Maxine Bigby Cunningham
Copyright
2008 Maxine Bigby Cunningham
Smashwords Edition
Smashwords Edition
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POWER WALKING, A
Journey to Wholeness
Copyright©2008 by Maxine Bigby Cunningham
All Rights Reserved.
Biblical quotations
are from the Holy Bible, New International Version®,
Zondervan
NIV Study Bible (Fully Revised), © 1985, 1995, 2002 by the Zondervan
Corporation, published by Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530,
U.S.A.
Art Designs: Ruby,
The Three of Us, Nappy Headed Self, Where Three are Gathered, Zoe
Used with permission of Artist:
Sharon D. Cope of Sharon D.
Cope, Inc.,
Pensacola, Florida
Cunningham, Maxine
Bigby, 1948 –
Power Walking: A Journey to Wholeness
p. cm.
Library of Congress Control Number 2007907799
ISBN: 978-1-4658-9582-0
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.
This
book is dedicated to my parents,
Maxwell Miles and Pauline Smith
Bigby
And
to my children,
Wesley Ernest and Theresa Annette Cunningham
Contents
Grace and Other 5-Letter Words
Blessings from a Sister Friend
I was among the “walking wounded”. I did not know who I was. A walking zombie is an apt description – limping through a fog, clueless, proceeding on cruise control, moving robotically, numb...
No
wonder I kept walking into things.
No wonder I kept falling down.
No wonder I kept losing consciousness.
I had gone to the mall to have my prescription filled for new eyeglasses. I had an hour’s wait. It had been a long day; I felt tired and drained. If I sat on a bench, I might drift to sleep. So I decided to just walk … to stroll around the mall
As I passed by a women’s apparel shop, I saw a reflection in the display window, amidst the beautiful clothes adorning the manikins. It was an image of a middle aged woman. Her coat was oversized, hanging down to her ankles, past her wrists, over her shoulders. Her shoes were not at all fashionable.
With a jolt, I realized that this apparition was a reflection of me. “That image doesn’t look the way I feel,” thought I; “at least not the way I want to be seen. There is no pep in her step; no sparkle in her eyes; no glow on her face. She looks sooo sad. No Joy.”
I was passing among people – strangers – whom I did not know. I was moving among colleagues and associates – friends – who did not know me. I was sauntering among cousins and children – family – who knew the things that I did but did not know who I am. I was meandering, rambling, wandering among all kinds of folks.
It hurt me to see the hurt in me. Did anyone hear the shallowness in my laughter, see the emptiness of my gaze, or perceive the hollowness of my spirit? I saw a sick woman. In that reflecting glass, I saw brokenness. While strolling, I decided that it was time…past time to change this picture.
This
collection of writings documents a journey to wholeness.
The
writing was therapeutic.
The sharing is celebratory.
I have a history of fainting.
Do you not know? Have you not heard? The LORD is the everlasting God, the Creator of the ends of the earth. He will not grow tired or weary, and his understanding no one can fathom.
He gives strength to the weary and increases the power of the weak.
Even youths grow tired and weary, and young men stumble and fall;
But those who hope in the LORD will renew their strength. They will soar on wings like eagles; they will run and not grow weary, they will walk and not be faint.
Isaiah 40:28-33 (NIV)
WALK
Saunter, tread,
amble, meander,
Step, move, go
Stride, pace, march, hike,
Stroll, travel, progress
FAINT
Fade, wane,
abate, recede
Fail, sleep, pass out
Falter, stumble, wobble,
hesitate,
Fall, collapse, black-out
Give way, give up, give in, give out
My fainting is history.
Sunday, January 7, 1997, was a crisp but sunny wintry day. That was outside. Inside, my house was dark. My spouse and I engaged in an intense conversation about relationships, not ours but with someone else who was dear to us both. Continuing an ongoing, seemingly endless debate, we each held firm to our disparate positions. I knew there was more to be said, but I was running late for church service. As I walked out the door, I retorted angrily, pleased that I had gotten in the last word. I had worked myself into such frenzy that, as I turned the ignition in the car, I felt a headache coming on. It would get better, I thought; I just needed to take a few deep breaths. I was mistaken.
