Tempted in the Wilderness (Part 1 of 2)

I've been quite reluctant to write this post, being that so many of my current readers actually know me. In many ways, I feel I have an image to uphold. I have to, no matter how I feel, give folks the impression that I'm strong, that I'm an overcomer. Not because I want folks to celebrate me, but because I want people to be encouraged themselves. I know so many people are depending on me to be strong in this dark life I live in, so that they can know they can also be strong in their dark moments.

However, I feel that there are some things that I must get off my chest. There are some things that I need to say out loud to provide myself some therapy. And perhaps my honesty will help someone as much or more than my seemingly strong demeanor.

Last night, I was visited by a horror that is all too familiar to me. I was awakened from my restless sleep by fussing and screaming. I tried to lie in the bed and ignore it, but the verbal violence was rapidly rising. And there was no doubt about it, a referee was needed to defuse the situation.

Who was fussing you might wonder? My mother and my sister was having an all out screamathon at 1:30 A.M

Because I'm the most skilled at managing the emotionally charged conflicts that erupt in this house, I jumped up to do my job. The problem with refereeing fights that involve your parent is the "parent" always trumps the children, even if one of the children is the inexplicit family referee.

I tried to talk everyone down. I tried to even scream everyone to silence. I tried to confront the issues head on, knowing that despite my best efforts the conflict could easily turn on me.

And it did...

My mother wouldn't back down. She told me to shut up and go back to my room. She told me that nobody was going to tell her where to go and when to be quiet in her house.

I looked past the blindness in my eyes to look directly at my mother. I pleaded with her to call a truce for the night. I told her that I have borderline anxiety issues. (My diagnosis...) I begged her to consider my mental health. She told me to go to my room. I tucked my hope for a resolution in my back pocket and retreated to my room, but not with an ounce of solace.

This is a good time to throw out this disclaimer. My mother is not an angry, screaming, emotionally wild woman. She is a kind, loving, peaceful creature. Well, that's what she was before the stroke.

Now, my mother is a sad, easily angered, bitter woman, who also happens to have a speech impairment and a massive brain injury.

The stroke robbed my mother of managing her life.
The stroke stole my mother's career as a teacher.
The stroke murdered my mother's artistic and creative gifts, such as playing the piano, writing poetry and plays, as well as her gift of interior decorating.
The stroke kidnapped her ability to clearly articulate thoughts, ideas, requests, happiness, and pain.
The stroke divorced her from her life-long friends and co-workers.
The stroke suspended her driver's license for life.
The stroke slaughtered her ability to think critically.
The stroke killed much of the woman I knew to be my mother.

I hate strokes because of what it did to my mother. I hate strokes because of what it did to my aunt, Linda. I hate strokes because of what it did to my grandmother, Mona. I hate strokes because I'm scared that one day I will also become its mangled prey.

After going back to my room, I crawled into my bed and into the emotional arms of a friend. I vented, using colorful language and explosive emotional energy. He listened to me as I verbally vomited through the phone. He talked to me until I had nothing else to say. I appreciate him for being there for me.

However, he was on the phone, and I needed someone to be there with me in person. I needed to be consoled beyond a phone conversation. I needed to hide from all that pain. I needed an uncharted island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean to vanish to. I needed more than a friendly voice on the phone. I needed God to rescue me.

After hanging up the phone, frustration mounted in my heart and mind. I felt hopeless. I felt strained beyond repair. That grief, that sorrow, that pain prompted me to wish I was dead. And before I knew it, the desire to kill myself was standing before me, calling my name, like it was my friend, like it was my savior, like it was the solution to all of my problems.

**I'll post the 2nd part to this post tomorrow. Don't worry! I'm not dead!!!!!! LOL**

Here's a few random reflections regarding "my" experience with blindness.

1. One of the things I hate about being blind is that I often cannot come and go when I please. When you depend on other folks for transportation, you're left to arrive and leave whenever they are ready to go. That annoys the daylights out of me!

2. And what annoys me the most is that the folks that I'm forced to wait on are usually so impatient themselves. They don't want to wait for anyone, at any time. So, looks like they would understand how I feel the same way.

