Tag: death

10 Min Read, grief, Holidays, Mental Health, Parenting, Robert Samuel Walker

I used to like February 14th. Then I didn’t. Now it’s not so bad.

Regina Lynette

After my mother died my father remarried. He was looking for a way out of a financial bind and a new mother for me – or a way to not be alone because he knew I wanted to live with one of my sisters. So, my father made a mistake and he married an abusive witch who made my life, our lives, hell until we escaped. I left for college; he left for heaven. The last five years before I graduated high school was not only a hell created and maintained by my step-monster, but my father emotionally abandoned me at the same time. His abandon was driven by many things, mostly those pesky good intentions, but mainly by my step-monster’s “rules”. I was not allowed to talk with my father alone. Ever. And that was one thing he and I had my entire life – time alone together for philosophical conversations, even as a very young child. I tried to hold on to the fact that my father loved me during this time but many of his behaviors did not demonstrate love. However, on the other side of that period of time it would turn out to be the knowledge that he loved me that would facilitate the healing of my broken heart.

Tell me that old man doesn’t adore that little girl!
That’s me on my first birthday in my Daddy’s arms.

I went to university in another city and only visited him once a year and only at our church building. I refused to return to that witch’s house ever again after I left town hours after high school graduation. Then he was diagnosed with lymphoma. I can’t remember any details of that except I kept up to date with his progress through my sister – his oldest daughter – and I was able to talk to him on the phone occasionally. Even though I’d prayed for his healing and elicited prayers from my Watch-Care church, I prepared myself for his death. He was in his late 70s living with an inhumane abusive human, trying to help pastor a church while our pastor was in jail. I found a level of resolution and peace about his death, which would possibly happen during critical classes in my final year, and would alert my professors and the dean that I might miss a week of classes with little notice should he die.

Because my father was old and ill (he was healed of the cancer, but his body was worn out from the chemo) I went to visit him over Christmas break during my last year in school. Unfortunately this meant I had to go into the step-monster’s house and she had the nerve to try and keep me away from him – I’d had a lingering cough from pneumonia but was well. She and I almost fought, physically, twice during that short visit. But it was during that visit, he and I finally and truly reconciled. We shared a few poignant moments that I am very grateful for because that was the last time I would see him alive.

Before going to New Nonconnah Missionary Baptist Church in Memphis one cold Easter Sunday morning.

That Valentine’s Day, a Monday, was an early day in my teaching schedule – I had to get up about 5AM to be sure to arrive at school in time. After I finished my shower, still standing in my robe, I saw my answering machine flashing. My heart fell. No one would call me at that hour unless it was horrible news. I listened to the message hoping the person would have left the details of the call in the message but they didn’t. It was my sister – my father’s oldest daughter – telling me to call her as soon as possible. That could only mean that something had happened to Daddy. I thought to take a moment and calm my breathing, maybe get dressed to feel less vulnerable but I couldn’t wait to hear the bad news. She spoke with nervous energy and asked an odd question – she asked if I knew why she was calling. I suppose someone else should have called me first because someone called her to tell her what she called to relay. But no one had called and I didn’t expect anyone to call me with any news about Daddy but her. And I really wanted her to get to the point. I told her I assumed it was something about Daddy and she told me that he’d died about an hour or two before she called.

I told her I needed to get to the school but to let me know as soon as anyone decided on a date for the funeral so I could alert the dean and try to work something out to be at the funeral and to graduate on time. I didn’t really cry – a few tears made their way through but I didn’t give in to the urge to cry. I had business to take care of, like figuring out how to get to a funeral and back to class within the allowed days of absence required to pass. I couldn’t break down – be non-functional – so I didn’t allow grief to set in.

I went to school and told the lead teachers that my father had died that morning and that I would need to speak with the dean when she arrived. The dean’s son was in my class and one of my assigned students to monitor development (no pressure, right) so I would see her when she dropped him off. One of the lead teachers interrupted me just after I said the words that my father had died and unofficially suggested I be allowed more time off and still be allowed to graduate on time. She gave me the standard 5 days that the employed teachers received as a part of their benefits and I was so grateful. I asked to stay and finish that day because I had no idea when the funeral would be. You see, there are many things that can delay a funeral in the Black American culture and I was the only black person in my whole major at that school. I hoped they were ready back home and could pull it off within that week but I didn’t know.

