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Old 01-12-2008, 10:00 AM #1
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BobbyB BobbyB is offline
In Remembrance
 
Join Date: Aug 2006
Location: North Carolina
Posts: 4,609
15 yr Member
BobbyB BobbyB is offline
In Remembrance
BobbyB's Avatar
 
Join Date: Aug 2006
Location: North Carolina
Posts: 4,609
15 yr Member
Smile Father and daughter have strong bond despite disease



By Vicki Friedman
The Virginian-Pilot
© January 12, 2008

HAMPTON

Her father motivated her in basketball, bought her first set of weights and rarely missed a game until her junior year of high school. These days, former Wilson High star Khadijah Whittington is a frontrunner for ACC Player of the Year at North Carolina State, where she plans to graduate this spring. She then expects to head to the WNBA.

Both are dreams her father, Mansoor Mohammed, envisioned for his daughter, the emotional heartbeat of the 2003 Wilson team that captivated Portsmouth by reaching the state final. Crippled by Lou Gehrig's disease, Mohammed is relegated to a bed in a Hampton nursing home. Doctors are unsure how much communication he can comprehend.

But when Whittington is able to come up from Raleigh to visit every few months, as she did around Christmas, this much is certain, according to a cousin who visits weekly: When she walks in the door, he brightens up.



Cell phone in hand, Khadijah Whittington checks a text message before rounding the corner, where the nurses greet her by name.

"Hey, KD! Mohammed's been waiting for you."

The phone slides into Whittington's pants pocket, turned off for the next two hours. Pushing up the sleeves of her oversized red N.C. State women's basketball sweatshirt, Whittington squirts twice from the antibacterial soap dispenser hanging on the wall and rubs carefully between each finger. Cousin Darryl Moore and his teenage daughter, Vanessa, carrying a rolled-up poster, follow.

Whittington peers into Room 128, walks past an empty bed and over the drone of the Cleveland-Cincinnati NFL game on an overhead television and looks at Mansoor Mohammed.

"Hey, Dad!"

Tubes seeming to come from every part of Mohammed's body, his eyes lock with his daughter's, and he begins to silently weep. Whittington dabs a tear dripping from her eye, then grabs a towel. Gently, she wipes her dad's tears and strokes each cheek. A nearby machine beeps. Whittington kisses his forehead.

"You need a haircut," she says matter-of-factly, reaching for the fluffy mass that is largely black with hints of gray.

"Your girl's leading the ACC in scoring and in rebounding," Moore boasts. "Wish we could get you down there for senior night. There's a few WNBA scouts in the stands these days. Your dream is going to come true."

Whittington swears Mohammed smiles. His eyes move at times - right to left, left to right - but nothing more. All other motion has stopped for the 55-year-old, who has lain in a bed like this one since Nov. 13, 2003, the day the Veteran's Administration extended care unit in Hampton became the home Mohammed probably will never leave. Betrayed by amyotrophic lateral sclerosis - Lou Gehrig's disease - Mohammed doesn't talk anymore. Many of the stories written about Whittington say he no longer communicates either.

But that's not entirely true.


She has never seen his hair this long.

"He looks like Don King," Moore jokes.

"Dad, why'd they let your hair get so puffy?" Whittington asks, touching her own straight hair. "I wish my hair was curly like yours."

Whittington wraps some of her father's hair around her forefinger and twists. "You need dreads. Would you like some dreads, Dad?"

It's decided.

As Moore hums a Jamaican beat, Whittington begins to braid. "I wonder if he wants dreads or a haircut.

"Do you want dreads or a haircut?" Whittington asks, holding up a mirror.

On the wall a sign reads "If I look to the right equals yes. If I look to the left equals no."

Whittington simplifies. "Haircut?"

Nothing.

"Dreads."

Something.

Whittington reacts with glee. "He wants braids!"

She sits beside him and begins wrapping a few small strands around her fingers, chipped Wolfpack red polish visible on her nails.

"I'm almost finished with school, Dad. Can you believe it? All I've got to do is my internship and then I graduate. The team is doing well. What are we?"

Whittington, whose degree will be in sports management, turns to Moore, who rolls his eyes.

"These kids never know anything except to show up for the game," he says.

"We're 10-3," she laughs. "We lost to ECU - we shouldn't have - Xavier and St. John's. We went to the Bahamas this year. I got MVP. We won the team trophy there."

"It's a big ol' trophy," Moore says. "We'll bring it tomorrow."

Whittington's eyes stay focused on her braiding. Mohammed stares ahead.

"What WNBA team do you want her to go to?" Moore asks. "The Mystics? Maybe you could catch a game on TV."

Whittington frowns. "You don't want me to go to the Mystics. Where do you want me to go? Atlanta? I wish they had a team here. I would love that."

Whittington stops braiding and turns to Vanessa. "Show him the poster."

