Norma Jean Hill Walker.
That’s my mama.
She made her transition (died) Sept. 26, 2014. People will tell you that she and her brave, resilient, tired, 74-year-old body succumbed to breast cancer. But the more accurate story is that for 38 years, she kicked breast cancer’s ass.
See, my mom, born in Moultrie, GA and raised in Cincinnati, was diagnosed when I was entering middle school, i.e. around 1976-77. Those early years of her cancer journey were and still are a blur to me. I’m not sure if it’s because of my youthful naïveté or if my adult mind has simply chosen to repress those years and experiences, but all I really remember is my mom always being there.
She had her breast removed and used one of those little, brown, bean bag-esque breast replacements. And she simply kept it moving. My mom, Norma Jean, mother to me and my younger and much more intelligent sister, just kept living her life.
My mother was a beautiful spirit, compassionate and understanding to a fault. And these aren’t merely my words, but words used by everyone who I knew who knew her. My wife often says there’s no one she’s ever known who was as loving as my mom.
I’m a writer because of her. She told me that’s who and what I was – around my sixth or seventh-grade years in school. Damn! The same period of time when she first received the news from her doctor that she had breast cancer. But that was so Norma Jean: even amid a life-threatening personal challenge, she was breathing and speaking life into me, and so many others.
I must have inherited my artistic skills (I draw and paint) from my dad, who was (and still is) just as much an encourager and supporter of me and the gifts they saw in me. He’s an incredible artist, and has a wonderful photographer’s eye (another one of my “eleventeen” million jobs). And as much as he supported (and still supports) my endeavors, Norma Jean did so even more, looking for ways I could hone my skills; looking for contests I could enter, etc.
My mom was at everything. And that’s saying a lot because me and my sister were in everything. I mean, like, growing up, there was never a downtime or off-season for either of us. And the only games of mine I remember my mom missing were those little league baseball games I played when she was initially hospitalized. Beyond those, she was always there.
For my college years, my first “real” job at University Outreach, my personal spiritual quest to find where God needed me to be, for my marriage, children, divorce, second (and final) marriage, jobs, community service, moves away from Houston to multiple parts very known (Austin, Atlanta, Detroit, South Carolina), my missionary work, my return home to Houston amid the news that my mom’s cancer had returned. Through it all, she was there, always giving to others.
Me and my growing family returned to Houston somewhere around 2001-02. I feared that breast cancer might have its way with this forever warrior. But just like the fighter and prayer warrior she’s always been, breast cancer didn’t stand a chance. She beat it down again. And again. And again. Whenever news came that the cancer had returned, Norma Jean found the spiritual resolve to knock it down again. And all the while, she was the grandmother extraordinaire, having retired from her job with the City of Houston.
She showered my six children and my sister’s two boys (shout-out to my nephews) with all the love and attention they could stand. Forever giving.
My mom, my Norma Jean, had all kinds of talents. But one thing she could not do was sing. But you better believe, that did not stop her from making a joyful noise unto the Lord. She was in every choir except the Methodist Men’s Choir at her church home – the one and only Blueridge United Methodist Church (now known as Blueridge Methodist Church). And not only did she sing, she sang loud. I mean full-throated loud. The sound quality did not matter to her. My mom, my Norma Jean was about praising God with everything she had.
Of my two parents, she was the one who first drilled into me the importance of a relationship with God. When we lived in New Orleans, just before moving to Houston in ‘73 or ’74, it was always my mom taking me and my sister to church. My dad did not go.
But when we moved to Houston, he was all about finding his family a church home (Blueridge). But to my mom, who could do anything (except sing), it didn’t matter where she was, she was going to praise the Lord. And not in that over-the-top, showy way, quoting scriptures and “churchspeak” at everyone. She was a living, breathing scripture. You knew what she believed by the way she treated people. Lord have mercy. She could do anything, and she did it all with such grace.
That’s why the day she and my dad came home from the doctor – I was over at their home, the home I grew up in, for some reason I cannot right now recall – and the two of them walked in, my dad leading the way, he shared words that left me shook. He told me, briefly, short and to the point, the news; the news that the doctor said there was no more they could do to help my mom, my Norma Jean, continue her 30-plus year winning streak over breast cancer.
So, as my mom walked in, I was dumbfounded; a man stunned. I didn’t know what to do or say. It all just seemed so unreal. “What do you mean, there’s nothing else that can be done?” “My mom, my Norma Jean, has reigned victorious over breast cancer from jump, from my childhood.” None of this news made sense to me.
And there was my mom, my Norma Jean, seemingly just as calm, but I could see a little… I don’t know if it was hurt or fear or something else. But I saw a little something in her eyes that day. And then never again.
She continued on being Norma Jean until she passed away and joined the ancestors in heaven.
Sitting here writing this, it feels almost selfish of me to refer to my mom as my Norma Jean, because she was so giving and so loving to so, so many people. But the point I hope you recognize here is that we all have a “Norma Jean” in our lives; a loved one who absolutely doesn’t deserve the trials and challenges that breast cancer can throw their way.
I take great comfort in the fact that the Almighty blessed me with the privilege of being Norma Jean’s son; and in knowing that she was undefeated against breast cancer. Until she wasn’t.
Hopefully, as you’ve learned a little about my Norma Jean, you will make sure yours is tested for breast cancer. You already know. Black women experience breast cancer’s most violent forms. And the statistics regarding Black women and that disease are atrocious. So, we have to do all we can to support our mothers, wives, big mamas, sisters, aunties, cousins, boos, etc. to get checked.
And we have to shower them with all the love and support they can stand if they receive news that breast cancer has visited them or it hasn’t. Either way, let’s be there for our Norma Jeans. But especially if breast cancer happens to be part of their life story. We have to make sure they are in community with doctors and other health professionals who see your Norma Jean’s humanity and have your Norma Jean’s best interests at heart. That your Norma Jean is in community with breast cancer survivor fellowships. That your Norma Jean is in community with like-minded sisters and brothers, friends and family and congregations who will walk with her along her path.
If your Norma Jean, like mine, has made her transition, bless both you and her. I pray you have dear memories on which to hold, and that you celebrate her forever presence among us in the ancestral realm. And if your Norma Jean is still here in the land of the living, that you cherish and love on her, and make sure she is doing everything necessary to get screened for breast cancer. And if your Norma Jean is in the midst of her breast cancer journey, that she and all who love her tap into that warrior spirit to fight it, both now and forever more.