Because that day was so exhausting emotionally, and I was developing some weird nervous ticks, I started my 5 days leave the next day, that Tuesday. I still hadn’t really cried and was making my heart harder by the minute. My friends indulged me – I sort of lived those days in a weird haze, both wanting people to know my father was gone and not wanting anyone to say anything that would make me cry. And I took phone calls from various loved ones in Memphis annoyed by the fact checking of all the scandals – not only was I entirely uninterested in the drama I’d left behind for school, but I was the only person not living there so why would I know the answer to any of those questions? But I suppose that is a part of it all – what secrets did they know that I didn’t and vice versa. Anyway, not quite soon enough, I was on my way to say farewell to my father.

Again, I was everyone’s concern, just as I was when my mother died. But I vowed to do some things differently with his death. I wouldn’t wait on the adults to figure out what they were going to do about me. I would take care of myself as much as I could.

I refused to be a part of the funeral procession because I’d learned to hate limos since the first time I rode in one was on the way to my mother’s funeral. I’d always hated following hearses and didn’t want a police escort. I didn’t want to ride with headlights on. So I stayed with my father’s oldest daughter and went to the funeral with her promise to be my shield, allowing me to manage the funeral just as I wanted to. I also refused to view the body. That was the best choice I ever made – the last memory I have of him was us sitting together and laughing, having dinner. I have absolutely no memory of him dead and I’m glad. But this refusal meant I would not go into the church until the family processioned in because the service started with the casket open. My father’s oldest daughter, all of his children in fact, were near the back of the procession. That was not where we were supposed to be but it demonstrates just how my step-monster tore us apart. Thankfully my father’s siblings and some cousins were near the front. Some of them thought it was inappropriate that they sat in front of us but I didn’t care. I only wanted family up there and not just church folk holding step-monster up.  In fact, they didn’t even know I was there until I went to speak on behalf of the family. Yes, I was on the program. No, none of the people who wrote the program told me. These were also people who claimed to be unable to find a phone number to call me and let me know my father had died. My sister let me know I was on program, thankfully, and I was able to prepare.

The funeral was not until the following Saturday, and he wasn’t buried until the following Tuesday. I returned to school that Sunday, missing the burial. I had a degree to get and no more grant and scholarship money. I managed to only need a loan for a semester and a half and I would be damned if I had to repeat a semester for a burial service. And honestly, I believe my father would have understood and even encouraged me to get my degree under those circumstances. I’ve always felt that the burial was the worst part of any funeral – dropping the body of your loved ones into freshly dug ground feels cruel. That’s not particularly logical, I know, but it’s how I feel.

It would be more than 17 years before I went to the cemetery where my father was laid to rest. I felt so much peace.

The first Valentine’s Day after he died I was furious and found myself feeling that way every Valentine’s Day after that. I thought I’d handled the situation well but in reality there was still a bunch of feelings just swept under the carpet. The refusal to grieve my father until I got my degree really meant refusal to grieve for much longer than that. The reminder that the ex who I’d once dreamed of marrying was not the right guy – he called the day Daddy died, not to offer condolences but to seek sympathy for the “saddest Valentine’s Day of his life”. The inappropriate men taking advantage of my vulnerability by hitting on me at the funeral and during the repast. The guilt I felt for having essentially abandoned much of my family simply by trying to abandon my father and step-monster. And I never knew I hated Valentine’s Day until then.

Men coming out of the grocery store with bouquets, heart-shaped candy boxes, and pink and red balloons pissed me off. And I wasn’t quite sure why. High schoolers getting on buses with giant teddy bears pissed me off. And I wasn’t quite sure why. I asked myself if it was because I didn’t have a “valentine” that day but that didn’t ring true to my emotions. Valentine’s day had never been a big deal to me and I had never received anything that felt significant from any boyfriend I’d had on valentine’s day. Even my secret admirer valentine’s day gifts were blah – I would have preferred to know who the admirer was rather than have a secret gift. So I blamed it on my Daddy’s death. It was easy to do – after all, he died on Valentine’s Day.

