How Did I Get Here?*

I woke up with a headache.

I was the Parent Coordinator of Chionesu Bakari, a youth organization for young Black men. That morning, I was finishing up last-minute details. It was Friday, and our first parents' retreat was scheduled for the next day. Chionesu was my second job—part-time on paper, but I approached it with full-time passion and commitment.

My full-time employment was as Coordinator of the Women’s Ministry at St. Paul Community Baptist Church. That, too, was more than a full-time job. Though it was officially 40 hours a week, I routinely worked 80. I gave everything I had. I was working for God—what could be better?

I had fallen asleep with my MacBook somewhere buried in the covers. Thankfully, this time I’d remembered to close it before falling asleep. I rolled over, pulled it out, and began firing off emails to my Administrative Assistant and a few volunteers. I wanted to make sure every base was covered while I was out for the day.

The nagging headache that had been hovering for days was still with me. Only 15 minutes from work, I rushed to shower and dress,, wanting to get there before everyone else so I could work in peace. I tossed a bottle of Tylenol into my bag, planning to take a couple on the way.

The office was empty when I arrived. I was grateful for the quiet. I got right to work, hoping to take advantage of the stillness before the phones started ringing. Once still, I remembered my headache and finally took the Tylenol. Later, my assistant walked in with a bright “Good morning!” Her voice felt like it cracked through my skull. That’s when I realized, my pain still hadn’t eased—in fact, it had intensified.

Still I told her we’d start on our to-do list when I got back from the ladies room. But on the way there, I was unsteady and I staggered. I shook it off and continued to the restroom.  When I returned, I asked her to give me a few minutes. I went into my office, turned off the lights, and lay down.

That should have been my first clue that something was wrong. Who lies on the floor of their office?

About twenty minutes later, I stepped into the outer office. One look at my face and my assistant said, “I’m calling the doctor.”

I kept insisting I just needed to rest. I laid my head down on my desk—keeping my eyes open had become unbearable. The light was blinding.

The next thing I knew, Rev. Les Shannon, the Assistant Pastor, and Mother Myrtis Brent, our Chief Prayer Intercessor, entered my office. Their faces were calm but concerned. We were trained to respond that way—pastoral neutrality, regardless of the circumstances. Rev. Shannon anointed me while Mother Brent prayed.

Despite my protests, an ambulance had already been called. Suddenly, EMS workers were there—taking my vitals and asking questions.

I finally grasped I was in crisis when one of the EMTs told me how dangerously high my blood pressure was—nearly 200—and gently asked, “Is your job stressing you out?”

I burst into tears. “Yes,” I said.

It was the first time anyone had asked me that. And even if anyone had, I would have told them no.  

I loved my job. I had worked my way up from volunteer to Department Head. I was proud. I was fulfilled.

Wasn’t I?

The next thing I knew, I was being wheeled out of my job on a stretcher!

 By then, I had lost vision in my right eye and couldn’t feel anything on the right side of my body. It wasn't even 10 am.

It was January 2009. I have served in the Women’s Ministry since 1990. I thought I loved every part of the work. I thought I was fine.

But that day, everything changed.

How did I get here?

Excerpted from my upcoming book, Womanish: