To Bear Witness

A Mothers story

This is the #1 post of a Series of posts.

This first story describes a short period of time in what could have been ‘any’ mother’s life. The character is a mother with 3 daughters. We will call her Annie Frances in our story. She stayed temporarily in a Missouri Women’s Shelter. This happened over a decade ago.

ANNIE:

The title of my story is:

The Morning I Couldn’t Turn My Head

“When you live in a women’s shelter, mornings are not gentle.

There’s always a sound. Bunk beds groan. Kids cry. A microwave beeps. Someone’s life unravels through a whisper behind the door.

But this morning…

This morning, I woke up and realized I couldn’t turn my head.”

ACT 1 – THE SNAP

[rustling sheets, soft breathing, distant chatter from hallway]

ANNIE (tense, dry humor in her head ‘thinking’):

I was lying on a thin foam mattress on the floor of Room 7 at Genesis House. We had left our home in another state. Our efforts were to start a new life. The first plan of action was simple. We needed to find a safe place and get established. It was important to stay safe from a toxic & abusive situation. The decision was necessary, and they had tried before… without success. Annie tried to control circumstances, and the plan was to stay no more than a few weeks at most. At the beginning of this story, they were ‘technically’ homeless. ‘Supposed to be a temporary pit stop’. NO IDEA how it would unfold in the months ahead. (The fact 4 of us fit and did not have to share with other families at the time, and was blessing in itself.)

Ok, back to the story…

“I tried to roll over—and felt a pain shoot down both arms like lightning.

I couldn’t move my neck.”

I thought: “Okay…maybe I just slept funny.”

Lynn stirred next to her, always the first to notice when something was wrong.

“Mommy?” she asked softly. “You’re shaking.”

Annie forced a laugh, the same one she used to cover up hunger, exhaustion, and fear. “Guess I slept funny, baby. You ever wake up feeling like your whole head’s glued to your shoulder?”

But the truth burned. Her arms were weak, her fingers tingled, and her jaw clenched involuntarily every time she breathed too deeply. Something was very wrong.

Her first thought wasn’t “hospital.”

It was: How much will this cost?

Her second: “What happens to the girls if I go?”

[Pause – let the absurdity settle]

Because that’s what broke single moms think in medical emergencies.

(Annie confronts her deepest fear: what if she has to go the hospital alone for a spine surgery?).

Can I afford to survive something like this?

[children whispering]

ANNIE (light chuckle, masking fear):

The girls were awake. Lynn (13), Abby (10), and Ellie (7). They were pressing on my feet, trying to find pressure points to help with the pain.

They pulled up YouTube videos like, “How to heal your mom using reflexology.” We even got on a FaceTime call with cousins in California. We attempted some form of pressure-point exercises. These exercises were probably the most excruciating pain I had experienced since giving birth in 1998.

I laughed through clenched teeth. That’s what I do when I’m hurting—I joke. It keeps them calm.

Even though I was panicking.

[Beat – quieter tone]

Inside, I was screaming.

I couldn’t admit how scared I was. Not to them.

[Staff worker’s footsteps, door creaks open]

ANNIE (gentle warmth):

Georgie entered the room. She was the kindest of the staff on duty that night, in fact, out of all of the ladies. She said,

“The ambulance is on its way.”

And all I could think was… “this can’t be the scene where I die.”

ACT 2 – THE BREAK

[ambulance siren fades in, cold wind, EMT door slam]

ANNIE (shaken):

The ride was an hour of potholes and pain. I begged for something—anything—to dull it.

They gave me Motrin.

Motrin.

The EMTs looked at me. They viewed me as just another addict. They thought I was another drama queen because I was a resident from the Genesis House.

But my arms had gone numb. I couldn’t hold a fork earlier. I’d ignored the warnings, bought a heating pad from Walmart, told myself it was just stress.

But this…

This was fire in my spine.

[hospital beeping, curtain drawn]

ANNIE (flat, emotionally distant):

They rolled me into the ER and told me to wait.

No meds.

No scan.

Just wait.

I could hear them talking in the hallway.

“No insurance.”

“Probably just a crick in her neck.”

“She’s from the shelter.”

