busybeezee's Open Salon Blog

She'd been praying to die for a couple of months now

Sat, 23 May 2009 13:05:14 -0400

"We're going to come see you, ok Banner?" That's what everyone calls her, Banner.

"You better hurry, I'm going to die here in about twenty minutes. I have Aids you know."

We hurried, but we knew Banner wasn't going to die. And she didn't have Aids.

"Do you have a cigarette?" she asked as we arrived. Not only was her voice worn from smoking, Banner's right index finger and her thumb were both yellow at the ends. We didn't have a cigarette. "They won't even let me hold a pack," she said, "I'd eat em!"

As soon as she was well enough to be transfered from the medical hospital to the psychiatric one, she was. It would be one of Banner's many stays at the state psychiatric hospital, neither the first nor the last. This time she would be committed from before Thanksgiving until after the new year.

It was during a visit to the psych hospital I found out Banner was the mother of a love child no one else knew about. The child was born of a torrid affair between her and the staff psychiatrist, who came at Christmas time to decorate the tree in her ward.

The following holiday season, I had the privilidge of taking Banner Christmas shopping. She was in a wheelchair, hooked up to an oxygen tank, and still insisted on smoking every time we stopped.

She also insisted that she was going to buy my car from me, "as soon as she got her license back." Besides the wheelchair and pyschosis, Banner also couldn't see much. But who am I to tether a dreamer?

On our way back to the assisted living facility, she said to me "I sure am glad you got to meet me."

"Me too," I said.

I laughed inside. It seemed so backward at the time. Now, it doesn't seem backward at all. I sure am glad I got to meet her.

Banner
3/18/39 -5/18/09

A Woman Scorned

Tue, 28 Apr 2009 23:04:40 -0400

A friend of my husband, P*, is getting divorced. He decided, for understandable reasons, after 10 miserable years, happiness was worth the price.

The price is high. He offered her (in a no fault state) 60/40 plus $1,000 per month spousal support for a year. She agreed to 60/40, but wants 60% of what his 401k was at the time of separation (which is over 100% of its current value), and $2500 per month in spousal support for 3 years. P*'s hope of settling is dying a painful death.

Transition to me. That will make sense later.

Last week my husband yelled at me in the driveway. He's a hothead, plus he was pissed. He does yell a lot (hotheads do), but not often at me and never in the driveway. I thought he had refrained because he knew better.

Apparently he didn't. Apparently I have just been lucky for the past three years.

Among other choice phrases, he called me a "motherfucker." IN THE DRIVEWAY. The lack of class isn't totally his fault, I'll introduce the in-laws another day. However, given I thought he knew better, I was shocked.

Anger secondary to extreme humiliation was my first reaction. Without hesitation, I proceeded as planned. I buckled the children (who witnessed this excruciatingly offensive behavior) and went about my errands.

He did not offer an apology. In fact, quite the opposite. When I told him how upset I was, he replied "Well, then you should have kept your nose out of it. I wasn't even yelling until you butted in where you don't belong."

"Oh. Well, you should ask P* how things are working out for him," I said.

Yesterday I got flowers delivered to me at work. Today, chocolate covered strawberries.

Choosing the coffin was easy, seeing her in it wasn't.

Fri, 17 Apr 2009 17:04:51 -0400

My sister was killed in an auto accident late last year. Seven years younger than her closest sibling, she was the baby.

It's feels funny inside to say "was." Isn't she still "the baby?" There are no more after her. And she was a baby, 17, when she died.

My family has changed. Each of us in in grief, and we are grief, and that happened in one day. There is no other us now.

Mom prays. She puts prayers online too. And she prays for silly things, like my naughty daughter to find her Easter dress. She didn't pray before.

T* lives in Seattle and calls a lot. And we text too. Sometimes I just text our sister's name to her, and she texts it back, and we know that two people in this world are grieving right then. It's not so lonely with someone else.