3. Okay... Let me explain this. For me, being blind introduces so many opportunities to be bored to death!!!!!
Think about it... I'm sitting in the complete dark all the time. I cannot focus on what people look like around me. I can't focus on how a room is decorated. I can't doodle notes on a piece of paper to kill a little time. I basically have no visual stimulation.
So, I often find myself wishing and wanting lectures to come to a close pretty fast. I fall asleep in cars when going for a long distance. I get bored out of my gored at parties. (Yeah, it's the truth.)

4. One of the reasons why I love to listen to audio books more than listening to television is because the book provides me with all the visual details. Television doesn't provide me with any visual details. I'm left to use my imagination on how someone looks, how their dressed, and how they facial expressions look.

5. I wonder what kind of personality I would have if I never lost my sight. I wonder if I would be social, kind, and out-going. I wonder if I would be confident and assertive. Hmm... Just wondering...

6. Sometimes my sighted friends and family get on my nerves. They can be so insensitive at times. I sometimes wish I can make them blind for a week. They need to know how this 24-hour darkness feels!!!!!!

7. If I could see, I would often leave the house and go somewhere to sit and think. Being with people all the time kind of gets on my nerves.

8. I hate it that church folks think the notion that "when I get to heaven, I'll be able to see again" is any type of real consolation to me. I wonder how satisfied they would be if any and everything they wanted in life was put on hold until they died.

9. I think it's hilarious that the braille Bible that Eli was carrying in the movie, "The Book of Eli", had to be only a small portion of the entire Bible. The actual Bible in braille is dozens of very thick volumes. He was probably only carrying Genesis. LOL

10. I hate that I can't independently set my DVR to record some of my favorite shows. A friend told me that I should switch to AT&T for cable. He said you can set your DVR from the computer. That would be the bomb if AT&T was actually in my area. Come on, Comcast!!!!! You're going to have to offer more functionality to "all" of your customers!!!!!!

Random Reflections About Very Specific Things

**Every now and then, I post on my blog some of my random thoughts and perspectives about very specific issues that I'm dealing with. There is no particular time I post them. I just write when I'm inspired to. So, here goes...**

1. I'm so mad right now, I'm fuming. I hate it when I get like this. I hate it when people and/or circumstances cause me to react in a way that is not typical Angie behavior.

2. If you don't like me, then don't talk to me at all!!!!!!! If you're conflicted on whether or not you really want to have me around, I can help you with your conflict. Do us both a favor... Let me go!!!! I will not be hurt if you don't speak to me.

3. I saw District 9 tonight. It was rather interesting, to say the least. I actually enjoyed it. I need to watch it again to really get it.

4. Did I say I was mad?

5. Perhaps I'm not as mad as I'm hurt.

6. I need to get back on my work out regiment. I haven't worked out in three days. That is not good!!!!!!!

7. I feel like crying.

8. I wonder why crying is not easy for me. Some folks can start crying at the drop of a hat.

9. Despite my lack of regular attendence, I'm so glad to be a member at Good Hope. It helps give meaning to my life.

10. I need about two weeks of vacation time. Dang, I wish I didn't have to work in the summer.

11. I can't stand dealing with folks that have split personalities!!!!!

12. I miss my daddy. For a full month, he stayed with us. He's been gone for the last three days. I wish he would come back.

13. If I had someone in my life that was like me, I would be so appreciative of them. I certainly wouldn't treat them like trash on the street.

14. For the last year, I've been pissed off at a particular person. I'm releasing them now. I'm finish with that. Your loss!!!!!

15. My website should be up in a few days. That's exciting!!!!!!!

16. I love my students at the college!!!!! It is such a pleasure to have the opportunity to invest in their lives. I feel so fortunate.

17. Tomorrow, I'm going to go buy something/anything. I need a little retail therapy.

18. I wish some smart, fine, conversational man would find me irresistable. :)

19. I got too much gray in this head of mine. Looks like I'll be applying hair color in it real soon.

20. I'm not the same Angie I was five years ago. Depending on which view you have, that could or could not be a good look. LOL

The Pink Eye **The First Draft of the Beginning of my Memoire**

**I've decided to go ahead and start writing the first installment of my life story. This is a very rough draft of the first chapter. Let me know what you think! Would you be interested in reading more? Thanks for your feedback!**

