I probably would have never gone to college had I not spent two months of my childhood in a hospital.
While in middle school, I was diagnosed with juvenile rheumatoid arthritis. The pain in my legs became so bad that I couldn’t walk. My grandmother, “Big Mama,” a nursing assistant who raised me from the time I was 4, couldn’t afford to miss work to take me to the daily physical therapy appointments I needed to walk without pain. So I stayed at the hospital. I cried a lot over the isolation from my grandmother and my two brothers and two sisters, whom she also was raising.
The director of the physical therapy department, a Black licensed therapist, saw how lonely I was and adopted me as her goddaughter. After my