When I was young Valentine’s Day meant cardboard valentine’s cards, candy, and a day at school that ended with a party or a dance. Then as a young adult Valentine’s Day meant my daddy died. But now as a not-as-young adult, Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean anything at all. You know how I know? I literally forgot all about it. I didn’t send out social media greetings in memory of my father. I didn’t send any gifts to family or friends nearby. I didn’t even send myself flowers or buy any candy. When was it, Sunday? Yeah, just a regular old day.

I used to like February 14th. Then I didn’t. Now it’s not so bad.

10 Min Read, Donna Maria Thomas-Walker

I am Regina Lynette. I was the one who found her.

Regina Lynette


My memory of the last quarter of 1989 is a bit spotty now as I have suppressed some details that were hard to process at the time. The piece that is perhaps most critical to this story is that my mother, in the doctor’s words, “literally blew her top” while we were out of town visiting my sister. Her blood pressure rose so high that she had a seizure, and she was hospitalized until it lowered some. When we eventually returned home, we were vigilant about her salt intake – the only factor we were aware of in our limited education that would affect her health. Somewhere in those weeks I had my thirteenth birthday (which I do not remember celebrating at all) and a stomach virus. I was feeling better by Christmas Eve 1989.


On Christmas Eve 1989, I baked sugar cookies with red and green sprinkles. No one had the “Christmas Spirit” and I was trying to rustle up some cheer. My sister was having a challenging first pregnancy and was on the other end of the state. My brother was having other challenges – I don’t recall what and don’t remember where he was; just that it was a long-distance call and I knew where to find his phone number. They were both married and “the kids” were now adults and had their own lives to deal with. Logically we all understood that we weren’t central to their lives anymore. But we all felt the absence because this was the first Christmas that no one was coming home.


Daddy had been at work on his part-time security job and returned home tired and cold. We spoke briefly and he went to his room. Mommy was relaxing on the couch watching television when I went to ask Daddy if he wanted any cookies. I walked into his room, called his name, but he didn’t stir. He didn’t look right – slumped over with a book falling out of his hand. It scared me and I called his name again much louder. He found his way out of his slumber and answered. I asked if he wanted cookies, said something about regretting waking him up, maybe even told him to go back to sleep. I ran back to the kitchen and prayed – “Dear God, please don’t let my daddy die.” I wiped the tears that were falling and pretended to be tired and went to bed.


Christmas arrived rather uneventfully. I remember getting a Juicy Fruit watch, a Nintendo game (I don’t remember which one), and Karyn White’s self-titled debut album on cassette. I spent the day learning all the words to “Superwoman” and playing whatever game I got. Apparently I got some cash because Mommy and I planned to go to shopping the day-after-Christmas sales. And later that night Daddy left to work an overnight shift.


When I woke up the next morning, I remembered having a dream that featured Malcolm Jamal Warner and smiling because I had a crush on him. I lay back down almost hoping to catch the rest of that dream and then a series of events occurred that under other circumstances would mean absolutely nothing. Daddy came home and I remember thinking he was making too much noise. Mommy liked to wake up naturally, not from other people’s living sounds. He went to the back of the house for a moment and when he returned to the kitchen he asked me if Mommy had been up and I said something about leaving her to sleep late. Then the dryer buzzed letting us know that the clothes were dry. Daddy asked me to check and see if that woke up Mommy – which was a bit weird – and I dismissed it, told him it wasn’t that loud. Then the phone rang. I purposely let it ring too many times hoping she would answer – usually by the second ring because she couldn’t stand to hear it. When she didn’t answer, I picked up just before the answering machine would have picked up and answered it. It was a follow-up call from the doctor about the virus I’d had. And after I hung up, I tiptoed toward Mommy’s room and peeked inside. I thought she was sleeping but I decided to try and wake her up. She didn’t.

I was the one who found her.


I called for Daddy. I picked up the phone to dial 911 while Daddy turned her over. I hadn’t dialed 911 – just held the phone – so I asked if I should and Daddy said he was afraid she’d passed. My brain didn’t accept that so I called 911. Funnily enough I recalled my training in school every year from Kindergarten until that day about calling in emergencies and the script didn’t go exactly as we’d rehearsed. I often recall strange specifics like that.