R* was in jail when "it" happened. The corrections team let me talk to him, late that night, to tell him. The judge wouldn't let him come to the funeral. He grieves the loss of her, and the loss of the opportunity to grieve with us. His wounds are deep, too painful to touch.

Planning her funeral changed me. I must have done well because future funerals have been predelegated to me. That feels good, if you can believe it.

Mom thinks it's awful to talk about what form we want our memorial to take and, even worse, who will be next to be memorialized.

I'm glad for the discussions. I'd like a little more guidance than I had the last time.

She threw her Easter dress away, 3 days before Easter.

Sun, 12 Apr 2009 17:04:50 -0400

I remember her asking me, a couple of days ago, "How much was that dress?" and I didn't answer. An irrelevant question, I thought.

This morning I woke her early to get ready for church. I thought she'd be excited to wear her self-chosen prize, but she told me she'd lost it.

I didn't believe the lie, but I made her look. I thought she'd solve the mystery with some pressure. She didn't.

After service she confessed, "I threw it away."

"Why?" I asked, trying to remain calm.

"I was mad at you. I thought you only wanted me to look pretty so you would look good."

Maybe she was right, but I thought she liked the dress.

The Hitchhiker

Wed, 8 Apr 2009 15:04:28 -0400

I passed him once, there by the stoplight with his thumb out. There was a small pang of guilt having once been a hitchhiker. He probably wouldn't get a ride for a while. Unshaven, dirty, male. Another former hitchhiker was probably his only chance. Another former hitchhiker who wasn't in a hurry. Not me though. I'm a woman with children. I can't take risks, I reasoned.

That would have been the last I thought about him, the unkempt hitchhiker, except that he was there as I pulled out of the fuel station. I pushed the button and rolled down my window. While still on my cell and without thinking, I motioned him with my hand. He pointed to himself with a question, and I assured the hitchhiker that I intended to give him a ride.

After settling where he wanted me to take him, he said "I'm a minister. My truck just broke down at the mission. I was bringing them some frozen fish." He must have seen me look, "I know I don't look like one, but I am."

Surely a lie, I thought. He had the smell of an alcoholic, which went well with his ensemble. I listened.

"When my truck broke down, I knew the Lord would get me back." Probably said for affect, I thought.

There were no silences, no time for him to evaluate me evaluating him. Still, I tried not to be transparent in my appraisal.

"After my wife died I started ministering from my boat. I've been all over, went to Kodiak last month. It's really been amazing how much people are willing to donate. The other fishermen give me a lot of fuel, anything I need really."

Things are coming together, this fisherman minister. This disheveled, drinking, talkative, fisherman, minister.

I stopped for a McMuffin. He offered to buy in exchange for the ride. "No thanks," I said. "How kind," I thought. The fish aren't running yet. Even if it weren't outwardly obvious, I know that no fisherman has extra money in April. They haven't had income since September.

"Are you just going to continue on from the store, or did you want to go inside?" He had a long way to go, an hour and a half if you're in your own car. More for a hitchhiker.

"Actually, I'm going in. I need to buy a stove for a guy. He lives on a boat, has no way to cook." He continued, "They gave me $100 for the fish. When I brought it, they asked if I could use anything. I said 'I'd like $100 to buy a stove,' they didn't want to give it to me. But I've been wanting to get this old fisherman a stove. He lives on his boat, you know, with no way to cook."

At that moment, the alcoholic fisherman made me realize how insignificant I am. What have I done recently for someone else? I haven't hithhiked with a stove on my back. I haven't bartered my goods for someone else's interest.

I delivered him to the front door of the store. There was small talk, names exchanged, and I said "It was nice meeting you, Red. I have to go, my husband is waiting for me." He replied, "Oh, a jealous husband somewhere. I better get out." Then said "Jealousy isn't in the Lord," before he disappeared to look for a Coleman.

If there was a way to describe where that moment left me, I don't know if I would. I hope I see Red again. I hope I can do something as meaningful as he's done today. Not just for the people at the mission, or the man with no stove, but as meaningful as he's done for me.