Moore and Vanessa unroll the latest N.C. State team poster, complete with schedule and photos of the players and coach Kay Yow, looking renewed despite her battle against breast cancer. "You haven't seen the freshmen," says Whittington, who begins to point. "That's Tia, Hanna, Brittany, Gloria. You know everyone else. That's me over there, Dad. That's Coach. She doesn't wear her wig anymore. She's doing well."

Vanessa and her father go across the room to tack up the poster alongside another one that screams "Wolfpack women" in bold letters. Resting on the right shelf are two dozen videotapes of N.C. State games. Above a six-pack of fiber supplement is another poster, and a pennant, the first thing any visitor sees upon entering, reads "NCSU Dad."

The outside of a greeting card on the table below reads "Who can explain the things that happen in our lives?"

"Guess what, Dad? I'm fifth in the nation in rebounding. They make me lift these weights. Check out these muscles," Whittington says as she flexes a bulging right arm.

Mohammed's head is turned in her direction.

Whittington rolls down her sleeve and draws closer to her father, who directs his eyes to her. "You want me to bring your Koran back? I showed it to my teammates. I had it bookmarked from the last time you let me read it to you."

Whittington springs up, having spotting a wrapped Christmas present. "Somebody got you a present. Can I open it, Dad? I'm going to open if for you."

Mohammed's eyes don't leave Whittington as she carefully unwraps the paper and pulls out a dream catcher, a spiritual device used to help assure pleasant dreams.

"I forgot, Dad. I had a dream you were at senior night. Remember when you used to come to my high school games? I'm so glad you did."

Whittington is ready to return to the braids, but another idea takes precedence. "I'm going to wash your face. And clean your ears."

Moore moistens a washcloth, and Whittington searches for a Q-tip.

She caresses his skin, the washcloth sliding over the whiskers that climb toward his ears. She rubs his chin, forehead and neck, then goes to work on the ears. Mohammed looks at the ceiling now, bottom teeth clenched.

"Guess who I met, Dad? Cynthia Cooper," Whittington says, referring to the former Olympic gold medalist and two-time WNBA MVP. "She surprised me. I didn't think she was that tall. I was so excited to meet her. She gave me a hug."

Whittington returns to the small braids that dot Mohammed's head. "I got my 1,000th point, Dad. They gave me a ball. Another ball."

The left side of Mohammed's head is complete. Whittington beams. She shakes her tired hand. "I'm going to take a picture of this," she says.

Whittington nuzzles on Mohammed's left shoulder. She whips the cell phone out of her pocket, turns it on and holds it at arm's length.

Click.

"You smiled! Look at him! Can't you see he's smiling." Whittington shows off the photo to Moore, who looks pleased. "I've got to get some of these," she says.

She stands back to admire the braids again. "I think you would like 'em, honestly. I'm pretty sure. If you don't like them, I'll take them out. I need a comb."

"Takes me back 20 years to the days of Afro picks," Moore comments, handing her a yellow comb.

Whittington moves to Mohammed's right side, his eyes still upward.

"A whole lot of people ask about you. We start ACC play soon. We've been playing nonconference teams. Did you watch Stanford beat Tennessee? We watched Candace Parker play."

Whittington works the front section first, moving her way to the back of his full head of hair. She uses the comb to smooth out the hair before she begins each braid.

"T.J.'s been hurt," she says, speaking of her high school buddy, T.J. Jordan of Old Dominion. "She was out, what, three games? She's coming back, though."

"You're from Jamaica, man," Moore harps again, flashing a hand mirror Mohammed's way.

"You like it, don't you?" Whittington asks pensively. Assured she sees the slightest twinkle, she exclaims a delighted, "Yeah! OK. Let me finish."

Mohammed looks intense, more rigid than when she entered the room. "He's trying to talk," Moore says.

Whittington spies a legal pad. Moore finds a three-lined chart of the alphabet. The letters A to H are on the first line; I to Q on the second; R to Z on the third. Moore asks which line the first letter of the first word he is trying to say is on.

With a pencil he points to each line, asking, "Is it one, two or three?" He repeats the question, again and again with patience. Whittington watches for some eye movement.

Mohammed's eyes never move.

"He's frustrated," Moore says. "He wants to say something."

Nothing's coming.

Moore puts the chart away.

"Conversations can take hours," Moore says.

But no conversation today.

"I love you, Dad," Whittington says, kissing his left cheek. "I wish you could talk."

Whittington strokes his braids. "Wait till the nurses see you."

She presses her left cheek to his lips. "Give me my kiss," she says. Then she kisses his left cheek.

Mohammed is no longer staring ahead. Whittington has moved toward the door and he is watching her. "Don't let them cut your hair. I worked hard," she tells him.

"I love you, Dad."

Walking closer to his bed and gazing for a moment, she says, "He's smiling."


Vicki L. Friedman, (757) 477-6874 VickiL120@cox.net
http://hamptonroads.com/2008/01/fath...espite-disease
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