Valencia Hardaway Story

Valencia Hardaway cracks two eggs in a bowl, adds a splash of milk, and begins whipping the eggs with a fork. She pours the mixture into a hot pan sizzling with margarine, reaches for the toaster to drop in a slice of bread, and then gently scrambles the eggs.  

When the eggs are done, she sets the steaming plate, along with a plastic cup of juice and a slice of toast, jellied and quartered, on the table before a four year old boy named Stephon. The child smiles and thanks his aunt before plunging his Winnie-the-Pooh fork into his breakfast.  

“The eggs are hot,” Valencia warns, tucking a napkin into the little boy’s pajama top. “Blow on them first.” She returns the smile before going back to the sink to clean up.  

Such ordinary things—cooking breakfast for her sister’s son, standing on her own two feet in the kitchen, or opening her mouth to speak. There was a time when even these simple tasks seemed improbable for Valencia Hardaway.  

The Early Days 

Valencia was one of those kids who never got sick. All through school she was vibrant and healthy, never even catching the ubiquitous childhood chicken pox. If anything, Valencia’s biggest battle was with her weight, though this never prevented her from making the cheerleading squad in junior high and all throughout high school. A devout Christian, Valencia used to pray that God would take the extra pounds away from her. Little did she know that the weight would come off, but not in the way she expected.  

In 1988, after graduating in the Top Ten of her high school class, Valencia opted for the career path of cosmetology rather than a four-year college. In 1991 she earned her Master Cosmetologist license and honed her craft for two years at Xavier’s Hair Design in her hometown of Atlanta before deciding to head out on her own.  

In 1993, she and her mother’s sister, Dorothy, opened their own hair salon. They called in “D and V’s”—Dorothy and Valencia’s. Though the two women started from scratch—two chairs in a corner of a shared office building—they had big dreams. They were going to make something out of this place. Overseeing installation of new sinks and floors, they transformed their corner of the office on a shoestring budget. Their do-it-yourself decorating included wallpaper and curtains, pictures and house plants. When the salon opened, it quickly earned a reputation for quality service. Gradually, their clientele grew.  

Meanwhile, Valencia found an apartment—a nice, one-bedroom unit in nearby Decatur, and she even bought herself a new car. At twenty-three, she was independent financially and emotionally, with a stable future in a career she loved.  

And then she got sick.  

It began one afternoon while doing a bob on a new client. Valencia loved the challenge of taking an unfamiliar head of hair and creating an entirely new look. The cut was going well; the client seemed satisfied. Earlier that day, Valencia had splurged and eaten a cheeseburger for lunch—something she hadn’t done in a while as she was still trying to lose a few pounds. Halfway through the haircut, her stomach began to cramp. Rather than push through the appointment and risk ruining the haircut, she excused herself to use the restroom, where she had a violent episode of diarrhea.  

She returned to her client and managed to finish the day at work before dragging herself home. Assuming she had an adverse reaction to the greasy fries from lunch, she swore off junk food and went to bed early, hoping shed feel better in the morning.  

She did feel better—until she swallowed some toast and juice for breakfast. Within minutes, she was in the bathroom, experiencing another bout of cramping and diarrhea. She called her aunt, told her she was sick, and asked her to cancel her appointments. “Maybe I can try to double up some clients during the evenings next week,” she suggested. “I’m sure I’ll be better by tomorrow.”  

Valencia hung up the phone, frustrated and annoyed. She really couldn’t afford to miss a day of work. She made a cup of tea, put a few crackers on a plate and went to the couch to try and get some rest. She sipped on her tea and nibbled on a cracker. Within minutes, she was rushing to the bathroom.  

A Rising Concern 

Rosa Hardaway, Valencia’s mother, was flat-out tired. She had worked overtime again at her job as senior accountant at Georgia Institute of Technology, and she was exhausted. A hot bath would be great, she thought, as she turned the key in the front door and let herself in.  

There was a note on the counter from Rosa’s youngest daughter, Melissa, saying she’d be home late from cheer practice. And there were two messages on the answering machine. Rosa pressed “play” and listened to them while scanning the contents of the refrigerator, trying to piece together a simple dinner. She was hungry.  

Both messages were from her daughter, Valencia. She was still having trouble with her stomach and had gone to the doctor again that afternoon. He had prescribed more medication, Valencia said, this time for hemorrhoids. That last batch didn’t seem to help.  

That was the first message. Valencia’s second message was more concise, her voice agitated and tense. Can I stay at your place over the weekend?  

Rosa knew that this would be the third weekend in a row that her second eldest daughter “Lynn” had asked to come home and stay. Valencia was starting to spend more time at Mom’s home than her apartment, mainly because she was so sick. Mom, naturally, was concerned why her daughter’s appetite had decreased so much.  