When I was a kid, having “the pink eye” was like having the cooties. Nobody wanted to even be in the same room with the kid who had the sick looking eye, let alone sit in a desk near the kid. So, if you looked like you may have “pink eye”, you were band from coming to school until you had a note from the doctor, indicating that you were cleansed of the highly contagious, icky, pink eye.
One spring morning, seemingly out of no where, the white of my right eye was eclipsed by a pink veil of sickness and pain. I remember it like it was yesterday. I was eight-years-old and in the third grade. Up until that point, illness and I had no acquaintance. Little did I know that illness would soon be introduced to me as my new cell mate.
As I did every morning when my mother called my name to wake me up for school, I took a deep breath of the new morning’s fresh aroma, hopped out of my bed, and turned the light on in my peach and green decorated bedroom. As the frosted dome flashed with a burst of light, surprised gripped me as the light plunged down, causing my eye to shutter with an unfamiliar pain. My eye began to weep as I squeezed my eye lid shut in order to hide the sensitive eye from the glaring light.
I walked over to the other side of my room and took a look into the smeared mirror that crowned the scratched up surface of my walnut dresser. I lifted my eyebrows high to force my protective eyelid to let me take a look at the aching eye. The brown of my eye looked like it was a perfectly round island in a sea of pink waters. Clear tears poured from the corner of my pink eye, pass my nose, down to the corner of my lip, and then finally to my chin. I lifted my right cheek high to squeeze that painful eye shut. Closing it seemed to be the only relief from the sharp pain.
With my hand covering the offended eye, I walked across the small hallway that separated my room from my parents’ sanctuary. My daddy was sitting on the edge of the king-size bed that he and my mother shared, lacing up his mud stained boots. He was already dressed in his clean, yet dingy looking work clothes. He looked at me, his oldest child, and asked me what was wrong with my eye. I sat down on the bed next to him, pulled my hand away from my face, cranked my eyebrows up yet again, and force my apprehensive eye to expose its sorrow.
My daddy, who was a tall, strikingly handsome, yet unrefined man, gently touched my right cheek as he peered into my eye. He squint his hypnotic green eyes as he looked into my painful eye. Without saying anything to me about what he perceived, he yelled to my mama, who was in the bathroom getting dressed for work. “Margie, Ann looks like she has the pink eye.”
My mother immediately turned around and stepped out of the bathroom. She had on a black bra, a full-length white slip, and off black stockings. Her round face looked like a freshly painted canvas of beautiful brown and burgundy tones. Her ears were adorned with large, gold loops. Every strand of her black wavy hair was brushed perfectly in a conservative, yet stylish bun in the back of her head.
She walked over to me and leaned her pregnant stomach towards my face as she lifted my chin to look down into my sick eye. Within sixty seconds, I was diagnosed.
“Yeah, she does have the pink eye. She’ll have to stay home with Mama today. I’ll take her to Dr. Silverman’s after I get off.”
Staying home from school was never fun if you were really sick. So, news of my declared absence from school was rather disappointing. I actually liked school, even though my mama was also my teacher.
I lifted my body up from the bed and moped across the threshold of my parent’s room, sighing and frowning with every step. Daddy called out to me before I could make it back across the hall.
“Go wash your hands. You don’t want to give your lil’ sister the pink eye.”
Frankly, I cared very little about my three-year-old sister, Paula, at this point. For that brief, selfish moment, I was thinking about myself. I didn’t feel like being sick. I wanted to go to school. And I certainly didn’t want to have any type of condition that would cause me to be pegged as “the girl with the cooties.” However, I did what Daddy said to do. I stopped, took a sharp left and entered the restroom to disinfect my hands of the yucky eye disease.
Later that afternoon, right in the middle of one of my favorite “Woody Wood Pecker” shows, my mother showed up to my grandmother’s house to pick me up to take me to the doctor. I kissed my grandmother goodbye and followed by mother to the gray Thunderbird that was parked on the gravel covered driveway. I looked up and daringly opened my right eye, hoping that both of my eyes could stare at the brilliant star that hung majestically like a dynamic jewel in the endless, blue sky. As soon as my eyelid cracked open, light assaulted my fragile eye. Tears escaped my eye as I barricaded my eye shut.
I hopped in the car and closed both of my eyes as Mama drove to Dr. Silverman’s office. His office was only ten minutes away from my grandmother’s house. So, the dark ride didn’t last long.
