Cheers

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In May of 1996, we realized that The Wilkinson Center, where Mama had lived for the last two years, could no longer care for her. The disease that had ravaged her brilliant mind, was now robbing Mama of her modesty and dignity. An Alzheimer's Facility in Gainesville, accepted Mama as a patient, and we made the painful transition on the ninth of June. We visited with her a few days later on Father's Day. The image of her holding onto the locked gates, and saying, "Look Alicia, I'm in jail" was forever seared into my memory. I walked to my car and watched her standing behind that gate until she disappeared from my rear view mirror, as I drove away. I felt as tho my heart was breaking. I began to sob uncontrollably, not knowing, of course, that this would be
the last time I would see her beautiful face.

The phone rang a few days later, and before I could answer it, I knew. They had found Mama, unconscious, on the floor of her bathroom. They said to come quickly. We made the necessary arrangements for our children, and were on I-285 in Atlanta, when my sister called and said that we didn't have to hurry anymore. Mama's doctor had been out of town at the time of her transfer, and I had not gotten the "Do not resituate" order on her chart. Mama had said many times over the years, that she didn't want to be coded, and because of my omission, she was coded for a full two hours before it was called. The guilt of not having made it to the hospital in time, coupled with the guilt of my omission soon began to haunt me.

Not long afterwards, the pain in my neck and shoulders became horrendous. It felt as if I was being branded by a red hot poker. I made the decision to have a bilateral breast reduction on January 22, 1998. How I longed for my Mother's soothing touch! Mama and I had been so close, and now my surgery was a painful reminder of the mastectomy that Mama had undergone eighteen years before.

The day before my surgery was so hectic! As I was running errands, I heard this beautiful voice say "Tomorrow, you will see your Mother." However, no one was in the car with me, and my radio was off. Had I just heard the voice of God? Did that mean that I was going to die tomorrow? Thoughts raced
through my mind, and I decided to tell only one person. Just in case I didn't pull through the surgery, I wanted my family to be comforted by this knowledge.

Silly as it may seem, my biggest fear was of having my IV inserted. My veins are so small and always collapse, requiring multiple "sticks." I asked several members of my Sunday School Class to pray that I would be able to get my IV in on the first attempt. I knew that my friends were praying for me, yet I was still afraid. When my attempts to be sedated before the IV was inserted were denied, I became even more anxious.

A male nurse anesthesist came into my cubicle and said "I hear you are a hard stick; don't worry, I'll get it in on the first attempt. My response to him was that I had heard that line before, but it has never happened. Just as he was getting started, the most beautiful, brilliant light appeared though the curtain of my cubicle. It was magnificent and so soothing!!! I was mesmerized. I heard the nurse ask my husband if I was still breathing because I was so still ~ not shaking as I had been just moments before. The nurse said, "I got it in on the first try!" The beautiful light disappeared,
just as quickly as it had appeared. There is not a doubt in my mind of who it was. I knew that it was my beautiful mother, who was sent to comfort me. I knew that it was she, because God had told me so. Thus began not only my physical healing, but the healing of my grief guilt stricken heart as well.

Thank you God for this miraculous gift!

They say that faith is believing without seeing. Now that I have seen, how can I not believe?


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