No matter how much tender loving care she received on the weekends, Lynn didn’t seem to be getting any better. How long will it be, Rosa thought, before these doctors figure out what’s wrong with my daughter? All these pills don’t seem to do a thing. If anything, Lynn seems to be getting worse. And she has to endure those horrible rectal exams each time she visits the doctor. Would it never end?  

I had never been sick before, so I didn’t know what to expect.  

I believed the doctors were doing whatever they could to help me. 

You just figure they know what they’re doing… 

Two months after signing a one-year lease on her apartment, Valencia Hardaway moved back into her mother’s house. She was so ill that she could no longer work and was forced to leave the salon in her Aunt Dorothy’s care. The burden to sustain the business was too much, however, and they eventually lost the salon.  

Valencia hardly noticed. She went from bedroom to toilet every thirty minutes, passing so much blood rectally she would sometimes collapse in the floor of the bathroom. She began sleeping by a portable heater just to keep warm. And she slept. In between bathroom visits, it seemed all she did was sleep.  

Rosa was becoming desperate. Each week, she would take Valencia to the doctor. Each week, a different doctor would probe and prod, and then he would prescribe another medication. It was, Valencia would say later, as if they had no idea what to do with her and were merely guessing. Oddly enough, the doctors never checked her blood.  

One afternoon, Rosa noticed that her daughter seemed more lethargic than usual. And her lips seemed so pale. Something seemed to connect in her mind, something about blood loss and anemia. But wouldn’t those doctors have checked for this? ON impulse, Rosa called her primary care physician and made an appointment for her daughter. She dragged Valencia out of bed and literally carried her to the car and into the doctor’s office.  

Once there, the nurse did a finger prick in order to get a reading, but she couldn’t draw any blood. Concerned that something was wrong with the machine, the nurse informed the doctor of the problem. He took one look at Valencia and needed no one to tell him that the machine wasn’t broken. He picked up the phone and arranged for Valencia to be transported to Dekalb Medical Hospital. Later he told Rosa that if Valencia had slept another day, she would most likely have slipped into a coma.  

At Dekalb, Valencia received ten pints of blood. She was also examined by a gastroenterologist, who for the first time diagnosed Valencia with ulcerative colitis. He informed her that her colon was so diseased that the only option left was to have it surgically removed. Had he seen her earlier, perhaps he could have done something for her.  

They said I’d only have to wear the pouch for about six weeks, and then they’d reverse it.  

That’s what kept me going. I could never live with a pouch for the rest of my life. 

Never. 

On March 16, 1994, Valencia went into the operating room for ileostomy surgery. She awoke to intense pain and an ostomy pouch on her side. Reminding herself that the pouch was only temporary, she set her sights on the day she would be well enough to have the procedure reversed.  

But Valencia didn’t get well. Two months later, she had a second operation, this time to deal with a fistula. From then on, from Easter to Christmas and every holiday in between, she was back in for more surgery. Each time, the same incision would be re-opened, from sternum to pelvis. Each time, Valencia would wait for the inevitable chills that would set her limbs shivering and remind her once again that she couldn’t go home, not yet.  

A growing sense that she would never get well came over her like the summer heat that suffocates Atlanta. The hope that had kept her going—that the ileostomy would be reversed—gradually faded. Valencia began to despair. She was tired. Tired of hospitals. Tired of pain. Tired of the wretched ostomy pouch. Indeed, she would have nothing to do with it; she wouldn’t even touch it. She turned her face away when her mother changed it for her. She hated the sounds of the hospital and the stench of her own excrement. She despised her life. She was ready to die. No, more than that. She wanted to die.  

A Tough Go 

It was Christmas, that same year. Valencia had been home long enough to see the pretty lights on the tree before returning, once again, to the hospital for yet another surgery—her seventh. That morning her mother called, as she always did, to check on her daughter and to let her know what time she’d be coming in.  

Rosa, who finally had to quit her job in order to care for Valencia full time, listened as her daughter spoke, then asked, “Valencia, have you been exerting yourself?”  

She hadn’t.  

“Then why are you breathing so hard?”  

Valencia hadn’t noticed.  

That was a Saturday morning. Rosa’s youngest daughter was still asleep and the house was quiet. After telling Valencia she’d be there later that day, she hung up the phone.  

Less than an hour later, at 9:00 a.m., the phone rang. It was St. Joseph’s Hospital. Valencia had been transferred to the ICU and was being prepped for emergency surgery. Her heart rate was skyrocketing, and her fever had spiked. Rosa found out later that in addition to a bowel obstruction, pelvic sepsis, and liver lacerations, the infection had spread to Valencia’s lungs.  