Dr. Silverman was an elderly, extremely friendly, white man, who ran a family medical practice in the middle of the ghetto. His unglamorous office sat on the corner of two of the most beat down streets in Houston. Partially bald up Paper, empty soda cans, and beer bottles garnered the edges of the tar covered streets. Old cars and trucks parked around the brown, brick building, providing the community with proof that Dr. Silverman was one of the most popular doctor’s in the ghetto.
My mother and I walked into Dr. Silverman’s tidy, little office. Brown paneling covered the unexcited walls. The tile floor looked as if they were swept and mopped only a few hours before we arrived. It was always clean in Dr. Silverman’s office. Likewise, it was always crowded in his office. Every plastic chair that was lined up against the walls were occupied by distressed looking black and brown folks, who were all waiting to be seen by the good doctor.
Dr. Silverman was a favorite in the community because he offered inexpensive medical services to poor, working class families. Many of his patients had no health insurance, which meant they had no options. So, they would sit in Dr. Silverman’s office and wait, no matter how long it took, to be seen by someone that seemed to know what they were doing.
My family had health insurance at this point, but they didn’t have it always. Dr. Silverman was declared the family doctor long before professional incomes and comprehensive health insurance coverage was introduced to my once impoverished daddy and mama. So, for loyalty sake, familiarity, and the convenience of a doctor that accepted walk-ins, we would travel to the ghetto from our suburban home to see Dr. Silverman.
After checking in at the front window, we waited in the crowded waiting room to be seen. At first Mama and I had to sit apart from each other, being that the only available seats were scattered in between people that gave no indication that they would shift to allow the pregnant mother to sit by her young child. After a few names were called, a seat next to Mama became available. I quickly jumped up and claimed the vacated seat as my own. With my left eye, I looked over at the Jet Magazine that my mother was flipping through. Pictures of beautiful, successful black men and women were on every other page.
As Mama slowly flipped through the pages, I quickly took a glance at the beautiful woman that was crowned Jet’s Beauty of the Week. Her coffee brown legs were so full and long, giving my chocolate dipped Barbie a little competition. Her thick black hair rested perfectly across the top of her supple left breast as if the photographer choreographed the seductive pose to offer picture perfect femininity. The only thing the young woman wore was a bright, white smile and a shiny red bathing suit that exposed her narrow waste and bell curved hips. I secretly wished that I could one day be a Jet Beauty of the Week, showing off all of my future goods to all of Black America.
After sitting in the hard, uncomfortable chairs for nearly ninety minutes, it was finally my turn. “Angela Bradley”, the nurse bellowed.
Even though my name is Angela Braden, I’ve learned from a young age that most people will hardly ever say my name correctly on the first try. I blame it on pure laziness. My name clearly doesn’t have some of the letters I hear people say when they call out my last name.
I jumped up, knowing the nurse was finally calling for me. My mother lifted her body up from the plastic chair, stomach first, every other part of her second. We traveled down what then seemed like a long hallway to an empty examination room. Once I was in the examination room, I knew that we were simply going to wait a little while longer. But at least, we were a little closer to actually being seen by the doctor.
After about fifteen minutes, Dr. Silverman popped open the interior door to the examination room. I always wondered what was on the other side of that door. I tried to take a sneak peek as he entered, but before I could take a look, the tall white man, with the white hair, who was dressed in the white coat, slam the white door, leaving me to wonder yet again, what was on the other side of that door.
After waiting for nearly two hours, Dr. Silverman looked into my sick eye for about two minutes and into my unsick eye for half a minute, and loudly announced to my mother what she thought she already knew.
“Looks like she has pink eye. I’ll write a prescription for some medicine that’ll clear it up right away. She can go back to school in a couple days.”
He firmly shook my hand, shook my mother’s hand, and quickly exited the office, going back into the part of his office that was never seen by any of his patients. My mother and I waited quietly until the nurse returned with the prescriptions. As the nurse entered, I tried to look pass the door as she entered the tiny office. The door quickly closed behind her. I silently sighed.
“I’ll be back to normal in a couple days.” I thought as I followed Mama out of the freezing, clean office back into the humid, dirty landscape that surrounded the clinic.

