FALL, GLORIOUS FALL!
FALL, GLORIOUS FALL!
FALL, GLORIOUS FALL!
FALL, GLORIOUS FALL!
IN THE CLOSET WITH
SUPERMAN, OPRAH, & GOD
A Memoir
What do Superman, Oprah, and a Closet
have to do with a College Kid from Cali?
November, 2008. Doctors told me that my twenty-one-year-old son, Bernard, would be in a wheelchair within ten years. I flatly refused to accept that. I immediately started scrambling for answers that would refute the diagnosis when memories of two television broadcasts struck me out of the blue, beginning with Oprah in 1999. Along this quest, I received several revelations, but the three that changed Bernard's life all came via television.
*****
1999. I was cleaning and had the television on for background noise when Oprah’s voice echoed into my family room and grabbed my attention. “I believe our instincts are how God speaks to us,” she said. I stopped immediately, sat down, and listened. I always knew that when I ignored my first instinct, I ended up in a bad place in my life. So, I figured Oprah knew what she was talking about. That particular show burrowed into my memory and stayed there.
*****
2000. Superman appeared on the news, speaking to
Congress about stem cells. Well, of
course, it wasn't Superman, but Christopher Reeve, who starred as the superhero
in the Superman franchise. Stem cells,
he said, held the answer to many of our diseases, and they could reverse
paralysis.
Now, the strange thing about this is that I never really cared for
Christopher Reeve. I thought he was
handsome, but he was too white-bread for me.
But I was sorry that he’d been thrown from his horse and left
paralyzed. Even so, I wasn’t really
interested in seeing him or in listening to what he was saying, so I started
changing the channel.
But something stopped me cold, and I didn’t change the channel, because suddenly Oprah's voice came back to me: "Our instincts are how God speaks to us.” Was God speaking to me? If so, why? But I thought, better to err on the side of caution. So, I gave him my full attention. What Superman said moved me. Indeed, just as with Oprah's show, Reeve's Congressional testimony refused to leave me. But why? I didn't understand.
I was divorced at the time, but my ex, Clarence, who's a nurse, kept in touch with me because of our son. I told him I couldn't stop thinking about Reeve's testimony and asked him what he thought of
stem cells, but, as usual, he just shrugged.
*****
April, 2008. Bernard’s
twenty-one and away at college. Obama
was running for president and was going to hold a rally on the campus of
Bernard's university. So, I called
Bernard to make sure he went to see him.
I called around noon, and he was napping. This kid hadn't napped since preschool. Right away, I knew something was wrong. He said he had some vision problems, but the
campus doctor said it was nothing much, just eye strain from too much screen
time. But other than that, Bernard said
he was fine.
October, 2008. Well, of course, he wasn’t fine, because he continued to have vision problems along with other strange symptoms like intermittent pain spreading across his abdomen. Less than a month later, MS knocked on the door, and when Bernard answered, it threw a grenade into his life and into mine as well.
I’d heard of multiple sclerosis, but I didn’t really know what it was all about. That changed in a hurry. Looking for answers, I started researching everything about the disease. MS has a wide spectrum. Symptoms can make little difference in your quality of life, or they can completely destroy it. It can affect everything from your ability to walk and talk to your ability to see and swallow. It's a hideous disease, and Bernard was on the destructive end of the spectrum.
His neurologist said that MS was basically a disease that affected people in cold climates and that mostly white women got it. It is rare among African Americans. Of all the people who get this disease, African Americans get it the least, he said. But, and this was a big but, when they did get it, the disease affected them more severely than it did others. Well, now wasn't that just damn peachy keen! I was livid!
Bernard had the relapsing-remitting type of multiple sclerosis. To him and to me, the most frightening thing about MS was the prospect of paralysis. It was like a hurricane tearing through his body and through his life. The symptoms were severe and devastating.
He'd lose his sight and regain it. He'd lose his ability to walk and regain it. Relapsing and remitting. He'd urinate 15-20 times per day. And the fatigue! It was overwhelming and kept him in bed half of every day. In addition to all that, he was so depressed that it frightened the daylights out of me. But who the hell wouldn't be depressed?
So, though it was a strain, between the two of us we managed to pay for that medication each month without fail, with Clarence carrying the bulk of the load. I used to accuse him of being cheap and of having the first dime he'd ever earned. I don't do that anymore.
The side effects of the meds were nearly as harmful as the condition itself. Bernard had to inject himself with the stuff every day. And he really wasn't getting any better. Then, along came a new drug that was injected once a month. The doctors claimed it was so effective that it was almost a cure.
Ah, but they failed to tell me about the side effects. Again, my instincts told me to look deeper. I researched the drug and found it was indeed highly effective, but the side effects could cause a fatal brain infection. So, the doctors were right. It was highly effective, if it didn't kill you.