Somehow Rosa managed to make the hour-long drive to the hospital and arrive, breathless and panting, in time to see her daughter being wheeled out of ICU, on her way to surgery. When Valencia, who’d had to sign her own consent form for the surgery, saw her mother, she began crying uncontrollably, and then gasping for air. Immediately an oxygen mask was placed over her face causing Valencia to panic and grab for the mask. It was the last thing she remembers. 

People ask me if I saw God. 

I say no. But I did see a woman.  

A white woman, with long, flowing blonde  

hair. Which is odd, because I didn’t know  

anyone who fit that description. 

Her fever hovered between 102 and 105 the entire time she was on life support. Twice she returned to the surgery bay during those two months, once for a tracheotomy. Valencia’s lungs had turned white; massive doses of antibiotics being pumped into her body did nothing to halt the infection. The Center for Disease Control, suspecting AIDS, tested her for HIV. When the test came back negative, they shrugged their shoulders. There was nothing more to be done. Taking her off life support was the only thing left to do.  

By this time, Rosa had moved into the hospital, camping out in the waiting room, sleeping on two chairs pushed together, and brushing her teeth in the ladies’ room. Christmas came and went and Rosa was still there, keeping vigil; talking to her daughter; caressing her arms and legs; praying…always praying. The doctors gave Rosa the weekend to decide her course of action: either allow them to open Valencia up again to look at her lungs or remove her from life support altogether.  

Rosa was adamant. Valencia had been cut upon enough. No more surgery. The doctors had done everything humanly possible to save Valencia’s life. They had tried everything and had even covered the Hardaways’ astronomical medical bills. Now it was in God’s hands. She went home and prayed: If you’re going to take her, go ahead and do it. But I can’t make the decision to take her off life support.  

The phone rang the following Monday morning. It was the hospital. Valencia’s fever had just broken. It was a few days after the New Year.  

I couldn’t tell them that what they were doing  

hurt me. When I hurt, I held up a card that said PAIN.  

That was how they knew.  

Valencia’s recovery was slow, painful and grueling. There was the agony of withdrawal from the drugs that had been coursing through her body; the failed attempts to speak that sent her into violent coughing spasms; the physical therapy, where all she could do at first was sit for twenty-minute sessions.  

As difficult as recovery was, though, something had changed. Hope had replaced despair. As though someone had tossed her a life raft, Valencia knew it was now up to her to grab a hold and climb in. She’d been given a second chance. If that second chance included accepting the ostomy pouch for the rest of her life, then so be it. Who was she to complain? Then again, there was still that tiny, flickering hope. Maybe some day… 

The Road Back 

Valencia Hardaway went home from the hospital in January 1995 with the will to live. Five months later in June, she returned to the hospital, this time to close the ileostomy. A month later, however, she was back, with an infection. She spent three days getting her stomach pumped of mucous and pus. She returned the following month for a fistulotomy.  

It was no use. Every time Valencia’s doctor tried to reverse the ostomy, infection would set in. The time had come, her doctor said, to choose between chronic illness and infection, or living a productive life. Valencia had no other choice. Her final surgery took place that August. When she awoke, it was to the stark reality that this time there was no turning back. The ostomy would be permanent. Like waking up after surgery for the first time, she was devastated.  

It was during this last hospital stay that Valencia’s attitude about her whole ordeal would change. While shuffling down the hospital corridors following her surgery, Valencia happened to glance into a room where she saw a young white woman, not quite twenty, lying in a bed. She had long, beautiful blond hair. Something about her prompted Valencia to step into the room.  

Her name was Shannan. Like Valencia, she, too, had ulcerative colitis and was scheduled to have ostomy surgery. And like Valencia, she was devastated. She would rather die than go through life with a bag, she told Valencia.  

How well Valencia knew! Even now, after having been given the second chance at life, Valencia understood. But she couldn’t say so. She had to be strong—for someone else. Instead, she held her hand as the girl cried herself to sleep. During her next visit, she promised Shannan that she would be with her when it was time for her to go into surgery. And she kept that promise. She was with her then; was with her for successive surgeries; and, two years later, she was with her again—on Shannan’s wedding day and the subsequent birth of her son, Skyler.  

Perhaps it was then—as she watched the girl who had all but given up on life, exchange wedding vows with her husband-to-be—that Valencia recalled the vision of a blond-haired girl when her own life hung by a thread. Was Shannan the same girl in her vision? And why the vision? Was her life spared in order to give hope to another? Was she a sign from God to help define Valencia’s purpose for living?  

These were thoughts worth pondering.  

Meanwhile, though, her own life stretched before her. There were things to do. People to help. Dreams to pursue.  

And a little boy to care for.