She Saw What I Couldn’t See in Myself
BY RITA WORTHINGTON
At 24 years old, I don’t believe I’m a good mother. I don’t do drugs or neglect my children, but I’m unmarried, on welfare, and struggle to bond with my four children. I got pregnant when I was 15, had my daughter at 16, and 3 other children by the time I’m 24. It’s a generational curse. My grandmother had children when she was 14, my mother had children when she was very young. Babies having babies — a cycle I’m not even aware of until I’m older.
I’m told NO ONE will marry me because NO MAN wants to be burdened down with 4 children who don’t belong to him. I’m happy to say this did not ring true and I do find someone, fall in love, and get married. But, I still can’t shake the feeling of being an unfit mother. Maybe because after I have my first daughter, I am made to stand in front of the church and apologize for getting pregnant.
That feeling resurfaces at 30 when my youngest daughter, Janessa, a bright happy 5-year-old girl with a brilliant smile, is diagnosed with neuroblastoma — a children’s cancer.
It’s like a ton of bricks has fallen on me. I feel helpless and empty. She doesn’t understand what’s going on at first. She asks, Why me? What did I do?” We tell her it isn’t her fault. The thoughts of being a bad mother are constant and relentless.
The doctors want to do a procedure called stem-cell therapy where they take the “good cells” and separate them from “bad cells.” They tell me the procedure will be quite uncomfortable for her.
We travel back and forth to Albany Medical Center: radiation, chemotherapy, IV bags, needles, day in and day out. The doctors tell me that cancer has wrapped itself around the vital organs in her stomach.
Janessa’s long pretty black hair falls out from the treatment. This worries her so we get her every kind of hat and bandanna a girl could ever want. They become her fashion statement.
For three years, Janessa receives weekly treatments at Albany Medical. Her cancer goes into remission when she’s eight years old. Her hair grows back, she gains her weight back. For a whole year, she’s healthy.
The summer when she’s nine, Janessa goes to the Paul Newman camp, and when we pick her up she’s coughing and sick. I bring her to the doctor and they say the cancer is back.
Janessa was diagnosed in Kindergarten. Now she’s in 3rd grade but instead of being in school, she’s at Benedictine Hospital. I’m there with her every minute of every day, just being with her.
One day, she calls me over and asks for a hug. I go over and hold her. She says, “Thank you for being a good mommy. I love you.” Then, she squeezes me tight and says, “I’m alright, I’m with grandma now.” She takes her last breath and dies in my arms.
For a long time, I hold myself together, going about my daily routine. I don’t even know what to feel or what to do. I consider myself a strong Christian woman. “Do I cry? Do I break down? Do I open myself up to be vulnerable?”
During the day, I’m OK but at night, I can’t close my eyes without seeing her face as she’s lying in the casket. I don’t share this with anyone.
One night, I can’t hold it in anymore. I find myself lying on the floor screaming ‘WHY, WHY, WHY, DID THIS HAPPEN?’
That’s when God says to me, “I could’ve let her live but not in that condition, I could have healed her, but I wanted to make her whole.”
Instantly, I feel a wave of peace. I suddenly understand I’ve been doing the best I can as a mother.
Janessa’s bravery brought together a whole community and a whole family. Her school, the George Washington School, had a Janessa Day and, they planted a tree with her name on a plaque to commemorate her life. You can pass by the school on Wall Street in uptown Kingston and see that tree.
And my other three children? They’ve all grown up to be wonderful people. Even though, when they were younger, I couldn’t provide for them materially, we had the support of my mother and our community. They each finished high school and college and both my daughters waited until they were in their mid to late twenties to have children. Together, we have broken that generational curse.
I returned to school, got my degree, worked in the legal profession for a long time. I ran for office and got elected as an Alderwoman.
When I was younger, I couldn’t see what I had in me but Janessa, my youngest daughter, saw it and she helped to set me on my path.
Rita’s story was originally written and performed as part of TMI Project’s Black Stories Matter program. Black Stories Matter provides Black-led true storytelling workshops where Black folks can write about, share, and reflect upon their experiences without having to justify, explain, or defend the truth of their lived experiences. The culminating content — written stories, live storytelling performances, videos, and podcasts — is accessible to an all-inclusive audience.