I refused to allow Bernard to take it because it
killed one in every one thousand patients.
The side effects of that medication were so high-risk that the
manufacturer later developed a blood test to determine whether a patient would
develop the brain infection, and Bernard would have been affected. Of all the medications he was taking,
and there were many, this was the only one my instincts warned me about. So, was Oprah right? Are our instincts the way God speaks to us?
All of this affected Bernard's life in unimaginable
ways. Dating, playing sports, and
college life? Forget about all of
that. But he clung to school because it
was his identity then. But the only thing he
did at school now was attend classes, and barely that. No study groups, pub crawls, parties, or
pickup b-ball games, which he loved. In
other words—no life.
I wanted him home where I could look after him, but he steadfastly refused to leave school, and his doctors agreed with him. ‘Let him lead as normal a life as he can now, because in ten years, he'll be in a wheelchair,’ they said. I wanted to tear my hair out and run screaming.
Through all of this, Clarence was emotionally absent. When the neurologist asked whether MS ran in
either of our families, I said no—we'd never seen it in mine. Clarence said no, too. A week later, his mother told me that some
form of sclerosis, including multiple sclerosis, had been in their family for
as long as she could remember, and that Clarence had always known it. In that moment, I realized I was fighting this
battle alone.
****
January, 2009. Then one morning, realization dawned. It woke me from a sound sleep, and I sat
straight up in bed. Suddenly, I knew the
answer lay in what Oprah and Christopher Reeve had said years earlier—heed
one's instincts and the power of stem cells to cure diseases.
I believe that realization came from God. And I believe God made me stop and listen to
both Oprah and Superman on television in '99 and 2000. But if I thought it was going to be
easy—well, it wasn't. Remember, this was
2008. Only a handful of doctors
worldwide were performing stem cell transplants. They weren't standard medical care then, and
they still aren't.
So began months of frustrating research into how to get a
stem cell transplant that led nowhere, because despite Superman's appeal, Congress still would not approve
funding for it here in this country. I
contacted doctors in Europe who had funding to perform stem cell transplants,
but to no avail. People worldwide were
trying to get appointments with those doctors, and they gave preference to
citizens of their own countries. But my
instincts told me stem cells were the answer, and I shouldn't give up.
Then a co-worker told me the Cleveland Clinic was conducting
a clinical trial of stem cell replacement therapy for MS patients. Bernard and I flew to Cleveland. They were very nice. They offered more drugs, but they did not admit
Bernard to the study. Still, something
kept telling me that stem cells were the answer.
But how could that be when, despite Christopher Reeve’s
plea, Congress still refused to fund the research? In the back of my mind, though, I knew I
should listen to my instincts. So, I
kept on with my own research. But I was
exhausted. Between tears, fear, anger,
and the effort to keep up a strong facade for Bernard, I was overwhelmed and
scared to death. If I was frightened and
overcome, what on earth was Bernard feeling?
Something had to give, so I did what people have done since
time immemorial when faced with tragedy.
I turned to God. Whether it's the
God I learned about as a kid, the Universe, Fate, or something entirely different, I don't know. Personally, I don't think it matters what we
call it, but I think it's important that we believe it. So, yes, I think there’s
something out there, some kind of benevolent force, if you will. And I clung to that.
My mother taught me that when life kicks you hard, you’d
better kick back. And she said you kick
back with prayer. Serious prayer. And serious prayer, she said, must be offered
on your knees in a quiet, dark place. It
was old-fashioned, but I didn't give a rat's ass. I did it.
I grabbed a big, thick pillow, went into my walk-in closet,
closed the door, turned off the light, threw the pillow on the floor, knelt on
it, and had church in that closet! Talk
about 'peace be still!' I gave that
storm and all that chaos over to God.
And He delivered my son. That's all there is to it. And in the process, He delivered me as well.
Soon after my prayer session in the closet, I was led to a doctor performing stem cell transplants right here in San Diego, funded by the state rather than the federal government. One morning, on my way to the shower after climbing out of bed, I turned on the news and saw a doctor with his patient, a kid about eighteen with MS, and the kid's mother being interviewed about the transplant's success. The kid even looked like Bernard.
Of course, I called that doctor right away. But, just like with those doctors in Europe, it was impossible to get an appointment with him. His office phone was never not busy. Fine! But I was not going to give up. I took a leave of absence from my job and sat in his waiting room, hoping for an appointment cancellation or a chance to see the doctor himself. I sat there day after day for about three weeks.
Next, I tried unsuccessfully to find contact information for the kid and his mother, who'd been featured in that news story. But nothing worked. Then, something told me to ask another doctor to contact the stem cell doctor on Bernard's behalf.
But in my entire life, asking for help has never worked for me. Never. So I kept trying on my own. After about three more weeks, I finally realized I should follow my first instinct: have other doctors contact this doctor on Bernard’s behalf. I dreaded asking. If they turned me down, then what?