I remember the paramedics entered from the front door, which we seldom used. I remember they went to her bedroom and I ran to the kitchen again to pray. My prayers this time were bargaining – I promised to go to every church service and pray everyday and read my Bible or something if my Mommy was okay. As soon as I said, “Amen,” the paramedics confirmed she was gone and had been for a while.


I was the one who found her. So I was expected to report on her last movements, her position when found, and other things that made my brain give me amnesia. It was already trying to erase the images and details. Because I was the one who found her.


Neighbors were in and out of the house uninvited, drawn in by curiosity of an emergency vehicle at the house. I was spinning. My father became both silent and formal with the neighbors and getting instructions from the paramedics. And I didn’t know what to do with the feelings I had. I was the one who found her.


After the body was removed from the house, I called my Godmother, Lucy Bell, first. She was closest and most important. She could do what Daddy couldn’t which was give me something I didn’t even want from him – make me feel safe. But her mother answered the phone and told me that she wasn’t home. Her mother was the first person I told that my mother died. I remember she kept saying “Naw! Aw naw! Naw!” I didn’t have time or energy to penetrate her shock and disbelief, so I just told her to pass on the message and I dialed my sister next.


My sister was far away but she was the next person I wanted near me. Now, I don’t recall what I said to her on the phone. I know I said the same words to everyone I called – Mama died – but I don’t know what else I said. I remember that every time I said it, I looked at Mommy’s room. Somewhere during or right after that call my Godmother had taken me in her arms. She didn’t call me back but ran to the house as soon as she got the news. I went limp. It felt wrong. It was exactly what I needed and wanted and at the same time it was wrong. I don’t think we’d ever really hugged before. I returned to the task of calling the people who needed to know immediately.


My brother was next. I know that I said, “Mama died” and I know that he kept saying “What?”. I know that I said it maybe three times and each time he responded the same way. So my Godmother took the phone. “Victor, Victor….Vi…” and I heard him yelling unintelligibly. The phone was returned to me. I don’t remember much else of that conversation.


I don’t remember if I called Mommy’s brother then, but I remember that shortly after my Godmother arrived there were too many people in the house. There was too much noise. I was angry with my father because I knew he couldn’t give me what I needed. Church folks were arriving – Deacons were sitting with him and it pissed me off. I wanted the ones who were supposed to comfort me and walk beside me through those initial moments. My Godmother was trying to take care of some business of some sort and I felt a shift in my emotions and in my mental state – I had to get out of that house. It still happens to me that way, usually when there are too many people around. My skin itches and the air seems to dissipate out of the room and respect and consideration of others be damned – get out of my way, literally, because I am getting the hell out of there by any means I deem necessary. I told my Godmother to get me out of the house. Nothing was happening quickly enough and people thought it was better that I stay at the house. So I screamed until my Godmother heard me – I mean really heard that I needed to get out of that house. And unfortunately someone else said, “Come on and go to my house with me.” It did not feel like a rescue. It felt like a last resort. And so I went with another church member and stayed away until my sister arrived in town.


Mommy died the day after Christmas and her funeral was about 3 days later. And somewhere in all the confusion, no one could hear me. Whenever I said words people didn’t respond. Could I have been mute thinking I was audible? I don’t think so because everyone was whispering about me practically non-stop. They had to see me. They just couldn’t hear me.


Of all that was said, the thing I held on to was “she’s the one who found her”. I was the one who found her. I was the one who found her. That was to me the most cruel part of the circumstances surrounding the most traumatic event of my life – nothing has touched it in 30 years and I find it hard to imagine that anything will ever top it. But I should have been wrapped in the cocoon that the adults in my life always kept me in when this happened. I should never have been on the frontlines. I should have been one of the people getting the news, not the one delivering the news. There should have been the right people, ready with tissues, telling me the right words, and holding me while I absorbed the shock and my body grieved.


I was the one who found her and for the next several years whenever I had to identify my mother, who died, I added as if it was part of my name that I was the one who found her. If I wore my first name like a diamond tiara, I wore this label like a crown of thorns. It would be decades before I removed that crown of thorns and chose my own name and identity.


I am Regina Lynette. I was the one who found her.