Yvonne Rivers Green

Life by Dream

“I will never leave you nor forsake you.”

Death where is thy sting, oh grave where is thy victory.

Blue-gray waves dash against the waterfront walls as I look out toward the horizon early mid-morning. No, no sunlight. From a distance along the cold concrete slabs, two figures come closer, one dragging the other. A feeling of fear, a feeling of concern mixed with curiosity arises, comes closer and closer to a state of recognition. A large grayish-brown wolfish dog pulls and tugs a mangled body into my space and suddenly I awake out of a oh so surreal dream on that cold January morning 1988. Lord, what does this mean? A feeling of trouble lingers in the air. A prior conversation with my cousin in-law Brenda springs to life: “When you dream of blue water it signifies death.”

Early Saturday morning, 22 May 1988. I love gazing at my two babies, eight and five years of age, and remembering my Terrieca six years before when her daddy had set her up for a bribe – “If you will stop wetting the bed I will buy you a new bed.” The sassy two and a half year old, daddy’s girl – he always wanted his first child named after him, Terry, and I loved the name Erica, so we named her Terrieca Shavonne – replied, “Okay.”

‘Lil did we know, a dry bed every night since, and since a promise is a promise, a spanking brand new oak bunk bed with a ladder was set up in her little bedroom.

“This is my bed,” she proudly claimed.

Okay, I have to get going with my Saturday morning regular chores, cleaning and washing, and I have to prepare for the upcoming Memorial Day weekend trip to Disney World only a week a way. A planned surprise for the children. The day gradually ticks way. As I work, the children play.

Right after midday, Ronnie a neighbor and family friend who lives about two miles away, rushes into the house – my daddy’s on the front porch; my momma’s outside peddling around.

“Yvonne, Yvonne, I just heard Terry was in a motorcycle accident in Poppyhill!”

“What?—” I think they must be sending him to Savannah. “—What happened?”

“I don’t know how bad it is.”

“Oh my Lord. Daddy,” I fearfully called, and he called momma, “Bertha keep the kids, we will be right back.

We jumped into his yellow Ford Thunderbird, my body shivering…cry can’t cry.

Talk, can’t talk.

“Honey, try to stay calm. We will be there soon.”

Crossing over Whale Branch Bridge – blue water, oh so still. Oh so careful driver, go the speed limit. My feet press against the floor, try to make the car go faster as I sit in the passenger seat. The car turns off Highway 21 onto Poppyhill road. Been a year and a half since I lived down here. Less than a quarter of a mile to go. A straight black paved road. Houses on left, trailer on right, houses on right, trailers on left.

Car stops. We’re at the spot. The spot in the road. The spot.

The news.

Wailing coming from all around, his sisters, his cousins, his mother, friends and foe. “Yvonne,” someone’s grieving voice cries out my name, “Terry just died. They helicop him to Savannah memorial, but he didn’t make it.”

Daddy, my Daddy and my Pastor, Daddy’s comforting arm comes around my numb body. Lord, how am I going to tell Terrieca and Terry?

“He was test driving his motorcycle and his cousin Tommy truck pull in a drive way a head of him and they just hit. Threw him off the bike. All the way in front of his mail box.”

My eyes travel that direction. Looks the same. Old oversize-big mailbox next to three smaller regular-size, small gray mailboxes with three digit addresses. I can see him now, taking a break from work, Terry, leaning on the mailbox, cutting jokes with the boys, waiting for the mailman to come—

“He didn’t have his helmet on…” someone says from the crowd.

Terry an avid motorcycle rider, racer, and auto mechanic could pull any thing with wheels apart and put it back together again better and faster. No schooling – just a dog-gone good backyard mechanic.

Just that quick he is gone….

How did I get back in the car?

We’re back at the house like a blink of a genie’s eye. Composed myself. My children, Lord Terrieca, Daddy’s girl.

I slowly walk down the short hallway. Turn left. Baby girl sitting on the bed.

“Terry Junior, (a picture image of his dad) come here. I got some bad news to tell you two about your daddy.”

Terrieca’s big brown eyes, olive brown in an oval square face look up at me.

“Momma,” she says, tears welling in her eyes, “I know.”

“What?”

“I had a dream night before last. I was afraid to tell you because I didn’t want it to come true. I dream that daddy got kill. Oh God, Mommy tell me that’s not what you want to tell me, please mommy tell me the dream’s not true.”

“Honey, that why I had to leave in a hurry. I’m sorry I have to tell you this, but ya’ll daddy just died an hour ago—“

“No mommy, no mommy,” echoes in blue-gray waves throughout the two thousand square foot cinder-block house as I hold my two young’uns against my breast. No, no sunlight.

One tragedy after another, we buried Terry Green, Sr., Saturday, 27 May 1988, and Poppa, whom my children lovingly called Daddy, cling to him, especially Terry, Jr. Terrieca became my momma’s pet.

Dad started having more frequent doctor visits. I started working two jobs to make ends meet. My sister takes him back and forth. I realize how sick dad is during an early morning, scheduled surgery when the doctor briefs the family. My head is in a fog when the doctor looks at me and says, “You know, your father has Cancer.”

No, I didn’t know. I was shocked, angry at my sister.

How come she did not tell me the extent of daddy’s illness?

I feel like a fool, stupid, left out.

Knowing how much I loved my dad and mom, knowing they were always there for me and I always wanted to be there for them, from that moment, I knew I would have to stay by my parents’ side, no matter what.

The healthy strong man, his body shape began to change. One leg became real large as the fluid builds up and his pants tighten around his thigh while the other pants leg remains lose fitting. His neck becomes as swollen as my heartache to take away his discomfort as he has done over and over for me. Reassuring me that what ever happens in life, I can do all things through Christ who strengthens me, Phil 4:13, scripture that remains in my heart today.

I pray for my father healing like I never prayed before…until God answers my prayer one night. I dreamt in the dream I asked God to heal daddy and in the dream the voice said, “No, your father will die.” I awoke crying because the voice was spoken by one of Authority with complete blessed assurance.

My life felt like I was constantly running on roller blades, between running to the hospital, working, sleepless night, running home when momma call frantic to help get daddy up when in his weakness he fell, and I vow not to give up even to the end. I thank God for Mr. Buster, Cousin Lula Green and Rev. Hamilton who really went beyond the call of duty by helping my mother, sister and I take Dad to his early morning treatment in Savannah for radiation treatment and other medical appointments.

Dad must have seen the helplessness I felt. And daddy, looking up at me from his chair, said, “Honey, you done all you could do and don’t worry God will bless you.” Then daddy finally gave in to momma’s request to go to the VA hospital. After being there for about two weeks, he was scheduled for minor surgery.

Mourning Monday morning, 31 January 1989. I sat at my desk. A warm feeling engulfed me like a hug at 9 a.m. I smell daddy’s masculine scent, and I break down and cry. My co-worker Earlene came and embraced me with a hug, and said, “Yvonne, go to your daddy.”

About twenty minutes later, my sister called and said the hospital called and said to get there right away. Hurriedly picked the kids up from school; hurriedly drove to Charleston VA hospital. Every day that we went the parking lot was so full we usually had to drive around in circle or sit in our car while it idled and wait for a spot.

Today we got there and a spot was waiting for us.

I looked at my sister and said, “This is very unusual.”

We hurriedly ran through the door. A nurse was waiting and asked me if she could take the kids.

Then I knew dad was gone.

I don’t remember the elevator or how I got in the room, but dad laid there so peaceful, so handsome, like he was ready for the Master to come for him. Now I knew why he always sang, “When peace like a river attended my ways, when sorrow like sea billow rolls, what ever my lot, thou has taught me to say it is well, it is well with my soul.”

My sister and I rode home too choked up to talk in long conversations. We listened to the radio. The song, “In the Living Years,” ministered to us about a young man whose father has died and he is remembering his dad and wishes he had spent more valuable time with him and now he realizes that it is toooo late. Then I thank God, I have a good relationship with my parents, if it wasn’t for them it would be “no” me. Thank God my conscious is clear.

We arrange for the funeral for Saturday to give my sisters and brothers who live away from home time to make arrangements to get here. Strange to see Dad’s obituary, Rev Ernest Rivers of Big Estate, in the paper. As Momma reads this section, she says with a reassuring voice, “One day I will see my obituary in the paper.”

