Jodi M. Savage is an author who happens to be a breast cancer survivor. Her memoir, The Death of a Jaybird: Essays on Mothers and Daughters and the Things They Leave Behind! debuts Nov. 14 with accolades and praise from and Edwidge Danticot who assures readers that they “will read these essays again and again just to remain a bit longer in Savage’s delightful and healing company.”

While healing denotes that Savage is working through her situations—in this case breast cancer—following the author’s words to through her diagnosis is arresting. Not only does Savage discover a malignant mass embedded in her breast tissue, she is simultaneously experiencing the breast cancer walk of her mother Cheryl, who is quite the character. Savage chronicles both her’s and Cheryl’s breast cancer journey in chapter 7 of her forthcoming text in a smart, humorous and Black ass ways that will either have readers shed a kazillion tear drops—or have them doubled over with gut-busting laughter. BLACK ENTERPRISE obtained an exclusive excerpt that won’t disappoint.

I’m Too Pretty to Die Tonight

Wednesday, October 14, 2020

My mother, Cheryl, whom I hadn’t seen in almost a year, sent me a
text message to find out if I had scheduled my mammogram.

Wed, Oct 14, 3:53 PM
Hey Jodi what’s going on have you been to the doctor yet
I hope you’re not procrastinating about this situation please
don’t be like me put it off put it off and then when you decide
to do something it’s almost too late I love you please call
me later

My mother knew my fears all too well. She had stage 4 breast cancer that had spread to her lungs, liver, and bones. Five years earlier, she told me that her breast had been swollen and sore for months, and that it hurt to lift her arm or sleep on her left side.

“Why did you wait so long to go to the doctor?” I asked her.
“I was scared,” she replied.

She finally made an appointment when the pain became unbearable. By that time, there were numerous tumors in her breast, and she was diagnosed with stage 3 breast cancer. She had a mastectomy of
her left breast and had nineteen lymph nodes removed.

Wednesday, October 7, 2020

The day before my 42nd birthday was one of extremes. Good and bad. Night and day. That afternoon, I spoke with a literary agent I’d recently queried who was interested in representing me. After our call, I jumped up and down in my living room, attempted to twerk, and did the running man. “I think she’s the one,” I yelled to my French bulldog, Buster, while he silently looked up at me with big, round eyes that seemed to question whether he should bark for help.

That evening, I played with Buster by rubbing his face and head and then quickly snatching my hand away so that he would jump up. In the midst of our game, I pulled my hand back from him too forcefully and wound up hitting my left breast. A sharp pain immediately settled in. When I rubbed the spot I’d hit, the pain did not subside. I didn’t think I had hit myself hard enough to cause so much soreness. I massaged my breast more deeply, firmly pressing down into my flesh in circular motions to get relief. That’s when I felt it—a small, hard ball about a half inch from my nipple. It felt like a marble wedged deep into my tissue. A speck of peach-colored skin sat atop the lump, as if it were the origin point of vitiligo that would eventually spread to the rest of my brown-skinned body. I called my friend Janine in a panic. When she didn’t answer, I
sent her a text.

Wed, Oct 7, 9:34 PM
I think I have breast cancer. Where you at? I got a lumpy boob.

Thursday, October 8, 2020

On my birthday, I woke up to a text from my mother.

Thu, Oct 8, 7:20 AM
Happy birthday to you happy birthday to you . . . thinking
about you call me later I’m getting ready to go to my group
program

My mother was in a drug rehab program in Miami for her crack cocaine addiction and attended various individual and group therapy sessions throughout the day. I was happy to see her text because it was one of the few times she’d ever contacted me on my birthday—she was usually in jail or out getting high.

I tried not to think about the lump I’d found the previous night. My birthday celebration options were limited because we were in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic. We couldn’t go out for dinner, catch a Broadway show, or even get our nails done. I still took the day off work. Janine and I went to Greenlight Book-
store, where I bought Luster by Raven Leilani, On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous by Ocean Vuong, and I Love Myself When I Am Laughing . . . a Zora Neale Hurston reader edited by Alice Walker.
Afterwards, Janine treated me to a chocolate cupcake and iced hot chocolate.

