June and Me

By Paula Abram Foster

June Pointer, the youngest member of the Pointer Sisters, recently had a heart attack and a stroke.  What does that have to do with Paula you're probably wondering?   Well, my family fell apart when I was very young.  In 1973, my father’s infidelity and my mother's animosity left me, a ten year old, feeling unloved and alone.  As a coping mechanism I created a fantasy that revolved around the Pointer Sisters.  I didn't have one mother, I had four.  After collecting pictures, posters and records for several years, by the time I reached college I had a remarkable scrapbook that chronicled their career.  To make a long story short I met them on my 18th birthday.  They loved the book and whenever they came to town, I was there.  June immediately embraced me, while the other two (one sister had since left the group) were pleasant, yet distant.  It was always June who invited me to rehearsals and into the dressing room just to "hang out" for a bit. 

 
        When Ruth, June's oldest sister, called last week to tell me that June was sick I knew come hell or high water I was going to Los Angeles and it was going to be sooner rather than later. 

 
        Ruth told me that June couldn't communicate.  I'd seen someone who'd had a stroke before and just because the person couldn't talk didn't mean she couldn't think or wasn't aware of what was going on around her.  June and I hadn't spoken in over six years and on the plane I began to fear what her reaction might be when she saw me. Would she turn away?  Would I see rejection in her eyes? 

 
        When the plane landed at 6:30 p.m., I went straight to the hospital because I didn't want to miss visiting hours.  Every minute spent in L.A. had to count.  The receptionist at the front desk gave me the room number and when I got there I heard someone in the room talking. 

 
        "Hello," I called out, but my voice, barely a whisper, didn't carry far enough.   "Hello," I tried again.  A nurse came to the door.  "You can go in," she said.  My heart was hammering.  I could see June's legs from where I stood in the doorway.  They were drawn up with her knees in the air, rocking back and forth like one might do while lying in bed.  I stepped into the room and when my eyes met hers, the rocking ceased.  My childhood idol watched me.  She was so tiny.  I was stunned at her frail condition, but I wouldn't, couldn't let her see that.   

        "Oh, Junie," was all I could manage.  She tried to sit up and I knew it was a struggle for her.  Rushing over I gently pushed her against the pillow.  I hugged her but she didn't hug me back.   That was the moment when the thought, “She doesn’t want me here,” popped into my head.  But when I stepped back, her hand reached for mine and, ever so slowly, she brought it to her cheek, held it there for a moment and then held it to her lips.  The thought that she was trying to kiss my hand nearly caused me to break into tears, but I stifled them because I had come there to support her, to let her know how much I loved her.  I didn't come there to cry over her.
 

June has a characteristic lopsided smile and beautiful wide doe eyes.  Over the years, whenever she smiled at me my heart melted because somewhere inside I was still that ten year old little girl running after Mama.  Her voice, her music, her wisecracks had uplifted me on numerous occasions.  It seemed weird and people couldn't understand why a grown woman (me) would continue to follow and adore a group of women.  June understood my infatuation, but told me once that I should never, ever love anyone more than I love myself.

In 1997 we got to spend more time together than we ever had as the group was in Chicago performing for private events.  In the past we'd share no more than half an hour together at a time.  After that half an hour was up, she’d make it clear that it was time for me to go.  I always wanted more time with her, but I noticed she kept me at bay.  It took me a long time to understand that she was protecting me.  I didn't know then that her world was just a little too fast for me.  But in 1997 when the crowds thinned out a bit and the venues became more private, I was given a little more access.  Believe it or not, after a few days together, we got on one another's nerves.  We started sniping at each another.  Glaring at one another it was easy to see we were both thinking the same thing: "You are not the person I thought you were!"  We were total opposites.  She was too hip, I was too square.  I was uptight, she was laidback.  She was cool, I just wasn't.

When the curtain went down on that final concert at the Chicago Hilton that year I knew I had to walk away.  It was going to be hard, but it was time for me to put this thing to rest. I had to stand on my own. 

Six years passed with no communication between June and me.  It’s funny how time changes things.  Ruth and I were in touch occasionally over the years.  That's how it came to be that she called me to tell me June was sick. 

In L.A. this past weekend I chose not to sightsee and I chose not to eat out at fancy restaurants.  Every possible moment that I had would be spent with June or for June.  I did go out once to buy her a bag of black Jelly Bellies because these were her favorite.

"Hey, look what I got," I said sliding off my backpack when I walked into her room.  "Black Jelly Bellies!"  Her fingers toyed with the lace ribbon and cellophane bag that the beans were in until the nurses came in wanting her to respond to commands. 

"She's not responsive," they said. 

"That's not true," I countered, not liking their tone and feeling that in this one instance I had to give June a voice.

"She's just imitating," they said. 

"We've been communicating all morning," I told them. 

"Ms. Pointer, how many fingers do I have up?  Can you show me two fingers?"  After several moments of trying to get her to show two fingers, I told them, "I think she's ignoring you.  No, in fact, I’m sure she’s ignoring you."  After they left, I told June, "Maybe they should have asked you to show them one finger!"   

Ruth told me today that June has cancer and that it is untreatable.  It's too far gone.  They’re now talking about hospice care.  "I'm so glad you went when you did," she told me.  

My heart hurts.  I don't want to think beyond today because I can't imagine the world without June Pointer.  That amazing talent, that incredible voice and that boundless energy of hers had touched my life and given me the strength to keep pushing on on numerous occasions. 

The epiphany came when June held my hand to her cheek, because it told me so many things.  It said that beyond the glamour and the fame, past the Grammys and the sold out concerts, despite the fast lifestyle that ruined her career and destroyed her reputation, and, not to mention our falling out, somewhere along the way, that little girl, now a woman, had made an impression on her heart.  I'd touched her spirit.  I was a part of her and she was a part of me.  It told me that she loved me, too, and that she was glad I was there.    

There was so much I wanted to say to June but instinctively knew that this was a time where it was more important to let my spirit speak for me.  Most of the weekend was spent with my returning the gentle pressure whenever she squeezed my hand:  “I’m right here with you,” my gesture implied.  “I know,” was hers. 

Those precious moments alone with June were a God-given gift.  When my heart starts to ache and I question whether anything was left unsaid, I remember the “hand squeezes”.   That’s what I call them.  I will treasure them forever.  

"How are you related to the patient?" several hospital personnel asked me throughout the days that I was there.