I'm Back!

Happy New Year!!!!!!

Thanks for being patient with me as I took a little time away from my blog. I feel energized and ready to go! I think it's going to be a great year for NuVision for a NuDay!!!

Here's what you can expect to be posted on the blog this year.

1. More stories that discuss my experience as a blind woman.
2. Honest reflections and revealing personal discoveries.
3. Monthly interviews with other individuals with visual disabilities.
4. Updates on legislation that impact individuals with disabilities, particularly the blind.
5. Details on my quest to get CNN to produce a "Disabled in America" documentary.
6. And whatever you say! If there's something in particular that you would like me to discuss, let me know!

I'll be posting at least once a week, but hopefully more! In the meantime, tell your friends about NuVision for a NuDay. We're back!

God's best!
Angela L. Braden

I Changed My Mind!

After I posted my final post for NuVision, I started grieving. I haven't been able to get my blog off my mind.

I started thinking about all the people that stumble upon my blog. I thought about all the people that purposely travel to this spot.

I wondered was there another blogger that would and could replace my voice. and then I realized that was impossible.

My voice, my experience, and my perspectives are so incredibly unique. they are so unique that I need and must continue writing.

I'm perhaps the only African American, blind, college educated, professionally employed woman on the web, who is willing to self disclose to this degree.

Perhaps I'll take a two month break. However, I'll continue to use this platform to raise the awareness of issues, concerns, and perspectives of individuals with disabilities, in particular, blindness.

So, I'm back!

Angie Braden

Am I a Dreamer or a Doer?

**I wrote this at the beginning of the year. Sometimes, it's good to revisit some of the declarations that inspired you in the past. I thought I would post it, with the hope you will also be encouraged to live your dreams. Enjoy and be inspired!!!!!!**

I've decided that this would be the year that I stop talking about
what I would like to do with my life. This will be the year that I will put action behind
my intentions and make something, anything happen. I'm fed up with
dreaming. Yeah, dreaming is good. But dreams are what they are, just a
dream. It is not a physical manifestation of what is supposed to be
accomplished in your life. Dreams are a figment of your safely constructed, carefully controlled imagination.

In my dreams, I can start a business, but never fail. I can be in
love, and never have to worry about the man of my dreams falling out
of love with me. I can be 125 pounds, and never have to get on the
treadmill. I can be a best selling author, without ever having to face
rejection from a publishing house. I can be a PH.D, without ever
having to stand before a committee to defend my dissertation. I can be
rich, without ever having to work a day in my life. To sum it up, I
can be anything in my dreams.

But in real life, I have to face my fears, face the possibility of
failure, face the reality of hard work and disappointment, face the
truth about my laziness and procrastination, face the embarrassing
fact that I sometimes overeat, and face the many possibilities that a
person may encounter when you begin an unfamiliar path towards “living”
your dreams. .

And this year, I will…I must face all of the aforementioned.
This year, I will leap out of my dreams and make my dreams apart of my reality.
I will invest my money, my time, emotions, my energy, my spirituality, my
faith, my essence into bringing forth what God intends for my life.
I will demand that the atmosphere supports this calling by positioning myself around all those that can be of service to me and my
development into the woman that I've been designed to be.
I will disrobe myself from the cloak of fear, and rise with courage, apprehending all that I know is mine.
I will soar above all that is beneath me, rather than drowning in the mediocrity that I have let decorate my life for so many years.

This year is the beginning of the rest of my life.

This year is the beginning of achievements that will blow my mind.

This year is the beginning of recommitting myself to Kingdom agendas.

This year is the beginning of never looking back.

This year is the beginning of new beginnings.

NuVision for a NuDay Celebrates the Installation of a Statue of Helen Keller at the U.S. Capitol Building

I was absolutely thrilled when I got the news that a statue of Helen Keller was installed at the U.S. Capitol's National Statuary Hall. The memorial statue of Keller is the Capitol's first ever statue to depict a person with a severe disability.

NuVision believes that this honor was absolutely appropriate for such an outstanding American. helen Keller was the first deaf-blind person to receive a bachelors degree in the United States. And she managed this amazing feat in 1904. Keller was also a internationally recognized speaker, author, and political activist. Her life has motivated so many, including myself, to not only brave the darkness of blindness, but to create a light that would luminate our personal paths, as well as others.

To read more about Helen Keller and her lifetime achievements, visit the American Foundation for the Blind's website. There you will find resources that detail the amazing life of this American hero.

"Never bend your head. Always hold it high. Look the world straight in the face." Helen Keller

Was it the blindness or the dirty panties?

I recently ran across an article about a blind woman, who hoped to have a child with the help of a fertility clinic. Turns out, the fertility clinic turned the woman down, refusing to help her have a child. The physician is said to have felt that the blind woman could not care for a baby.