Over the years, I'd met many of the doctors Clarence worked with at dinners, parties, and medical conferences, so I contacted two of them. This time, when I asked for help, I got it. Both immediately said they'd be happy to do whatever they could. Were my instincts the voice of God?
I got a call from the doctor's office within a week, asking
us to come in for an appointment. At the appointment, they explained the
procedure. But the incredible thing was that the next day, the doctor called me
and said Bernard and I reminded him of a patient and his mother that he'd done a TV news
interview with. He wanted me to talk to the kid's mother, so he gave me her
number.
After weeks of searching for this woman, the doctor handed me
her phone number without my even asking.
She answered every question I had.
She was kind, forthcoming, and put my worries to rest. And for the first time in months, I was able to relax and draw breath.
Then life threw another curveball. This time, it came from a completely
surprising source—Bernard himself. When
he realized he'd be hospitalized for six weeks, he wouldn’t agree to go in for
the transplant. And nothing I said
changed his mind. He postponed it until
after he graduated from college, another whole year.
During that time, the disease continued to progress—relapsing
and remitting, and the fatigue never abated.
But his instructors were compassionate and worked with him, generously
granting him extensions, and his roommates pitched in to help as well. I was on pins and needles every day for that entire year, literally worried sick to my stomach that he might
become wheelchair-bound any day.
The minute he came home after graduation, I put my foot down
and told him he could either go to the hospital for six weeks now or in ten years end up in
a wheelchair for the rest of his life. He relented.
The morning Bernard was admitted to the hospital was very tense for all of us. Clarence was completely mute. Bernard seemed angry, but I knew that was a mask for his fear. He wouldn’t let me hug him because I’m pretty sure he was afraid of crying. So, I just rubbed him back. I was so nervous that the milk I had with my cereal curdled in my stomach and came back up. I tried to think of something amusing to say to lighten the mood, but I was too anxious to attempt levity.
After we arrived at the hospital, a refrain from a song I’d
once sung in high school choir came back to me.
I latched on to it, and over the course of Bernard’s hospital stay, it became
my silent mantra: "Come here,
Jesus, come here please. See me, Jesus,
down on my knees."
Over the next six weeks, Bernard’s friends and family visited
him every day. When he complained about the food, his grandmother and I cooked
all his favorite dishes and brought them to the hospital.
The doctors and nurses were phenomenal. By the second week, Bernard was laughing again. On the doctor’s advice, I even
slept in his room three or four nights a week on a pullout window seat that
converted into a surprisingly comfortable bed. On those nights, we’d play cards or watch TV, but
mostly, Bernard was on his laptop.
Around week four, I got a clear sign this was working. Bernard asked me to bring his basketball to
the hospital. For the first time in
months, I laughed out loud. Two weeks
later, Bernard walked out of the hospital, dribbling that basketball. He was pumped. He said, “I feel great, Mom!” And guess what? So did I.
Sixteen years later, Bernard hasn't taken another MS
medication. He's traded the basketball
court for the weight room and now focuses on his own YouTube channel, where he
vlogs his heavy push-day workouts. He has reclaimed the life the disease once threatened to steal.
People can decide for themselves whether what happened was
chance, luck, or divine intervention. I
know what I believe.
Christopher Reeve spent his final years urging Congress to support stem cell research, hoping to regain his mobility. But even with all the influence of Hollywood behind him, he couldn't make it happen.
My
instincts told me God could.
When I asked Marina to choose a song to include at the end of her story, this is the one she chose.
Happy—Pharrell Williams (2013)
"Clap along if you know what happiness is to you, because I'm happy”😊
Thanks For Reading
Stem cell transplants for MS are still not approved by the FDA in the US. However, five specialized medical centers offer the procedure as an off-label treatment option for MS patients in the U.S. The medical centers are:
**Mayo Clinic (Rochester, MN) Ranked #1 Hospital in the World
**Cleveland Clinic (Cleveland, OH) Ranked #2 Hospital in the World
**Northwestern Memorial Hospital (Chicago, IL) Ranked #13 Hospital in the World
UCI Health (Irvine, CA)
Georgetown University Hospital (Washington, D.C.)
The procedure has a price tag of around $150,000. Insurance rarely covers it, so patients must pay out of pocket or participate in clinical trials.
* Bernard participated in a clinical trial, so the cost to his family was zero.
**Northwestern Memorial Hospital (Chicago, IL) Ranked #13 Hospital in the World
UCI Health (Irvine, CA)
Georgetown University Hospital (Washington, D.C.)
The procedure has a price tag of around $150,000. Insurance rarely covers it, so patients must pay out of pocket or participate in clinical trials.
* Bernard participated in a clinical trial, so the cost to his family was zero.
** Rankings provided by Newsweek
© 2025 Jade Love
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