A man dressed in black takes my arm and guides me off the elevator. “Get in line, please.”

I step clear and listen as the door slams shut behind me. The lights illuminating the hall of the fourth floor are dimmer than the rest of the hospital. Sinister shadows dance across the walls, and the air is heavy with a feeling of foreboding.

Up ahead, a single file line wraps around the corner. Parents speak of ill and disabled children with fear in their eyes. I can’t say why I’m terrified of this line, but as soon as I step up to it, my heart begins to beat rapidly. My palms start to sweat, and I can’t catch my breath.

“I don’t want to be here,” I cry, tears stinging my eyes. “Please let me take my baby home.”

The man is unaffected by my motherly sobs. “I’m sorry, but you must join the others. When it’s your turn, please follow the man in white.”

I turn to see a young man in flowing robes step up to a young couple. He leads them away as the woman cries hysterically into her husband’s chest.

I cannot watch, cannot breathe as I await my turn.

***

As a parent of a disabled child given a 1 percent chance of survival at birth, I feel like I’m in this single file line with other parents of disabled and ill children. Every code blue, every story of a child’s death I wonder when her time is up. When will the Lord stop in front of me and pick my child?

Not unlike other parents, I fear that every visit to the ER could be her last. But I’m staying strong for her, letting her know it’s going to be okay. As parents, it’s our job to suffer in silence where our children cannot see.

#fiction #spiritual

May 15, 2002 repeatedly runs through my mind like a bad movie reel, forever stamped onto my memory. The birth of a baby should have been a joyous occasion, but an unethical obstetrician trampled my motherly dreams before Kimber even drew her first breath.

Because he was too exhausted to deliver my child on the fifteenth, she sustained severe brain damage from a stroke she suffered in utero twenty-four hours later. He could have called on a fellow doctor to deliver me, but instead, he told a nurse to stop my labor and send me home. After that hag used her fingers to shove Kimber back up the birth canal, I never felt her move again.

I regret two decisions I made that day, decisions that meant the difference between a life gifting tracheotomy tubes, g-buttons and lifelong diaper changes and a life of hamburgers, playing outside, falling in love and having babies of her own. Because I didn’t force the doctor to do his job, my daughter will never have the same chances in life. She’ll never truly be free, and as her mother, I am to blame.

I am a Cherokee/ Greek writer living in southern Illinois with my husband, three children, and two granddaughters. I began life in an unfortunate situation, much like thousands of children in this country. I was born to a fifteen-year-old mother who could not take care of me. After living in foster homes for two years, at the age of four, a loving couple adopted me and my younger sister, but feeling unwanted and rejected never left my mind. Who was I? Where did I come from? But I was lucky to have found my new parents. They helped me realize my potential. They told me the sky was the limit when it came to what I could accomplish in life.

Over the years, my struggles mounted. I escaped an abusive marriage and lost a baby to RH incompatibility before turning 21. On May 17, 2002, following the births of two beautiful, healthy children, I gave birth to Kimber Liliana—a child the doctors said could never survive the stroke she had suffered in the womb. After seven long months in the neonatal wing at Cardinal Glennon and then Children’s Hospital in St. Louis, Missouri, and to the amazement of the doctors, I finally brought Kimber home. Though she is bedridden from spastic cerebral palsy, she celebrated her sixteenth birthday last May—a joyous event I never take for granted.

At the age of twenty-six doctors diagnosed me with schizoaffective disorder, and I won the battle with cervical cancer at twenty-eight. Instead of giving in to my diseases, I picked myself up, met and married my soul mate and began writing fantasy novels.

I want others in my situation—either adopted and looking for answers, families of disabled children or sufferers of mental and physical illness—to see my success story as evidence that life does prevail. They can have active and fulfilling lives no matter the difficulties they may face.

As did my love for singing, my passion for writing began at an early age. As far back as I can remember I wanted to publish a novel I could call my own. I wrote the outlines for books one (Mythos) and two (Beyond Legend) of the Mer Chronicles series during free time in tenth grade creative writing class, but it took many years for me to find the courage to send the completed novels to publishers. Now that I have found my niche in today’s literary world, I plan on bringing fantasy into the lives of our youth for years to come.

When asked if I created my characters to inspire others, I immediately have an answer. ABSOLUTELY! I wanted to embrace my husband’s kind and protective nature, thus bringing David Cooley’s character to life. (My son) Bryce’s loyalty shines through as David’s best friend, and (my daughter) Charlie’s innocent and inquisitive nature and (my step daughter) Dakota’s playfulness triumph in future books.

My youngest child’s bravery and determination to live despite her handicap was inspiration enough to immortalize her in black and white. By creating Cindel’s character (for Kimber), I hope that readers will see people with special needs as having the same potential as everyone else.

#meet #hello #introductions