In Memory of Monica Mazique Smith who the Lord took home to Glory in February, 2013, we republish her story from our December, 2012 issue.
The Story of a Miracle Child By MONICA MAZIQUE SMITH My name is Monica Mazique Smith. I am African-American, 40 years old, and a person who has a physical disability (Congenital Hypotonia, a form of Muscular Dystrophy) and uses a power wheelchair. I was born on May 14, 1972 on Mother's Day in Battle Creek, MI. I am the youngest of five children. My mother was about to go out to Mother's Day dinner with the family when she suddenly went into labor. After she was at the hospital she was having severe pain, so she told the doctor that she was about to deliver. The doctor told her that she had plenty of time before she would deliver. The doctor left and got on the elevator to assist a young girl who was also in labor. Well. It turned out that my mother was ready to deliver. I started coming out. Everyone started calling for the doctor, but no one could find him. As I was coming out, I turned around inside my mother. The nurse didn't know how to turn me around the correct way so I ended up coming out "butt" first. I was born breech birth. I had to be rushed into an incubator because I could not breathe on my own. I had to stay in the hospital for several months until I was able to breathe on my own. When I was ready to go home, the hospital tried to convince my mother to place me in a home for the “handicapped” (1970’s language). She told everyone "No!", including my father and that she was taking her baby home with her. The doctors said that I was going to be nothing but a "living vegetable."
My mother never stopped working with me. She would place me in front of the television set even though my eyes would not motivate. She would put toys in my hands even though I did not have enough muscle strength to hold them. As a baby, I didn't have enough muscle strength to suck from a bottle, so an elderly German woman brought my mother a lamb's nipple which required little strength to suck from and that is how I began to be able to suck. But even after all of that, I was still not moving or responding at all. One day, my mother cried out to God an d asked Him to please give her a sign to show her that she was not doing all of this in vain. All of a sudden, she felt something cold and clammy slap her in the face. It was my little hand that had made its way up her face. It was the first time that I had ever moved. My mother was so excited that she jumped off the bed almost knocking me over, screaming my father's name. "Fred, Fred!" The baby moved!" Years passed. I had several obstacles. I acquired an upper-respiratory breathing problem. My muscles were too weak for me to walk, so I ended up being in a wheelchair. My chest began caving in, so I had to have surgery when I was about three years old to have my chest uplifted off my heart, lungs, and spine. I later had a muscle taken out of each of my legs so that doctors could do a muscle biopsy on them. Doctors determined that I have the type of muscles that will grow stronger,
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not weaker over time. In school, I was a straight “A" student all the way through elementary to high school. Throughout my years in school, I was harassed and teased. I had no friends, never went to school dances, and was never asked out on dates. I constantly kept my head held high and graduated from high school, earning a scholarship from the Springfield Lion's Club. Teachers told me that I would never make it going to a big university and that I needed to go to a small community college, so I began attending Kellogg Community College. I soon became bored there, so me, my mother, and my father moved to Carbondale, IL where I began attending Southern Illinois University, which had a student population of over 26, 000. I majored in Psychology there. My mother and father would drop me off to class and then would go home. On Thursday, February 27, 1992 about 4:30 PM, my mother and a lady came to my algebra class. My mother was crying. When she had gone back to the van to ride home with my father, she had found him slumped over the steering wheel and he was not breathing. Apparently, my father had had a massive heart attack and had died. I immediately began crying hysterically. That was one of the worst days of my life. My mother and I continued the dream of my father. We wanted to be closer to family and familiar faces, so we moved back home to Battle Creek, MI.
SISTAH TALK | JANUARY – MARCH, 2013 | WWW.THESISTAHSMINISTRY.COM