(You see, her husband-controlled the finances and decisions. Yet, she did not know her husband had removed her and her daughters from the insurance. When Annie told her husband she was leaving, he responded by withholding finances. His intention was to force her to do what he wanted. This time, she went further than he expected. He said he would cut off financial support if she did: “You can’t file for divorce, I won’t financially support you doing this…period. You will regret crossing me. I promise you, you will all suffer. Whatever happens will be your fault. The house will be sold regardless, so, just come to New York and all is forgiven.” That was their last conversation. They then continued the drive across the country. This journey eventually led her to the Genesis House.

Back at the ER:

[Short pause – building emotion]

Annie threw her wallet across the room.

Not out of rage.

Out of desperation, I yelled towards the hallway, hoping a doctor/nurse would respond.

“Please. Help me. I’m not making this up.”

Ok FINE… take her for an X-Ray.

[Sound cue: CT machine hum, silence in the room]

ANNIE (quiet, intense):

Later, a nurse came back.

She placed a collar around my neck with shaking hands.

She whispered:

“Ms. Frances… it looks like your neck is fractured. Are you sure you weren’t in an accident?”

I just stared at the ceiling.

No. I was sitting at my desk when the pain started.

I wasn’t in a crash.

I was just alive in a broken body.

A body that carried too much.

A woman who carried everything.

NEXT DAY:

THE DOCTOR VISIT AFTER CT SCANS

The doctor returned, quiet and pale. He is facing the screen with a photo of what appeared to be Annie’s bones. There was also something she swore looked like a ball of paper that she must have swallowed.

“You’ve fractured your cervical vertebrae,” he said. “You’re lucky you’re not paralyzed.”

Annie blinked. “Lucky?”

Lucky didn’t live at Genesis House.

She was thirty-seven, broke, in a neck brace, and barely holding onto her job at the call center. But in that moment, something shifted.

She wasn’t lucky.

She was alive.

And she wasn’t done yet.

She squeezed her hands, whispering a prayer through gritted teeth.

The doctor didn’t even look her in the eye when he said it. (The resident counselor, Colleen) was sitting -calm beside her, awaiting something that I do not even think Annie could comprehend.

“There’s a tumor wrapped around your cervical spine Ms. Frances… it is pressing dangerously close to your spinal cord.”

Annie blinked slowly, hoping she’d misheard. The room blurred. Her mouth opened, but nothing came out. She glanced at Colleen, who sat beside her with wide, stunned eyes. We are both looking at the screen… but it somehow does not seem REAL?

“I’m sorry—what does that mean?” Annie finally asked, a strange giggle bubbling up from her throat like soda fizz.

The doctor continued, cautious, clinical. “It looks like a tumor is applying pressure—likely benign, but urgent. We need to stabilize your neck immediately.”

Benign. Pressure. Fracture.

Like….CANCER? I DO NOT HAVE TIME FOR CANCER…

These were not words Annie had planned to hear today.

Her mind wandered as the doctor’s words turned into white noise. A tumor? My neck? She was supposed to go to work. She had a shift at the call center. She was supposed to pick up groceries with food stamps and help the girls with homework. And now she couldn’t move her neck.

They fastened a brace around her throat. It clicked shut like a collar.

And just like that, she felt caged.

Later that evening, back at Genesis House, she buzzed herself out into the small, fenced-in backyard. She collapsed onto the grass. It was barely spring, and the air was biting. She tilted her face to the sky and screamed at God with everything in her:

“HOW COULD YOU BRING ME THIS FAR JUST TO KILL ME NOW?”

She sobbed—not the gentle, movie-type crying—but the guttural kind. Rage, exhaustion, betrayal.

She had done everything right.

Finally had the courage to leave. Got a job. Found a lawyer.

Now this?

Her children had already lost so much. She couldn’t let them lose her too.

But in that moment, she didn’t feel brave. She felt broken.

The days after the diagnosis blurred. She couldn’t drive. Couldn’t work. Her neck brace chafed, her pride even more. She felt like a burden to the staff, to her children, to family back home, and to God.

THE SURGERY: The nurse gave her an IV. The anesthesiologist asked her name. And the surgeon walked in with confidence that scared her a little. Annie didn’t joke this time. Didn’t smile to ease his nerves.

