When God falls asleep…
To the family and loved friends of Jhanae,
Mamma J, Richard, Tiana, Faith, Janel, Dominique, Halie, Jaleel, and Uncle Taye. I still navigate my pain with you. I cannot say that I understand or feel the same pain as you, but my heart reaches for yours. I pray healing and peace walk with you for all the days of your life. She is forever ours and forever your sunflower child. Forever my fairytale that came true.
There is no beautiful way to paint a picture that portrays this experience. It is colored with anguish, death, sorrow, confusion, and all the feelings that my mind and body have experienced within the last few months of my life.
Artists are constantly celebrated for their ability to tell the most lurid stories, even in a way that is oddly compelling. I cannot adhere to this trend as I am emotionally unable to. Words can be used to create both beautiful and unappealing images. I utilize them to convey, even marginally, the realities of my world, whatever they may be.
I couldn’t go into every detail of my life over the last year or so, but I hope that even my most uncomely scars will show others that every wound heals, with time, care and tenderness. I believe my narrative can serve as a compass for those who are adrift in their own broken world, and maybe lead them to God, wherever he may be waiting.
“So often artists are loved for how well they’re able to tell the most gruesome horror stories.”
In retrospect, there was no rush of gratitude that accompanied waking up in the hospital. Even with the hope and relief that rested in all who patiently awaited my phone call from the outside. I vividly remember the stillness.
The scent of my heavily sanitized room. The stiff, cold air. Eventually I embraced the solace and repose that came with waking up here, as I could have very much ended up elsewhere. Much of the pain I felt came later and was carried by a direful reality; I had woken up alone. I recall methodically inspecting my body and searching for my legs, finding unfamiliar cuts and scars. I was unable to move my left foot.
My entire right leg had been weighed down by a cast which prevented me from lifting it. I recall gentle whispering voices, beeping equipment, and the sounds of carts and beds being pushed along the corridor. I hardly ever slept at all. Because I had nothing better to do, I counted the hours and watched the clock.
I would frequently scroll through TV channels, hoping to find something to make me feel at home again. Usually, Martin or Fresh Prince would help me cope with the monotony of laying in the same bed all day. They reminded me of sitting around with my family watching these episodes or reenacting and repeating some of our favorite scenes with my siblings.
I frequently summoned the nurse from my bed simply because I needed company. Due to COVID and other restrictions, hospitals did not accept visitors. I eagerly awaited doctors to enter my room and update me on my condition and what would happen next. I could only communicate with my family via an iPad and had no phone to call anyone to let them know I was okay. I felt isolated.
Nurses would constantly come in and out of my room, asking for my date of birth, if I knew where I was, and if I could name the current president. “Sir? Jaykwon? Do you know where you are? You were involved in a car accident.” Eventually, I became conscious enough to notice I was in the hospital, although I was still confused about why. It was hard to distinguish between my dreams while in a coma and reality. “Car accident? Going where? When?” These questions would constantly revisit me. I lay in bed for a few days before surgery was performed, not exactly sure why the doctors were waiting, but my body had gone through so much.
By the beginning of August, I was ready to leave, still unaware of the severity of all my injuries. I just needed to be in a familiar setting around familiar faces. I wanted to be home. I would lay in bed with nothing to do but think and feel, deeply. I’d retrace thoughts that led me nowhere, except back to my current state, in the hospital bed.
My memory of anything prior to June 24th, and the whole month for that matter, had been gone. Every now and then a nurse would push me out into the garden to see the sun after being in my room for so long. This merely invited fleeting emotions and relief. Only those which reminded me of how beautiful things were a few weeks ago.
My parents called one morning to check on me and ask how things were going; seeing their faces helped life feel a little normal again, and to see my nieces and nephew always brought me a little joy. Their innocence reminded me of what it was like not to have these types of anxieties; they hadn’t yet been affected by such an unremorseful world. At their age, they had nothing to be concerned about. Their youth was so precious.
Throughout my talk with my parents, I casually mentioned my girlfriend’s name as if she were with them or had been nearby. I recall seeing her come in and out of my hospital room to check on me the night before. “How is Nae?” “Does she know I’m okay?” “Can I contact her?” There was a long, still silence on the phone. A silence that I now fear and have always feared.
As a child, I had a love-hate relationship with sleeping and sitting in silence. Ironic because I am now one who prefers to invite silence into the space whenever with friends. Though it wasn’t always a sign of peace and in some cases was an indicator that something was wrong. Either that or it came before terrible news. I saw the look on my mom’s face, and strangely I knew something bad had happened.
“Ma, what’s going on?” Anxiety began to set in more than fear. I could feel something was off but didn’t want to speak too soon. My mind began to offer questions that my mouth would regret asking. Did something happen to my brother? Was something tormenting my body and discovered while I lay in the hospital? These questions flow through my head unceasingly. “Kwon, Nae didn’t make it. She was in the car with you.” Denial, pain, and confusion seized hold of me. It was that feeling of you wanting to speak, but your throat tightens up, and are unable to get your words out. With so much running through my head, things strangely started to come together.
As far as I recall, we were supposed to drive down to Miami to spend time with her family. Before this, the only day in June that I remember vividly was the 19th. Because of a head injury, as I mentioned before, I had no recollection of anything prior to this point. My heart was shattered.
I immediately blamed myself because I felt as though I was supposed to protect her, and she died while sitting right next to me. I grew up feeling compelled to defend those I cared about, my sisters, brothers, and friends, by any means necessary.
The power to protect made you feel like a man. It gave you the impression that you were in command, whether with a fist or your words. You might control the outcome of every circumstance you threw yourself into. But now, I was overcome by helplessness. I began to cry, and nurses and a chaplain quickly came into my room to console me by sitting around my bed.