I laughingly tell Momma, “No, I don’t think so; probably we will, but you won’t be able to.”

She looks at me and grins, “I think you are right, Eve.”

Momma, endure through the years with God’s grace and mercy.

06 Feb 2004. My sister and I stayed with her until I finished building a house next door. We went every place together the four of us, Momma and Me, Terrieca and Terry, Jr. Even after the children grew up and left home it was Momma and Me. Don’t seem like daddy been gone fifteen years. Terry sixteen years. After all this time tragedy crept in again.

Momma’s an avid senior citizen participant. She lived for the daily trips – bingo at McDonald’s, lunch every fourth Thursday at Tabernacle Baptist Church in Beaufort, and get togethers with her friends. Momma’s health was failing gradually, so I gave Janet, the Senior Center Director and Momma’s friend, my work number and cell phone just in case she needed to reach me, or if momma needed something.

Lord, I never thought it would be so soon.

My cell phone rings. Janet: “Yvonne, Ms. Bertha—” she lovingly calls Momma, Ms. Bertha— “have a terrible headache, she want me to just take her home but I think I better see if you want me to bring her to Beaufort and we can meet at the Doctor office.”

“Okay,” I say. “Just tell her you are coming to Beaufort and she can ride along to meet me.”

The hospital is full. The Doctor office is full to the max. The Doctor says to get a cat scan. One thing leads to the next, until the lab x-ray shows “bleeding on the brain.” I call my sister at work and my daughter and give the bad news, “Momma was rushed to MUSC Charleston.”

Within the hour, tests show she had a stroke.

Momma is still alert, adamantly stating she did not have a stroke, that she is fine. And as the hour ticks away things turn worse for worse.

Surgery is completed and Momma stays in Charleston for a week. My daughter and I stay with her every night, keeping my sibling inform of her condition, until they send her back to Beaufort; Rehab. Momma is improving, look like she will be going home, a blockage in her intestine. Emergency surgery. Doctor has to perform a life and death surgery. God is right there.

Another two weeks she is tremendously improving, we start making arrangements for home care and look forward to her being discharged from the hospital. Saturday afternoon as my sister and other family member sat in mom’s room joking around, mom asked my sister if she had already cook for her husband, we laugh knowing she was from the old school, that the wife’s job was to take care of her husband. Then, in the next sentence, momma said she had to go home and cook for her husband. We looked at mom and at each other and I asked her, “What is your husband name?”

She looked at me like I was crazy, like you don’t know? — And said in a matter-of-fact voice, a proud voice, “Ernest.”

Mournful Monday morning around 2 a.m., 15 March 2004. Death angel come and take my dear momma. As I sleep next to her on a small sleeping cart, I slowly awake to check on her and she lay motionless. No, no pulse. Skin cold as I hold her fragile arm. The lab tech come through the door to draw blood as I cry out for my Momma, momma, momma. No, no answer – I hear “CODE BLUE, CODE BLUE…………”

After that, the Doctor gave me the final word. Momma was gone.

One by one, I called my eleven siblings, four live here, the others live in different states.

I thought I could protect one of my last jewels from leaving, but then The Lord revealed to me again the vision that came to me about seven years earlier when my son Terry was hospitalized with an asthma attack. I stayed right by his side, didn’t want to leave. The pastor had invited the Citadel Gospel choir to perform at our church. I wanted to go to church, but I didn’t want to leave Terry. As I slept by him on a cart, I dreamt he had died, and I couldn’t even get up as my hands were crossed tightly against my chest.

And the Spirit said, “Although you are here you cannot keep him from dying.”

Then peace, a peace that passes all understanding, came into my soul and I could hear momma singing, “Any way you fix it LORD it will be ALRIGHT with me.”

Home going service for Mother Albertha Rivers, Saturday 1:00 p.m. First African Baptist Church. We buried momma right next to daddy, on the left near his heart.

Yvonne Rivers Green is a native of Beaufort, South Carolina, a Christian who fellowships at FAB Church, Big Estate, a sibling of a loving family of twelve, and the mother of two. She has been a Civil Service worker for 19.6 years as the Supply & Services Budget Technician at Parris Island, SC.

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