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After his massive stroke, the doctors had all but given up on my father. But not us, not his family.
We were all there, the whole Williams family; every relative that lived close to my parents’ Illinois home had gathered around my dad’s hospital bed. Mom is one of eight, and almost all of them are ministers, so you can imagine the prayer that was going on in that room.
Help would have to come from God, because the doctors had already talked to Mom about withdrawing life support.
“We don’t think he’s going to make it,” they said.
Gospel music filled the room, but there was no response from Dad. No expression on his face, no change in the slow, anguished breathing, no fluttering of the eyelids, no grip in the hand I was holding. My music group, Destiny’s Child, had just finished our final tour.
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I’d been home the month before to throw my grandmother, Dad’s mom, an 85th birthday party and had seen all the family then.
What a happy time that was. Running errands for Mom and Dad, picking up my nieces from school, babysitting, cooking up some mac and cheese and banana pudding, my favorites, just like always.
Now everything had changed. Dad had had a stroke, his second one, and unlike with the first, it didn’t look as if he’d recover. I remembered that first stroke as if it happened yesterday. My whole world stopped.
I was a freshman in high school. Mom had gone down to a church convention in Memphis for the weekend. It was a Sunday morning and with Mom gone, Daddy got us ready for church. He didn’t say anything, just tapped me on the shoulder and gestured. Nothing unusual about that.
Mom was the one who made noise in the morning, calling down the hall, “Get yourselves dressed, children, we’re heading out the door in five minutes!” Dad was quieter. Did I notice that he didn’t say anything in the car either? No. He just dropped us off and drove on. I figured he had an errand to run.
During worship he would be up in the sound booth, doing the audio, like every Sunday.
But at the end of the service he wasn’t anywhere to be found. Not at coffee hour or Sunday school. It was Granny who showed up in her car to take us home.
“Get in, kids.” She looked worried, but you could see she was trying to hide that from us. “Your daddy’s in the hospital,” she said “He’s had a stroke. Your mom’s on her way back from Memphis. I’m sure everything will be fine. The doctors will take good care of him.”
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Daddy evidently knew something was wrong as soon as he woke up. He couldn’t hear well. Found it hard to talk. He took us to church and then drove straight to the ER. Someone there must have called Granny.
I hate to think now of the danger he put himself in, driving like that after a stroke, he should have called 911.
I don’t think he knew what was going on, but checking into the hospital was the right thing to do. And dropping us at church first? Well, God always came first in our family. Still I think God would have understood. The sooner you get medical help at the merest sign of a stroke, the better.
I should know. I’ve become an ambassador for the American Heart Association’s Power to End Stroke campaign and I make a point of letting people know things like that. But that’s now and this was then.
Dad had all the risk factors for stroke: diabetes, high blood pressure, and smoking even though he didn’t smoke that much. Mom’s a nurse and after Daddy came home she had a battle plan. No more pie à la mode. No smoking. A list of exercises.
His hearing came back; his speech was okay, but the way we ate changed totally. Goodbye salt, farewell butter. Mrs. Dash made her first appearance in our kitchen, along with grilled chicken–not fried–and lots of salads. Daddy was only in his forties. He had to stick around.
I’m sure glad he did because he got to see me make something of myself in the music business, winning Grammys, writing hit songs, singing all over the world. I owed a lot of that success to him.