The headache got worse. My spouse had joined me at church, seated a few pews behind where I sat. After the altar call, I whispered to him that I felt ill, but I believed that I could make it through the worship service. What I was feeling in my head grew to more than an ache – it had become a burning, tortuous, excruciating pain. I felt dizzy, nauseous and light-headed. I had to leave right then. Just moments before the benediction was pronounced, I stepped over several people and moved towards the back of the sanctuary. Before I reached the doors, my vision dimmed, my feet faltered and I felt my knees buckle. Everything went dark.
I felt a cool breeze. Someone was fanning. On my back, I gazed up at my husband standing at my feet. I saw the church nurses on each side; I heard the Pastor leading the congregation in prayer; he then proceeded to the rear of the sanctuary, knelt beside me, held my hand and prayed in a soft, fervent tone. Months later I would learn that a congregant had caught me before I hit the floor, softening my fall.
By the time the ambulance transported me to the hospital emergency room, my speech was garbled. I am told that the right side of my face was distorted – drooping eye, twisted mouth, and sagging cheek. In the hospital emergency room, there were many… many anxious moments, many diagnostic tests, and many visits from family and church friends. Several hours after my arrival, the doctor returned with the results from the tests: “You have had a transient ischemic attack”, he said, “a mild, temporary stroke”. It was not critical, but very serious. That night, with measured steps, I exited the hospital on my feet. Over the next two years, I would experience other fainting incidents.
Friday, March 23, 1997, was a warm spring-like day, sunny and bright. I embraced the peacefulness of this day which I was spending at home. I sat at the kitchen table gazing out the window. The radio played in the background. The host announced that he would be interviewing the author of a new book, Risk and Other Four Letter Words. My interest peaked by the title, the idea occurred to me that I could write my own book, a book just for me. Cutting off the radio, I picked up a bound composition book, walked into my back yard, sat on the concrete bench under a large apple tree, and I began to write. Despite my taking this and other occasional “mental health days”, the fainting incidents continued.
The next time that I fainted was in a Philadelphia hotel. I was to attend a work-related meeting with federal fair housing investigators from across the country. The Office which I managed was responsible for technical oversight of the investigators’ performance. The preceding evening, one of my favorite colleagues and I chatted as we exercised, walking side by side on treadmills. It had been a long day, so I supposed that the sudden light headiness I felt was due to fatigue. I pressed the “Cool Down” button, came to a stop and stepped off the equipment. For a few minutes, I sat in a nearby chair before proceeding to my guest room. Feeling better, I got up, took a few steps and then fainted. There was another trip by ambulance to a hospital emergency room. I later returned to the hotel with instructions not to be alone for the remainder of the night and to rest in bed all of the following day. This time the diagnosis was an anxiety attack.
Yet another incident occurred in Williamsburg where my husband and I were on vacation. Always visiting historical sites on our travels, the two of us stood in the rear of a landmark Court House, witnessing a dramatic rendition of a historic trial. It was crowded and it was sweltering hot. I remember wiping my sweaty brow and leaning against the wall. When the presentation concluded, tour guides ushered us spectators out the door so that the next group could enter. However, I was afraid to move. My legs felt like jelly, my eyes rolled to the back of my head, and I started to slide down the wall. Someone noticed and pulled me up before I hit the floor. Quickly escorted to an adjacent, cooler room, I felt like I was about to pass out. This marked the third trip by ambulance to an emergency room due to a “fainting spell”. The diagnosis this time was heat exhaustion.
The next two incidents did not require trips to the hospital. Nonetheless they were pieces of a disquieting and disconcerting pattern. It was another year and another vacation. We were attending my husband’s family reunion in North Carolina. We stood chatting with cousins in the backyard garden where family and friends had gathered. I began to feel ill, so I retreated inside to the cool of the family room. I stretched out on a recliner. Beginning to swoon, I closed my eyes and took deep breaths. Noticing that I was perspiring profusely, someone called my husband in from the garden; he wiped my brow, handed me a glass of ice water, and placed a cold towel on my forehead. I rested and an hour later, I was able to re-engage with the family. I was grateful that I had clung to consciousness.
The last fainting episode occurred in the Fitness Center at the Office. Exercising early in the morning, I was looking forward to the Performance Awards Ceremony scheduled later that day. The top Administrator would present awards to staff for outstanding performance and jobs well done. Having completed my workout, I headed for the shower, but while crossing the room, I felt weak. Pausing on my way out, I asked that the Center Director take my blood pressure. It was high; so she told me to lie on a floor mat, and she elevated my head. Fifteen minutes later I felt better; I stood up. As I got on my feet, my head started to swim, my knees buckled, and I crumpled to the floor. Responding to an emergency call, nurses helped me into a wheel chair and whisked me to a bed in the Health Unit. A close colleague visited me, admonishing me for not taking proper care of myself. Eventually, I was able to get up, shower and dress in time for the Ceremony.
Every member of my staff received recognition. I was so proud of them. As the Ceremony neared a close, I waited with anticipation. The program ended. No one had called my name, beckoning me to come forward for recognition and applause. Folks began to whisper, averting their eyes from mine as they departed from the Auditorium. I arduously pasted a smile on my face, graciously extended my hand, and enthusiastically congratulated the award recipients. Some persons told me that it was not fair that I received no award; most said nothing.
I did not want to believe it. Thus, I denied the clear message sent by my supervisors that they believed the outstanding accomplishments of my Office were despite my personal contributions and leadership in exceeding all program goals. More than a slight, the lack of recognition was a slap that made my head spin and left me with a clear, if invisible, scar. For a few weeks I managed to stay on my feet. My work days were endless; my nights were sleepless. Not surprisingly, I exhibited symptoms of sleep deprivation. Based on my doctor’s recommendation, I reduced my work week from five to four days. That was not enough.
I fell into a deeper state of dis-ease. I had issues – mental, emotional, physical and spiritual. Still, I did not want to leave my job and bring my career to a close. My doctors and I compromised. I took three months of sick leave; it was a period for rest and restoration from a high level, high stressed job. While I was away, my colleague and friend, despite warning me about the risk of working too hard, died in her bed from a massive heart attack. My heart ached. Her death was my wake-up call.
About two weeks before the scheduled return to my job, my daughter called to say that she had found a lump in her breast. She asked that I come be with her when she underwent a surgical procedure for a biopsy. Her maternal grandmother, had a double mastectomy, and she died when the cancer spread uncontrollably throughout her bones and organs. My daughter was scared and so was I. On top of everything else, my marriage was falling apart. The morning that I was to depart, I had a panic attack. Walking hastily, I fell as I turned the corner around the island in the kitchen. I just lay on the floor for minutes, catching my breath. My ankle hurt so badly that I could not rise on my own. Nonetheless, I did not even consider changing my travel plans, and I had too much to get done to pause for a trip to the hospital emergency room. That evening, I hobbled onto a train for a 12hour ride to Atlanta.
Arriving in Atlanta, I rented a car and readied myself to assume the role of care-giver for my daughter. However, two days later, the throbbing pain from that “sprained” ankle was so severe that I reverted to a child’s method of getting around; I crawled. Despite protests, my daughter insisted on taking me to the neighborhood medical facility. I was seen by a Black woman physician. Looking at the x-rays, she said to me, “Sister, you done broke every bone that attaches the left femur to your ankle.” I hobbled out on crutches with an appointment to see an orthopedic surgeon the next morning. My daughter’s biopsy was scheduled for that afternoon.
In the morning the orthopedic surgeon scheduled my surgery for the following day and ordered a series of immediate “pre-operative procedures”. Now how was I going to take care of my daughter? I mean, that was why I was in Atlanta, right? Fortunately my daughter’s surgery was within the same medical complex. The preoperative tests took longer than expected, my ambulatory speed was slow; and the distance was great between the orthopedic and the general surgery wings of the medical center.
Some merciful soul saw me teetering; he found a wheel chair and pushed me to the doctor’s office where I was joining my daughter. By the time I arrived, my daughter had been called to the surgical room and she already was on the operating table. In response to my frantic plea, the doctor allowed me a moment just outside of the operating room so that I could see my daughter and speak with him. I was not able to kiss her, but she saw me and knew that I had arrived. The tumor was benign. That fall three days earlier almost caused me to miss my purpose.