I was released from ICU early, not understanding that the next six months would carry with them some of the most challenging days of my life. The physicians thought I had enough support at home for my parents to care for me. I was relieved to be returning home, even though I was still confined to a wheelchair with a catheter implanted inside me and a lengthy drainage tube that I had to carry everywhere. In addition, I had new wounds that needed to be cared for and treated to avoid infection. It took some time for me to acclimatize to my new existence. My energy was always low, and as a result, my cleanliness gradually suffered. I couldn’t and did not want to eat. 35Lbs quickly fled my body. I didn’t always have the strength to check my phone, which was flooded with text messages and phone calls, even some from people I didn’t know. The only thing I had the desire to do was lay in bed all day. I needed assistance getting to and from the bathroom, in the shower, and even the car. As an adult, I reverted to being a newborn.
I was lonely and in pain, so having company delighted me since I desperately needed others. I needed to know I was loved. I needed to lean on friends’ and brothers’ hearts, words, and shoulders. People sent me food, journals, books, and other items to help alleviate some of the agonies I felt and possibly enable me to resume some of my hobbies.
I asked every one of my friends whether they could remember where they were when they heard about the tragedy that night, hoping that hearing the same narrative from multiple perspectives would help me make sense of it. From pain pills to sleeping pills, I wanted them all. I hated the long days and restless nights. I had a desire to numb everything within me, in whatever way I was able to.
When I didn’t have anyone to talk with, I spoke to God. This became hard because of how emotionally and spiritually frustrated I was. It was like the feeling of not wanting to talk to a friend you had a falling out with but feeling upset because they hadn’t reached out to make things better. I thought I was punishing God or teaching him a lesson by refusing to pray. I felt as though He owed me.
I remember when I was younger being constantly reminded of the nature of a God who never sleeps nor slumbers, who numbers the stars in the sky and counts the hairs on our heads. In retrospect, it seems like maybe on June 24th, 2020, God fell asleep?
Maybe He missed this moment? He missed the 45–55 seconds it took to scar so many lives and take that of others. It’s not too far-fetched. Possibly when God falls asleep, these kinds of things happen? I felt as though He had failed me. He was supposed to watch me but had his attention elsewhere. He allowed the world to take whatever innocence I felt as though I had left. No one is made to experience this. Regardless of the resilience some say I’ve shown, I still didn’t think I was built to carry any of this.
I had to learn to adapt to this world and its ugliness. Some days the pain of leaving this earth didn’t seem like it could be as bad as the pain of staying here and weathering this storm. My bones and heart felt as though they would be crushed under the weight of it all.
“Flowers need water to grow, but they never asked for storms.”
Nothing about these moments felt real. They say God can utilize pain, yet it frequently feels like He wields it as if it were a weapon. Is it possible to use pain? What’s the point of using it? Usually, the explanation is something along the lines of hurt or tragedy being a catalyst for something better that we will encounter on the other side of whatever we experience.
Healing only happens because sadness and wounds exist. We feel joy because grief and weeping precede it. If it takes being broken in this way to know healing, I honestly have no desire to meet it. I don’t think I’ve ever cried as much as I have in the previous several months. Although my knees could not touch the ground, I ultimately found the words to pray to God. I prayed in the hopes of getting knowledge or clarity, however these things met me. I begged for answers that, to be honest, may never come, but that is okay.
One thing that I learned throughout this journey is that God is not transactional. Our culture has caused me to view the relationship between God and people in two ways. One is that if we lose something, He must immediately replace it. The second is that if we hold our wounds up to him, he must at that moment clean and bandage them. I’ve learned that both are far from the reality we live in. God did not take away the pain I was feeling; instead, He walked alongside me as I went through it. He sat next to my bed as I cried and groaned at night from physical pain and cried with me as I woke up early in the morning from bad dreams to the reality of Jhanae being gone.
Physical healing will happen, but that type usually has a finish line. Your body reaches a point when it can disregard what was previously bruised or fractured. Bones heal. My legs will bend again, as my limbs regain range of motion; the muscle tightness subsides. Emotional and mental recovery, I believe, has no bounds. There is no finish line or way to return your brain to normalcy. Your mind will never forget what your body knows vividly. I can re-learn to walk, but there’s no telling when I’ll be able to love, think, and laugh like I used to.
I’m constantly reminded that it’s okay for black boys to cry, miss people, feel upset and express how they’re feeling. I am a man now, and I still think about these things. That little boy is still here, with me. He is me. I learned how to be dependent these last few months and say when I need help. I was not too fond of it because I’d always ensured that I had the things I needed for myself. I realized how fragile I am and easily broken I can be, but that is okay. I found rest in knowing that only one person has the hands to repair me. To massage and mold my heart back to its original shape.
I’m not entirely healed yet. Many people thought that walking again was the end of my journey. I believe it is just getting started. My heart has been broken in such a way that it needs ongoing attention and healing.
Some days are better than others, and some nights are shorter than others. It’s been difficult for me to embrace my new reality and be grateful for breath in my lungs when someone I believe was just as deserving of life as I am, isn’t here right now. Smiling, walking, and helping bandage my scars, as I do theirs.
For some time, I’d forgotten how to do many things that once came naturally, but I’m glad I didn’t forget how to smile. This journey is far from over, and the story is still being indited on the walls of my reality, like hieroglyphics. It may never be done, not until God decides to hold the breath He breathes into my lounges. We tend to believe that all stories require beautiful or joyful endings. For my sanity, I need clarity and closure. I didn’t get much of that because honestly, I can’t even recall the last thing Nae and I even talked about. I’m still searching for peace, as it hides itself within the depth of struggle. I know that God is the author of this story, and it will hopefully make sense after I let him finish it: Love and peace.
