trevor what was going on. After talking it over, I made the decision to go to the hospital. I HATE hospitals. I hate everything about hospitals. I especially hate seeing loved ones in a hospital room. I think everyone can agree how awkward and uncomfortable it is to go see a friend or family member in the hospital. We went up to her room, where the nurse was in speaking with her about her medications. My mother had a friend who was also there with her. She apparently had taken him under his wing when he wasn’t doing well, and now the roles had reversed. He was there for her, and they were good friends. My mom began to tell us what the situation was. She told us that she had surgery to see if the Chemo had reduced the tumor or not. She said she had a meeting with the surgeons and Dr.’s and they told her, with my aunts and uncles there, that the Chemo had not improved the size or state of the tumor. The Dr.’s then made the decision to move her from stage 3 to stage 4. This was when I realized how serious this was. I always knew Cancer wasn’t something to mess around with, but for some reason, it was in this moment that it all hit me. My mother was dying. Everything was happening so fast. When she was telling us all the information on what was going on, she had this peace about her. She said she didn’t want to be hooked up to everything, and she really just wanted to be home and comfortable. She told me that she believed that God had everything in His hands and He would heal her if He needed to.
At this point she was unable to swallow anything. Her taste buds no longer could taste, and she used a suction machine to suck up anything she coughed up, or any saliva she couldn’t swallow. She stated to us that she was so upset that she couldn’t taste any food anymore, and all the food she had at her home was going to go uneaten. She had a feeding tube hooked up at this time as well. I hated seeing her like this. She asked how our wedding went. She saw a few photos, and wanted to make sure that she got one of all her children, and one of June, my foster mother. She’s always had nothing but respect for her. Anytime I would see her, she would always say, “Tell June Thank you. I appreciate how she brought ya’ll up, and I can’t thank her enough.” We sat in the hospital with her for around an hour. She told me she had had a conversation with my oldest brother Shaun, and said it was a good mother/son talk. She said they had talked about everything that has happened, and went over lots of details. I was so curious to know what all was said. My brother told me that he would tell me everything once he was back in town again.

After we left, I made it my goal to go print off the photos she requested. Days went by, and I still hadn’t gotten it done yet. It wasn’t until a couple weeks later on October 15th, 2019 when I got a text from my cousin telling me my mother was in the ER at Allen Hospital. I was dropping off some kids from the Salvation Army that I volunteer with once a week, and texted Trevor to go to the hospital and I would meet him there after I was done. When I arrived, I saw Aunts, Uncles, Cousins, and Nieces I had never met, or hadn’t seen in nearly 10 years. We all sat in a waiting room to hear something from the nurses. One of the nurses told us that only a few of us could be in there at a time. My aunt spoke up and told me and Trevor to go in with my Granny first. As we walked into the ER I could smell the overwhelming scent of blood. I immediately felt sick. As we entered the room I was completely overwhelmed. She was just lying there with a tube down her throat. She looked terrible. The nurse told us that she was not sedated, but was not conscious either. They weren’t sure how long she had been that way. Apparently her friend that was with her a couple weeks prior at the hospital, had called 911 after he said she was gasping for air. When the ambulance arrived she had blood coming out of her nose and mouth and made the decision to take her to Allen since it was closer than going to Covenant. The nurses said they were taking her up to ICU so they would show us how to get up there. I walked out of the room with Trevor and broke down. He pulled me close and held me in the middle of the ER. I knew I had to call my brothers and let them know, as well as my Dad. My dad had just left for Kansas again, after he recently returned to town, to check in on my mom. He was actually on a bus when I called him, and said he would try and see about coming back again if he could. My middle brother Cortez, was uneasy about going to the hospital, and wasn’t sure if he could bring himself to do it. My oldest brother Shaun was all the way in Missouri, and was unsure if he was going to make it either.
We walked up to the ICU where practically half of my family was. Trevor’s mother came by for support as well. I reconnected with my family, and met some members I had never seen before. It was like a sad reunion. We all gathered in her hospital room where the Dr. had come in to explain what was going on. He told us the tumor in her throat had metastasized and was pushing against her corroded artery. The arteries are responsible for supplying the head and neck with oxygenated blood. Since the tumor was blocking her artery, it explained why she had blood coming from her nose and mouth. This also explained why she was gasping for air initially. The Dr. asked us all what her wishes where, and what they wanted us to do from here on out. I was not expecting my family to all turn and look at me when they did. I was surprised that I even had a say in the matter. After all, she was much closer to everyone else in the room. My uncle spoke up and said what he had told him. She didn’t want all the tubes or to be stuck in a hospital. I agreed. The Dr. did say that it was concerning that she wasn’t sedated, but she was unconscious, and not waking up. He also said that he could give her some units of blood and some heavy medication to see if that would help. After it was gone, we would re assess.
Family came and went. I took a moment to go to her room alone, where I spoke to her. I always felt weird talking to her, not knowing if she could even hear me. I told her I was sorry for not being there more. I told her that I wished I had more time to tell her about who I was, and to learn more about who she was. I told her I forgave her for everything, and that we were going to be okay if God needed her more. I stood by her bed and held her hand for a while, before going back to the waiting room. Dr.’s would come in and out and ask me questions about her that I didn’t have the answers to. This is Trauma. My husband and I decided to go to his mother’s house to sleep since she lived a couple minutes away from the hospital. I barley slept before I got a call at 5:00 AM telling me that we needed to get back to the hospital. When we arrived, my uncle was there, but the rest of the family hadn’t arrived yet. The Dr. said that there really wasn’t more they could do, and said now was the time to call family. I messaged my brothers, and Cortez said he would come. As family started to file in the room, one by one would come in, look at her, kiss her on her head and say a few words to her. Some would even call her name, and she would open her eyes for a second before closing them again. This made me think she could really hear us. When my brother arrived, He came over and just held me. We hugged for what seemed like forever. He went up to her, and gave her a kiss on the head. With his voice shaking, he kept asking why she wasn’t waking up. Why the Dr.’s couldn’t give her adrenaline and get her to wake up. I kept trying to explain to him that she wasn’t sedated and that she just wasn’t waking up. So many cousins, and uncles, and aunts, and friends arrived to say goodbye to my mother. When it was time, we left the room so the Dr.’s could take the tube out of her throat. A short while later, the nurse came out to tell me that she had passed. I told my family, and we all gathered back into the room where the Chaplin was. We made a circle around her bed, and held hands as he prayed over her body. There were so many people there. She was just so loved by so many people. I felt bad for my granny because she had just lost her husband earlier this year to Dementia. Soon after, questions about the funeral, and what to do with the body came up. After some of the main things were handled, Trevor and I left for home.

Event’s played in my head over and over again. I was so angry with myself for not getting those pictures printed. That was the only thing she wanted, and I didn’t get it done. I continue to beat myself up for this. I know I can’t change the past, but it still hurts. I would hear stories my family would tell about how much fun she was. How she was the life of every party. I saw so many similarities in who she was, and who I was. I closed myself off for a while from others. When I grieve, I shut people out. I isolate myself, and I don’t really speak with people. I know it’s not healthy, but that’s just the way I handle it.  Trevor took my phone and responded to texts and calls that came in. He forced me out of the house after a couple days  so I could get some sun. I cried for days. I would wake up in the middle of the night and just start bawling. I would think of something from the past, and I would just lose it. Everything that I had buried in my brain had resurfaced, and all it took was for me to think about it before I was doubled over in tears.
The Visitation and Funeral were hard. I was Seeing people who had even better relationships with her, cry over her body and needing to have help walking out of the room. My aunts who had to be removed from the sanctuary because they couldn’t stop crying and regulate their breathing. Before the visitation, I had went to Walmart and got prints of the photos my mom requested. When I walked up to the casket, I put the photo of the three of us in the casket with her. We were all in one place together, just as she wanted. Photos were displayed that showed her personality, her love for us, and the fun she had with family and friends. I kept some of them so I had actual photos of my mother. Because I don’t have any baby pictures of myself, I struggle with all the questions I never asked her. What did I look like as a baby? Did I have any hair? things like that. I do have a photo of my mother when she was a child, so that’s all I have to go off from. I never thought I would feel the way I do about her. I never thought I would be as affected as I was about everything. It’s taken me almost over two months to write this post. I have needed to stop to collect my thoughts, and just needed to take a break.
I miss her. I miss her a lot. I waited by the phone on Thanksgiving thinking she would call and wish me a Happy Thanksgiving, forgetting that she’s gone now.

 

Trauma is sooo real ya’ll. If you’re a Foster Parent, or Adoptive Parent, I just want to inform you through all this, that it’s a LOT. There are so many things that you don’t think of that may come up in the future. I’m not saying it will all be bad, but rather just prepare yourself for anything. Keep an open mind with your children. Listen to what they’re telling you through their behaviors, and through that, Love them even HARDER. Triggers can come in all sorts of disguises, so just be ready to address things that resurface, or “come out of nowhere.” I’m still processing through a lot. I have looked through old documents, and court files to see the life my parents led before, and during Foster Care. I’m finding SO MUCH information I never knew, and I’m learning about how their relationship was when they were together.
If you deal with triggers and trauma, Talk to someone. Pick someone to confide in, whether that’s a professional, or a friend. Tell them how you feel. It’s okay if you don’t know WHY. I still don’t know why I feel the way I feel sometimes. Talk to someone who’s a good listener, and loves you and you heart. You are the only person who can decide how and when to feel what you’re feeling. It’s okay to not be okay sometimes. We’re human. It’s how we chose to pick ourselves up from the rubble that matters. Above all else, Trust that God is in control, and will get you through all of it. Lastly, Love yourself. Forgive yourself for the things you wish you could’ve done, and find a way to press forward. Self care is soooo important, and needed for survival. Take that mini-cation, get that massage, go for a new hairstyle, and OWN it. Love YOURSELF. Your past doesn’t define you. Neither does your Trauma.