"Hear we go again," I thought, as I drove like a madman on a mission, chasing the screaming siren and flashing lights of an ambulance along rain slick streets. Hope Collins, my sixty-five-year-old mother, had just suffered another asthma attack and was en route to Roseland Community Hospital located on Chicago's south side. Over the last three years, I've watched Mama battle an array of ailments resulting in numerous calls to 9-1-1 and frequent trips to the hospital. Once again, I was praying to keep Hope alive. Raised from roots planted deep in the soils of Mississippi, Mama is a courageous and resilient woman.

She has an elastic spirit, which allows her to keep bouncing back from physical setbacks. Some of the nurses at the hospital have even joked in the past that Mama has nine lives. I know she's tired of being sick, but somehow she manages to maintain her sense of humor and dignity, unwilling to give up on life. For me, dealing with Mama's sickness is like living on an emotional rollercoaster. As soon as I begin riding high on the thought of her condition possibly improving, another setback happens, sending her back to the hospital, and me on a downward spiral. I'm up one moment and down the next. Its mentally and physically draining. A male and female crisis team wheeled the stretcher carrying Mama into the emergency area. Beads of sweat dance on Mama's fever stricken forehead. She's weary. They work to stabilize her. A male nurse, who appeared to be Filipino, came in and covered Mama's mouth with an oxygen mask. Soon after, another male nurse set up a machine used to drain the excess fluid from Mama's body. When Mama first got sick, I was overwhelmed by the sight of seeing all the medical equipment connected to her body, but now I've become accustomed to seeing and hearing the health related gadgets used in the emergency room and ICU. Lately, I've been in the emergency room with Mama so much, that I feel like I should get a certificate from one of those accelerated nursing schools because I know why all the different machines are used and which questions to ask the doctors while they're treating Mama. Beeping monitors with flashing numbers occupy significant space in the small room. A BiPAP machine is helping Mama breathe by pushing air into her weakened lungs and keeps them open to allow more oxygen to filter through. Sometimes Mama is irritated by wearing the mask associated with the BiPAP machine, but at least it's more comfortable than having a breathing tube inserted down her throat. Other digital instruments track her blood pressure and heart rate. She's struggling, but the Lord is helping her to hold on. I pray to God to heal my mother. As the oldest of three children born to Hope Collins and a father I hardly knew, I'm the responsible one. My number is usually the first one Mama dials. I feel good about holding that place in her heart, but sometimes I think I'm in it all alone. Mama phones me for just about everything, and that includes calls for everything from repairs needed to be done to the house to why the remote control wasn't working on the television. Sometimes I think Mama calls me because she's lonely and tired of living alone. The physical resemblance between us is striking and undeniable. Our round faces are dipped in a hue of rich, dark chocolate; both complexions shaded to perfection; smooth and blemish free. Both of us possess small lips that smile even when our eyes want to cry. Mental fatigue is making my spirit eager to shed a few tears now. Sometimes I want to ask God why I have to deal with so much responsibility, but it wouldn't be fair to ask God why now because I never questioned Him about the blessings I received. I try to take the good with the bad. Besides, Mama always said "God never puts on us more than we can bear." However, I believe God has a sense of humor and makes a point of pushing us very close to our breaking point, or at least out of our comfort zone. At age thirty-five, I feel like I'm on the cusp of making an impact in my life, almost as if I'm about to do some great things. I consider myself a lifetime member of the overachiever, workaholic club. I graduated with honors from the University of Michigan and later obtained a law degree from the University of Chicago. My credentials are solid. I had job offers from major law firms, but never had an interest in pursuing employment with any of them. Taking a position with a major firm would've meant turning my life over to them. They would've been able to dictate my existence while I labored long hours in an attempt to make partner. I'd rather hustle for myself than worry about meeting billable hour quotas and making the partners rich. A lot of people questioned my decision, but I had to step out on faith. It took me a little time to decide what area of law I wanted to practice, but real estate always appealed to me. I knew a law degree and a real estate license would provide me with a lot of opportunities. I have a lovely home in Beverly, an affluent area on Chicago's south side. The neighborhood is comprised of mostly upwardly mobile whites and a speckle of blacks, dwelling in big, beautiful, brick houses, where massive trees shade long driveways and meticulously manicured lawns. Beverly is covertly segregated. I live amongst whites, but by no means am I isolated from my people. In Chicago, neighborhoods can change fast. Beverly, on the other hand, has remained stable and relatively safe because of expensive housing costs, steep property taxes and redlining. All it takes is a viaduct here or an intersection there, to shed an entirely different light on a community. New developments and condo conversions are taking place all over the city, and I'm trying to get some of it for myself. The way I see it: In ten years, if a man doesn't have a place to lay his head in the city, he won't be able to because living in the city will be too expensive. Folks are being priced out to the suburbs. Professionally, things are going well, but my love life definitely needs some extra spice. I yearn to be in a committed relationship with a special lady in my life. I need someone to hang out and have fun with. I'm ready to settle down and start a family. I've grown tired of living like a serial dater, spending lots of money on the weekend, trying to impress women who want more than I can ever give. Besides, it's time consuming and very expensive! I've gotten bored with it. No longer am I interested in pursuing women just for sex. Getting a piece of tail is always nice, but I want more right now. Sometimes, after listening to a few females whine about lousy credit, bad kids and stalker ex-husbands and boyfriends, I lose the motivation I have to hang around long enough even to get the sex. Sometimes the drama just isn't worth it. My last serious relationship was with a woman by the name of Terri. We dated for almost a year and a half, and I thought we were headed down the aisle towards wedding bells. It seemed almost as though the romance faded overnight. I don't know what happened. One moment we were in love, the next moment we weren't. The time and energy put into the relationship seemed like nothing more than a bad emotional investment; no return on romance and zero profits in passion. I'm still trying to recover from the loss of that relationship. Accepting the fact that the relationship has ended and realizing it's time to start all over again is always the most difficult part. I sat down in a chair by the bed and tried to get comfortable. Mama's condition had finally stabilized. The oxygen mask was gone and Mama was able to speak freely. "How do you feel, Ma?" "Better . . . than I did," she whispered between labored breaths. "Ah ... I was feelin’ fine last night when I went to bed, but ... I got sick in the middle of the night . . . couldn't catch my breath. I had a rough night Julian. Ooh, I had a rough one baby," she said, shaking her head in a way that suggested she was very tired of being sick and going through this routine. This is the third time in the last two and a half months Mama has been rushed to the hospital because of breathing problems. It's gotten to the point now that many of the people on staff in the emergency area know Mama by name. One of the female nurses in the intensive care unit even teases Mama saying she loves them so much that she just can't stay away.