“Gurl, what if my lump is cancer?” I said as we walked home.

“You do not have cancer,” Janine replied. “It’s probably noth-
ing, but you should get it checked out anyway.”

Still unconvinced, I tried to swallow my anxiety as I sipped my iced hot chocolate.

Saturday, October 17, 2020

Although my mother lived in Florida and we spent more time estranged than not, she was one of the first people I told about my lump. She was the only person I knew who’d understand what I was going through. The only person who could mother me. And mothering me is what she did, in the best way she knew how.

Sat, Oct 17, 10:20 AM
Jody I’m good I’m praying for you and with you and I want you to
know you don’t have to do this by yourself like I did I love you Jody
call me later love you and God got you the same way he has me

The correct spelling of my first name is J-O-D-I. Although my mother’s spelling of my name alternated between Jodi with an “i” and Jody with a “y,” she usually spelled it with a “y.” It baffled me that she
consistently misspelled the name she had given me, but I was used to it and never bothered to correct her. It was another reminder that she had not raised me and only occasionally needed to write my name. Her misspellings and run-on sentences reflected her fidgety nature and inability to slow down and focus. Bipolar disorder and decades of crack cocaine use caused her mind and body to continuously race from one
place to another. She’d been that way for so long that I didn’t know if nature or nurture had made her like that. It was hard to say which came first: her addiction, her mental illness, or her racing thoughts.

Friday, October 23, 2020

I laid on the table as the tech rubbed gel onto my breasts and underarms. The image of my left breast on the black screen lit up in red, purple, blue, and yellow as the tech rubbed the wand over different sections of my slippery skin. The image was most colorful in the area where I’d felt the lump—the lump that hadn’t even appeared on the mammogram I’d taken earlier that day, thanks to my dense breasts. I looked up at the screen and tried to interpret what the pictures and colors meant, but my efforts were useless.

“I’ll be right back. I’m gonna either come back with the doctor or
with some instructions from her,” the tech told me. She seemed more
serious, worried.

Why did she need to go speak with the doctor? Why would the doctor need to see me now? I wondered. This couldn’t be good news. My eyes became watery, and a single tear fell down my face. I willed myself to not freak out and quickly wiped it dry so the stern, robotic tech would not have the awkward job of comforting me. I worried that if I started crying, she would look at me like I was unhinged, unsure of what to say or do. Then we’d both be uncomfortable. I didn’t need that on top of the fear I was already feeling about my
results. When the tech returned with the radiologist, the doctor introduced herself and reviewed the ultrasound images of my left breast on the screen.

“You have to return first thing Monday morning for a biopsy,”
the doctor told me. “Although we can see a mass, we don’t know what
it is. And one of your lymph nodes is abnormally shaped.”
She asked whether I had contact information for a breast surgeon.

“Yes. My gynecologist referred me to one and I have an appoint-
ment the week after next.”

“Who did your GYN refer you to?” she asked. I gave her the name
of the surgeon.
“Okay, she’s the best. I was going to give you her name if you had
said someone else,” the doctor replied. “See if you can get an earlier
appointment.”

It became harder for me to breathe.

Saturday, October 24, 2020

During my nap, I dreamt that I was trying to figure out who would take care of Granny if I died. I considered sending her to go live with her twin brother in Florida. But then I thought about how unhappy she would be in a place she hadn’t lived in for almost 60 years. I thought about my job’s life insurance policy and any other money I’d be able to leave for her care. In the dream, I wished I had saved more money for her in case something happened to me. I considered telling my friend Nicola about all my insurance information for Granny. I also wondered who would take Granny to her doctor’s appointments and check on her. I thought about Janine at first, but my other friend Marilyn was the better choice. She loved helping little old la-
dies, worked in the medical field, and was older and more grounded.

When I awoke, I remembered that Granny had been dead for nearly ten years. If I did have breast cancer and die, I was relieved that I wouldn’t leave anyone behind who needed me. There was no one, other than my dog, depending on me to care for them.

Friday, October 30, 2020

A radiologist called me at about ten o’clock that morning. She explained that the doctor who’d performed my biopsy was out that day, so she was calling on her behalf.

“Unfortunately, the biopsy showed that you have a form of breast
cancer called invasive ductal carcinoma. However, the biopsy of your
lymph node was negative,” the doctor told me.

Invasive ductal carcinoma. It sounded like a foreign language. Cancer is the only word I understood. The doctor explained my diagnosis to me.

“Ductal, meaning it originated in the milk duct and invasive,
meaning it has spread into or invaded the surrounding breast tissue.”
“What stage is it?” I asked.
“Your breast surgeon will discuss staging, surgery, and treatment
plans with you,” she explained. “I’m sorry to have to give you this news
on a Friday. I struggled with whether to call you today or wait until
Monday.”

I put on a fake cheery voice. “Well thank you for calling me today.
I would’ve been anxious all weekend.”

After our call ended, I laid on my bed and sobbed.

Mon, Nov 16, 1:18 PM
Hi Jody how are you I had my procedure done this morning
to take the fluid [off my lungs] . . . I’m feeling better I’m
coming home from hospital today love you

Cheryl often provided me with updates about her health in short,
random text messages. I’d then call my brother or another family
member for the backstory. My brother explained that the cancer had
spread to Cheryl’s lungs, causing fluid to accumulate around them.
She’d been hospitalized so that doctors could drain the fluid. As my
mother lay in a hospital bed recovering from surgery and contending
with an increasing number of complications, I was still reeling from
my own breast cancer diagnosis, preparing for surgery, and afraid of
what my own future held.

Tuesday, November 24, 2020

Two days before Thanksgiving, my friends Jennifer and Joella drove me to a Manhattan outpatient cancer center to have my breast surgery. My surgeon was going to perform a lumpectomy—she was going to remove the tumor in my left breast and several lymph nodes under my arm. Cheryl called me that morning while we were in the car on our way to the city. I put her on speakerphone.

“Hey chile, I’m on my way to surgery,” I told her.

“I have an appointment with my oncologist today. What kind of cancer do you have? So I can tell my doctor,” Cheryl said.

We’d previously discussed needing to compare our breast cancers so that I’d have more information about breast cancer in our family for my genetic counseling.

“I have invasive ductal carcinoma that’s estrogen and progesterone
positive,” I replied.
“You have what?” she asked.
“Invasive ductal carcinoma. That means the cancer started in my
milk duct,” I explained.
“The milk duct?” she asked.
“What doesn’t she understand? The milk or the duct?” Jennifer
asked as Joella and I laughed.
“You don’t know what a milk duct is? Didn’t you give birth to two
whole kids?” I asked Cheryl. She laughed.

She later told me that she had infiltrating ductal carcinoma that was estrogen receptor-positive. I learned that “invasive” and “infiltrating” are used interchangeably and that we had the same type of breast cancer. I’d spent my life trying to be my mother’s opposite in every way—not wanting to repeat her mistakes or live her life of addiction. I’d prided myself on being responsible and “doing life right.” Although genetic testing revealed that I had not inherited the BRCA1 or BRCA2 gene mutation that makes women more likely to develop breast cancer, I was still my mother’s child down to the malignant, molecular level.

“Lemme send you some pictures of me,” she said.

In the pictures, she looked like she was headed to the club or a night out with the girls instead of an oncology appointment. Her short, salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back, and her midnight blue glasses were perched on her head. She wore blue skinny jeans and a black crop top that stopped just beneath her breast. The accent piece of her outfit was the orange blouse she wore over her crop top—a sheer, puffy number made of tulle. It had a deep cut in the front, revealing her black top underneath, and a thick sash around her waist that flared out into ruffles. Her eyelashes, eyeshadow, and lipstick were perfectly applied, she wore stud earrings, and two necklaces. She did not dress like your average sixty-year-old.

“Go head, sexy momma!” I told her. “Who you lookin’ sexy for?”
“I gotta look sexy for my oncologist,” she replied.

Her outfits were starkly different from my cancer treatment uniform. The plaid button-down shirts I wore for my medical appointments were easy to get out of when doctors needed to examine my breasts or I needed to undergo imaging tests. A few months later, while I was undergoing radiation treatments, my friend Janine saw me in my daily uniform of plaid shirt, leggings, and pink loafers.

“You gotta start dressing better or they’re gonna think you’re homeless and give you
bad medical treatment,” she said.

I didn’t look completely homeless. I applied lotion so I wouldn’t be ashy, aluminum-free deodorant so I
wouldn’t be funky, and combed my hair. I was cute from the neck up.

Friday, February 12, 2021

“Call Justin,” Cheryl told me. She was in hospice and wanted me to call my father on three-way.

“Okay. Hold on.”
“Hey, Justin Savage,” I said when he answered the phone.
“Hey, Jodi Savage! How ya doin’?”

This is how we greet one another—by our first and last names. For starters, “Savage” is a cool
name. This is also our way of bypassing the awkwardness of me not calling him Dad or Daddy or figuring out what else to call him.

“I’m doin’ alright. Cheryl is in hospice and wants to talk to ya.
She’s on the other line. Hold on.”
“Okaaaaay,” he said in a what-the-hell-is-going-on way.
“Cheryl, you there?”
“Yup.”
“Justin, you on?”
“Uh huh.”
“Hey, Cheryl, how ya doin’?” my father asked.

Once all three of us were connected, we engaged in the awkward, halting small talk of groups of people who do not normally speak to one another. This conversation was our attempt at normalcy—as if my parents had
raised me together as a happily married couple. As if my mother was not in hospice. Still, I laughed and smiled a wide goofy smile as I sat on my bed talking to them.

“What happened to you?” Cheryl asked my father. “I called and
you ain’t neva pick up the phone.”
“Oh, I gotta tell you bout that. We’ll talk about that later,” he
responded, clearly not wanting me to know what was going on.

My mother had told me she was going to start hanging out with my father. Perhaps they’d planned to meet, and he’d stood her up.

“You get disability? I need some money,” my mother told him.
“No. I’m a stripper. I make too much money to get disability.” He
said it so smoothly that I almost believed him.
“Nigga, I’m yo wife,” she told him.

“I know, but ya left me Cheryl,” he responded.

Although still legally married, they hadn’t been together since I was a baby.

“God told me to tell you to put them Heinekens down,” Cheryl
said.

We did not need divine intervention to know my father should cut down on his alcohol consumption. I guess Cheryl thought he might actually do it if he thought God had delivered a special message just for him.

“I stopped drinking a long time ago,” he responded.

I had my doubts but kept quiet. Who was I to bust up our happy family time?

“You did?” Cheryl asked.
“Yeah.”
“Justin, you want some pocketbook?” she asked him.

This is where the conversation went left. “Pocketbook” was a euphemism for vagina, which she’d used to make money during her days as a prostitute. She took great pride in her pocketbook. She once told me, “I ain’t finna use up my pocketbook. My Gucci, my Chanel, my Louis Vuitton. I got name-brand pocketbook.”

I was afraid of how my father would respond to my mother’s pocketbook offering.

“But you gotta pay for it, tho. I don’t give out nothing for free,”
she told my father.
“Cheryl, you know we don’t do that no mo. Don’t talk that way,”
Justin said. “Jodi, I ain’t mean for you to hear all that,” he added.

“I ain’t mean to hear all that either,” I responded. I was embar-
rassed enough for the three of us.

“We gotta get married again,” my mother told him.
“Cheryl, we still married.”
“Oh.”

Before we got off the phone, Justin made plans to visit her in hospice.

“Call before you come tho. She’s going home soon,” I told him.

Cheryl had worn out her welcome at the hospice and wouldn’t let the other patients rest—and die—in peace. The nurses heavily sedated her, causing her to sleep through meals. When she woke up, she’d be hungry and there was usually no food around. The staff would bring her a plate, but the food would be cold. Then she’d have a temper tantrum by throwing things, cussing, and yelling. Sometimes she took her tantrum on the road and showed out in the hallway. The hospice would call my brother. He would then call my mother to ask
why she was giving everyone such a hard time. She and I joked about there never being any food around or a
microwave in her hospice unit.

“Folks come to hospice to die. Dead folks don’t make noise,” I said.
“Exactly. Dead folks don’t eat either,” she replied.
“And dead folks don’t ask for hot food.”

That evening, while my mother was in hospice and I was in my third week of radiation therapy, was the first time in my forty-two years that I’d ever spoken to both of my parents at the same time. We were making new, happy memories. Their conversation was Blackity Black, hilarious, carefree, vulgar, straight ignant, incoherent at times, loving—the banter of two old friends who shared a child and a history without judgment. Cheryl had had enough bad customer service at the hospice and was going home. Surely, she wasn’t at death’s door. But even in that moment, I knew that conversation with my parents
was special, something I would look back on and savor.

Tuesday, February 16, 2021

Last week, I had my second cancer dream. I dreamt that I had a Black doctor and that he was showing me images of my left breast with small dots of cancer cells or tumors emanating from my nipple all the way to the outside of my breast. “The radiation isn’t working,” he told me.

A friend recently asked me if I am “still hopeful.” It was such an odd question. I certainly had many reasons to be hopeful. I’d had a lumpectomy. My surgeon had removed the tumor and six lymph
nodes. The amount of cancer cells found in two of my lymph nodes was so small that their presence could not be detected on imaging tests and did not affect the staging of my stage 1B breast cancer. My MammaPrint score was low, so my oncologist said I didn’t have to undergo chemo. I only had to undergo almost six weeks of daily radiation treatments, with weekends off, and ten years of getting Lupron shots monthly and taking anastrozole pills daily. I was coming out on the other side. But the truth is that I am afraid to be hopeful. Or rather, I am cautiously optimistic. For now. I’m afraid that I will die from breast cancer—maybe not this time, but eventually. I fear that it will come back, and the doctors won’t catch it early enough. That I won’t be as lucky next time. I’m afraid to say I am “cancer free” because such a statement
makes me feel like a fraud; because there might be lone cancer cells floating throughout my body that I do not yet know about. When I researched disability insurance, I learned that cancer is considered a
permanent disease. When I looked up appointments for the COVID vaccine, cancer was the first listed qualifying medical condition. The two categories listed for cancer were “current” and “in remission.”

Even after years of hormone therapy and being “cancer free,” the cancer can return. Studies have shown breast cancer can return as many as twenty years later, although the risk of recurrence is greatest in the
first two years after diagnosis. I am the president and ambassador of the performative happi-
ness and positivity club. I’m often described as bubbly, happy, and positive—even under the worst, tear-inducing circumstances. I’m not superhuman or a Strong Black Woman. I simply don’t have the
luxury of falling apart because my bills still need to be paid, I still need a place to live, and my dog still needs his expensive food. The

“You should have a part-time boyfriend,” she offered. Admit-
tedly, a part-time boyfriend might be easier to find.

“No, thank you,” I replied.

We continued talking as I slathered conditioner throughout my unwashed hair. I’d planned to cover my hair with a shower cap for a half hour so the conditioner could penetrate my dehydrated strands before shampooing it.

“I’m thinkin’ bout cutting my hair,” I told her. “It’s so much damn
work and it has dried out even more since I started radiation.”

I told her about my wash-day woes of my hair getting tangled when it’s wet and me having to cut the knots out. I explained the new hair washing technique I planned to try that night: twisting my hair and then washing it with the twists in.

“Yea, that’s too much work,” she said. “You should just go get it
done every two weeks.”

I only go to salons once a year to get a trim after giving myself several bad haircuts throughout the year. On a good day, I don’t have the patience to spend hours in small, crowded places. COVID has made me even less inclined to do so. Cheryl, on the other hand, doesn’t believe in DIY beauty routines. She is a con-
noisseur of lacefront wigs, professionally installed eyelashes, and manicures. Cheryl and I are so different in how we pamper ourselves that one might think I’m disinterested in the feminine arts of hair, nails, and makeup. For the most part, I am. I wear my hair in a natural hairstyle, rotating between an afro, updo puff, or twist out. I can count the number of times on one hand that I’ve worn a weave and I’ve only worn a wig once. I’ve never worn false eyelashes, and only know how to apply mascara to my top lashes. I’ve never applied my own eye liner, due to my poor eyesight and even poorer hand-eye coordination. I get a manicure and pedicure once or twice a year—including before trips so that my crusty feet don’t embarrass me when I take my
shoes off at the airport. It’s not that I hate beauty routines. I just never fully recovered from my days growing up in the Pentecostal church, where it was a sin for women to wear makeup. I do have one rebellion: a bold lip. I love a good lipstick or gloss—reds, purples, wines and berries, neutral browns, and mauves. Any-
thing to add pizzazz to my face and dress up any outfit without doing too much. I once owned over seventy tubes of lipstick and gloss, but I’ve since stopped counting. If I had as much money in my bank ac-
count as I do Beauty Insider points at Sephora, I’d quit my job and travel for a year or two. However, a bold lip was not going to rescue my parched, uncooperative hair. Cheryl had a point, but I ignored her suggestion to go to the salon. I gave myself two haircuts within the next few weeks.

Saturday, February 20, 2021

I dreamt about Granny and Cheryl last night. In the first part of the dream, Granny was in the hospital, in room 310 on the right side of the hallway. When I returned to her room, she had gotten out of bed and was walking slowly. She was so slow and unsteady I thought she might fall. Then she was sitting on the bed. In the dream, I was thinking about her fever and sepsis, which she died from in real life. In the dream, Granny and I never spoke to one another or a doctor. Then the dream changed to Cheryl being in the hospital. She
struggled to talk, intermittently puffing out instructions to me. The COPD had caused her lungs to fill with fluid and her breathing was labored.

“When they send the money, make sure they send it every week,”
Cheryl told me.
“Okay, like an annuity,” I replied.

I don’t know who was supposed to send money or for what purpose they were sending it. Perhaps she was referring to the payment of a life insurance premium. The issue of Cheryl’s life insurance was a running joke. While clean, she’d make regular monthly payments on a couple of policies that paid enough to cover her funeral expenses and have money left over for my brother and his children. Of course, the payout was contingent on her living for at least two years after the policy was issued—a clock that was constantly restarting. As soon as she went on a drug binge, she’d stop making payments and the policies would lapse.“You have a lot of money, so you can pay for my funeral,” she would always tell me. I tried to convince her that I didn’t have a lot of money, to no avail. I eventually lost track of when she was and wasn’t insured.

I later googled “meaning of 310” to help make sense of the dream.

1. Seeing 310 a lot reminds you to take better care of your financial life. It is a good sign for you to remember to invest, better organize your spending or spend less, and prioritize money for the future. Energies of wealth are close to you when you are seeing this number.*
2. The number 310 transmits energies of: intuition, wisdom, abundance, business, and efficiency. It brings the message for you to trust your angels and stop being afraid of the changes in your life, as they are beneficial for you.†
3. It may be that the angels are trying to tell you that, despite any bad moment, they are at your side and the good phase will come soon.‡

* “310 Angel Number–Meaning and Symbolism.”

Accessed June 10, 2021. https://angel number.org/310-angel-number/.
† Ibid.
‡ Ibid.

4. Angel number 310 represents healing. It can be related to health, but it can also mean emotional and spiritual healing.*
5. If you have been going through a bad time with someone close to you, this angel number is a sign that it is time to begin making peace.

6. Begin the healing process and allow harmony and joy to enter your life. Let the past go and focus on the present and the future.

When I was a child, someone called our house in the middle of the night and told Granny that her friend, an elder in our church, had passed away. I heard the conversation on our answering machine, which was in Granny’s adjoining bedroom and sometimes recorded long portions of conversations even after we had answered the phone. †

At some point, I fell back to sleep. When I awoke and asked Granny about the phone call, she said it hadn’t occurred. No one had called to tell us about Elder Harris’s death. He was still alive, battling cancer, and the conversation I had heard was a dream. A few hours later, his wife called to tell Granny that Elder Harris had passed away at home. Dreams are God’s and our ancestors’ way of communicating with us. They foretell the future and have special meanings. Whenever Granny had a dream, she would try to decipher its meaning using the dream interpretation book she kept in her nightstand drawer. She’d sometimes go to the bodega around the corner to play the numbers she’d seen in her dreams, or she’d use those numbers to play the Lotto at the drugstore. Granny never won more than a few hundred dollars at a time, but every bit of money counted. Dreams contain messages; you just need to pay attention and heed the signs. Sometimes an an-
cestor’s presence in the dream is the warning. “Whenever Ma’Dear comes to me in a dream, something’s gonna happen,” Granny would always say about dreams involving her mother. I began cataloging my dreams after Granny passed away. The dreams she appeared in soothed me and made me feel more con-
nected to her. I always dream about Granny when I need or miss her most, as if she can feel my spirit calling out to hers in another world. When I reviewed the dreams I’d had since being diagnosed with breast cancer, I realized they were my way of unconsciously processing my health-related fears. Through my dreams, I’d also been wrestling with my double grief grief for myself and for Cheryl.

* “310 Angel Number–Meaning and Symbolism.” Accessed June 11, 2021. https://angel numbersmeaning.com/310-angel-number/.
† Ibid.

Wednesday, February 24, 2021

Voicemail: February 24, 2021 at 5:35 PM

Hey, Jodi, this Cheryl. They say it’s bad. The nurse took two pic-
tures of me and Uncle Bill gon send em to you. Okay? I love you.

Call me later.

Despite the bad news my mother had just received, she still wanted me to see how fly she looked. For the last couple of days, Cheryl had complained about having trouble breathing. After hearing how she sounded on the phone, her doctor instructed her to go to the hospital. In addition to COPD, she now had pneumonia.

“I’m too pretty to die tonight,” Cheryl told me when I spoke to her.
“Gurl, I know that’s right!” I replied. “I guess that means you gon
have to hold on.”

I looked at the picture Uncle Bill texted me. In it, Cheryl has on a short, black wig with soft finger waves in it. Her hair reminds me of the cartoon character Betty Boop. Cheryl’s deep brown face is smooth. She has thick, black false eyelashes on. An oxygen tube runs from her nose, wrapping around her ears on both sides. She’s sitting upright with only her left arm and shoulder in a white sweater. Her left arm is on top of the bed railing, and she rests her face on her folded hand as she looks at the camera. An IV hookup is taped to her right hand. A tube is taped to her biceps and appears to be coming from underneath her arms and out of her shirt. Her short-sleeved shirt is high-collared and features black and white cats in various states on a gray background. Cheryl is wearing light blue, ribbed pants that look like they’re made of a soft material, and a gold watch with a large, round, white face. In front of the watch is her hospital band, too big for her too-small wrist. Her nails are manicured. Her pinky nail on her left hand is painted with black polish and has a rhinestone near the cuticle. The nail on her ring finger is painted with a textured, iridescent silver polish. A large leather black bag sits between her legs, on top of the white sheet covering the lower half of her body. Cheryl is beautiful. Stylish. Vibrant. Death-defying. She doesn’t look sick. Doesn’t look like she’s near death. She is too pretty to die tonight …

Breast cancer impacts Black women at overwhelming rates. The Breast Cancer Prevention Partners list a “31% breast cancer mortality rate” for African American women; and when juxtaposed to white women diagnosed with breast cancer, the mortality rate is almost double for Black women at 42% higher.

You can get your hands on The Death of a Jaybird: Essays on Mothers and Daughters and the Things They Leave Behind on Nov. 14.

Jodi M. Savage is the author of The Death of a Jaybird: Essays on Mothers and Daughters and the Things They Leave Behind (forthcoming from Harper Perennial on November 14, 2023). She is a writer and attorney in New York City. Her essays have appeared in The Huffington Post, Catapult, Kweli Journal, the VIDA Review, Women’s Studies Quarterly and other places. Jodi’s essays have been nominated for a Pushcart Prize twice, Best of the Net 2020, and listed as a notable essay in The Best American Essays 2019. Jodi also co-hosted “The Work Rundown,” a podcast about the experiences of Black women in the workplace.