According to the clinic staff, the woman had trouble "finding bus stops" and she had "dirty underwear." So, I'm supposing they thought that (If it's true...) would make her a bad mother. I don't know about the bus stop accusation... (That's probably true. A blind person is sure to not always find what they're looking for. Perhaps the dirty underwear accusation is indeed true. But I would put money on it that the blind woman wasn't the only woman that graced their clinic with soiled underwear.

They also refused to offer fertility services because she refused to hire an occupational therapist to evaluate her home, so that the doctor would feel assured that the blind woman's home was safe for a baby. (I wonder if this is something they make all of their patients do? Hmmm...) I wonder what they thought they would or would not find in the blind woman's home? I also wonder if they would next demand that the blind woman prove to the occupational therapist that she can do various housekeeping and cooking jobs within the home. I wonder if she would've had to prove that she was capable enough of dipping her child in a tub and drowning the baby the way that sighted Andrea Yates did. **So much to consider...**

Well, the fertility clinic won their case. Apparently, the courts feel that it is permissible for a clinic to refuse to help a blind woman have a baby.

Interestingly enough, the blind woman went to Iowa, and found a doctor that agreed to perform the procedure in 2001. I guess this doctor didn't give a darn about the babies he helps bring into the world. Why would any "good and moral" doctor help a "blind" woman have a baby?! Ridiculous!

Perhaps it was because the new doctor didn't notice her stank, nasty underwear...

Or just maybe, just maybe he realized that a blind woman is capable of being a good mother to a child, just as a sighted woman can be.

Side Note: I also wonder if this woman could have possibly been discriminated against because of something more than blindness. For instance, I wonder how much her race and sexuality played a part in the decision to not give her a child. All too interesting... I should definitely follow this case.

My Issues with Public Restrooms

My germaphobic tendencies cause me to really hate public restrooms! but what i hate more is when I "need" to use the restroom, but I'm not with any of my family or friends to assist me to get to the public restroom. For example, when my mother was in ICU, the restrooms were out in the waiting room. So, when I would visit her, I would just have to hold it until someone from my family arrived at the hospital. This is why I'm always glad when Mama is in a regular hospital room. And its an added bonus when she's in a private room. I can use the restroom, without having to "hold it", wait on family to arrive, or just swallow my pride and ask a stranger to take me.

Stress has the power to strengthen you or destroy you. Which will it be? (Part 3 of 3)

**I know I should've written this weeks ago. Sorry! I've just been overwhelmed with responsibilities. Thanks for being patient with me! Well, here goes.**

The next morning, I got up from my bed, not knowing if that day would be the day that my mother's life would end or continue. Either way, I was trying to prepare myself for what was to come. No matter how much I wanted my mother to fight, to live, to survive...I mostly wanted her to be in the center of God's will for her life. And if that meant it was time for her to pass from this world to a world untouched and unseen by the living, I needed to find a way to deal with that. So, I began to pray.

I prayed and reflected while taking a bath. I prayed some more as I got dressed. I prayed while I was eating breakfast. And I prayed even more as we drove from Humble to Houston's medical center to see my mother.

We arrived at the hospital, and went straight to her room. I expected to find her in the bed with the breathing machine working hard to assist her with staying alive. But instead of finding Mama in the bed, slipping between the cracks of time and timelessness, I found my mother sitting in a chair, eating her breakfast.

"Mama? Wow! You're eating breakfast?" That's all I could say.

She was awake, but she was quiet. She was eating, but she was still. She was living, but she was still not sure if she wanted to live.

I talked to her about what was going on with her health. I explained to her how much she needed dialysis and a blood transfusion to live. I strongly suggested that she consider the grandchildren. I told her to think about me. Likewise, I told her how much I needed her in my life. Although she was quite hesitant and a bit confused, she agreed to get the treatment.

A couple weeks later, after the treatments had started to create changing results for the better, my mother was sitting in her ICU room, enjoying her family. I smiled at her, and told her over and over how glad I was that she was doing better. Because I, along with my other family members, were telling her that continuously, she finally asked us what happened to her that was so bad. I explained to her that she almost died, and that she told the doctors to let her die. Mama was shocked. She gtold me that she was glad that she was still living. And of course, I was glad.

