I’m Coming Home

I’m coming home

I’m coming home

Tell the World I’m coming home

Let the rain wash away all the pain of yesterday

I know my kingdom awaits and they’ve forgiven my mistakes

I’m coming home, I’m coming home

Tell the World I’m coming…home

– J. Cole


A couple of weeks ago I found out the most awful news.

A girl I grew up with – someone I sat beside in middle school – had went through the most heartbreaking and traumatic experience any person on this earth could ever withstand.

She lost her child.

A beautiful baby boy.

A little one who never even had the chance to taste his first breath of air, or blink his tiny eyes, or nuzzle his Momma’s neck.

I immediately went to my bar grabbed a wine glass, the last of my NYE wine, and settled down on my couch for a twenty minute sob. I haven’t cried like that in a long time. I was a shoulder-racking, snot-dripping, blubbering mess. Like, it was a, double up on my medication type of ordeal.

My heart broke for her.

It breaks for her.

Just writing to you, Ballas, triggers my tears all over again.

How does this happen?

After centuries, and science, and putting men on moons, and effing iPhones… how does something like this still happen? How can a woman – a couple – carry a child full term and then lose it so suddenly? How can we see their tiny little faces, and determine their sex, and count their 10 itty bitty fingers and toes in the womb so clearly… yet, still not guarantee their safety? It infuriates me.

It infuriates me that our bodies – the very means by which we exist – seem to be the only foreign lands we have yet to truly discover.

My friend’s mother has breast cancer. She is holed up in her house just miles up the road receiving shitty phone call, after shitty phone call, after shitty phone call. In just two short months, she has undergone a lumpectomy, a double mastectomy, and had tens of lymph nodes removed. She is queued up for chemo, and wigs, and quarantine. Her spirit is broken and her soul is in pieces.

But she has four kids and a grandson.

Just what the hell is she supposed to do?

Walk? Sport pink every day? Shave her head? Slap a f*&king ribbon to the back of her God forsaken Toyota and hope someone gets a f*&king clue?


Actually – check that – hell no.

She should be sleeping. She should be sitting her tired ass on the couch and surrounding herself with her family. She should be drinking coffee on her back porch and breathing in the effing crystal clean ass air. She should be able to lay down and free her mind from any dark thoughts, or feelings of loneliness, or ideas of despair. She should feel confidence.

Confident in her health. Confident in her future. Confident in a cure.

We all should.




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1 thought on “I’m Coming Home

  1. I don’t know your friend but I do know that heartache. Please for the love of all that is holy, don’t say it is God’s will for this to happen because the God I know would never do this. To anyone. Ever. Next, don’t be afraid to talk about her child. He had a name, a dream future, and always a place in her heart.

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