ANNIE SAID: “Ya’ll better be good at your jobs,” she said. “I have three daughters. I cannot die today.”

He nodded: “Then let’s get you home to them.”

She woke up slowly. The pain was there—but so was movement. Her fingers wiggled. Her legs responded. Her arms, heavy, but functional.

ACT 3 – THE CHOICE

ANNIE (resolute):

Back at the Genesis House, she grabbed the black notebook she’d hidden under her bunk and something changed, she began making a list:

• Re-apply for Medicaid & Social Security
• Not be angry that if Victims Advocates are ill-informed
• Not be angry that none us seems to know our rights
• Get a second opinion
• Ask questions
• Stop apologizing for being in pain
• Stop being angry at self for not knowing what to do next

It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t brave.

It was quiet.

It was survival with intention.

[hospital monitor, heartbeat slows]

ANNIE (building strength):

(During her hospital stay, she writes letters to her daughters)—just in case—

-On morning of surgery, I kiss girls goodbye. Pray with entire being for mercy, for something extraordinary to happen or for this to all be a dream.

We still were not home, but it wasn’t despair either. It had to be our launching pad. Technically we were safe. They did not have to go back to him or the life we had left. We all believed I was going to be ok.

She still could not drive the van, still could not turn her head from left to right. Still would need a job eventually to support them. She still had to deal with the court-system eventually. She believed the system ‘had to work’ once all the facts were presented. We would have the chance to defend ourselves… at least that is what she believed.

She wore the brace, she could walk and talk. But something inside her had healed in a way no scan could measure.

The night before, she had knelt down between her daughters. She whispered prayers into their hair. When they fell asleep, she opened Abby’s pink notebook. She read every scribble she could find.

ANNIE (soft, victorious):

(Annie didn’t feel brave the next morning. She didn’t wake up with newfound strength. She didn’t hear the voice of God in the rafters of the shelter room. She opened her eyes. A decision was already pulsing through her. “I cannot wait to be saved by another person or organization.”)

The morning when Annie woke up, she could move.

She could feel her arms.

She could feel her life coming back.

Weeks later, when I returned to Genesis House, she looked around the shelter room and no longer saw a dead-end.

She saw a new beginning. And for the first time in her life, she believed she deserved it.) – This feeling did not last, but for this moment in time…

The girls screamed, “Mommy’s home!”

I laughed.

Not to hide the pain.

Not to make them feel better.

But because for the first time in a long time, I believed…

[Short pause – heart full]

…I was going to be okay.

[music swells to hopeful melody, fades slowly]

ANNIE (gentle conclusion):

I still wear the brace sometimes. I’m still rebuilding.

But I don’t wait to be saved anymore.

I fight. I ask. I rise.

And I tell this story…

Because maybe someone out there needs to believe

that even when everything breaks—

you can still get back up.

Final Note:

Annie did not give up her faith during these moments. Even when she screamed at God, she found comfort in prayer and reading scripture. Her anger was visceral. She experienced grace and freedom to express it regardless.

She used her experience to motivate herself. It helped her draw on internal strength when nothing made sense. The full story was not entirely comfortable or perfect. They eventually experienced a series of many miraculous events from strangers. Describing all of those would take too long. I just wanted this particular ‘event’ to convey this moment in time, to the best of my recollection. The handwritten details I managed to keep over these years, have helped me fill in the blanks that living in survival mode removed.

Helpful Resources:

(Few photos still exist from the 8 months we stayed in our room with 2 sets of bunk beds in 2012 at the Genesis House in Waynesville, Missouri. There were approximately 5-6 women with and without children living there with us at any given time. The average stay was one month at most. Our case was unique. Without warning, just weeks after arrival, I was disabled. I had to have spine surgery and radiation. We all arrived from various heartbreaking situations. All living behind securely locked alarm doors at any given time. Prayers were answered. Now, it looks exactly as it SHOULD look. I have done some research.The unkind staff members are no longer employed. This organization appears to be doing great now, and that makes me happy.)

Romans 5:3-5: “Not only that, but we rejoice in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit who has been given to us.”