I learned a few things from this experience.
1. Life and death are in the hands of God, only.
2. One should never make a major decision when tired.
3. We don't know the true limits of our strength until we're put in the position to access more of it than usual.
4. We should fight until the very end.
5. Encouragement is not necessary unless the person needs some courage in a frightening, uncertain situation. And when the person needs it, the people that love them need to be willing and able to provide the encouragement.
6. Life is to be lived.
7. The time of death may be uncertain to the living, but it is not with God.

My mother is still in the hospital. She's been there for 67 days. I'm hoping that we will be able to bring her home in a few days. But if we don't, if she never comes home to me, if she goes to heaven from the hospital, and even if she comes home and then goes to heaven... I TRUST GOD!

Stress has the power to destroy you or strengthen you. Which will it be? (Part 2 of 3)

Perhaps a couple hours after I called for the family to come to the hospital to see their dying loved one, the grandchildren arrived with their parents. Because the hospital staff pretty much thought that Mama would soon be dead, they allowed the kids, who were all beneath the age requirement, to visit with their granny in the ICU.

By this time, the breathing device that they had Mama on was really helping her breathe better. And the result of better breathing was more oxygen in her blood. Likewise, the result of more oxygen was greater coherence. Mama was awake! I was so afraid that she would not be able to know that the kids were by her bedside.

All three of the kids stood around her bed with concerned looks on their innocent faces. My mother peered at the kids over the massive oxygen mask that covered her nose and mouth. I hoped that seeing them would remind her why living was important. She held their hands as they spoke to her in their fearful, yet faith-filled voices.

Then shortly after the kids visited with Mama, her personal physician arrived to speak with her. He came as her doctor, as well as her friend. He advised her to give the dialysis a try and to go ahead and have the transfusion. Knowing her history, Dr. Simms defied the recommendation of death from the other doctors. He felt that despite Mama’s tiring soul, she could overcome this major health challenge. I stood at her bedside while he was talking to her, nodding my head, showing her that I fully supported Dr. Simms’ advice.

Finally, after seeing the kids and after talking with her loving doctor, my mother decided to sign the consent to have the transfusion and the dialysis. My heart was glad! However, my heart was also conflicted. I honestly wasn’t sure if I wanted Mama to live for me, or to die for herself.

I had so much to consider. If Mama was to die, I would have to plan a funeral. I wasn’t in the mood for that. But is anyone when that time comes?

If Mama was to die, I would have to figure out what I was going to do about a monthly income. I had given up my professional income twice in the last seven years to take care of Mama. If she was to die, I would then be left even more broke, simply because her annuity would die with her.

I thought about the house that at the time of purchase was such a blessing to us. If Mama was to die, I would have enough insurance money to pay the mortgage for 2 years. After that, I would either have to pay it myself or put the house up for sale.

As a woman with a significant disability, I shuttered at the thought that getting ajob to take care of myself would likely not come as fast as I would need it to. And I would be left with only one parent to make sure that my needs were met in the meantime. Then suddenly, fear gripped me even tighter.

I wondered if I was thinking about myself over Mama's right to choose to live or die. However, there was nothing in my body and mind that could allow me to passively stand by as my mother chose to give up. Yes, she was tired! Yes, she wanted to die! But we can't cash in our ticket, just because we're ready to go. That's not how it works. And you know who taught me that? My Mama!!!

Livinglife with a chronic illness and/or disability often comes with feelings of weariness and thoughts of a final resting place. So, I was no stranger to this feeling. But I happen to think that disability is not the end of the road. So, one of the reasons why I rejected the doctors' advice was because I, a woman with a disability, understand the struggles of living with illness and disability. And I believe that each of us have the power to overcome these feelings of weariness if we lean on God and loved ones. So, that's what I was doing. I was standing by as a loved one, who didn't want my mother to give up on living, just because she was disabled and sick.

So much to think about! So many things to consider!

I shook myself and reminded myself that Mama’s life or death was in the hands of the One we call God. I reminded myself that my life was also in His hands. There was no need to be afraid, anxious, or depressed. There was no need to feel like Mama was giving up. Because if it was indeed her time to leave us and go meet with God, the decision rested with the One who sculptures both life and death.

I went to bed with one prayer. May God’s will be done in Mama’s life. I didn’t pray for her healing. I didn’t pray for her suffering to end. I simply prayed that God’s will be made perfect in her life. And if that meant that she was going to live or die, I would have peace in knowing that God was in control.

**This is the second of three posts on this subject. Stay tuned for the third installment. I should have it written in a couple days.**

Angie Braden