When I was still working, I treated two little blonde headed boys, brothers with unnamed neurological disorders. One had cerebral deafness and a seizure disorder. They were toddlers when I worked with them. Their mother was unmarried with beautiful red hair. She was there inconstantly. They were brought to therapy, like clockwork by their grandmother, their mother's mother. She was dependable, loving, paid attention and was wonderful at taking and following directions on how to best facilitate growth and development with her grandsons. She brought all 3 therapists those dolls with the crocheted ripply dresses and big hats, fruit and candy for Christmas.
Interestingly, my husband worked at the Holiday Inn with her husband, in maintenance. We saw them both and the boys at the Hotel Employee Christmas Party. Her husband was one of those people who thought he was an expert on everything, but broke most everything and my husband had to clean up after him. Needless to say, he wasn't my husband's favorite person.
A few years after I got sick and had to quit working, the grandmother and her husband moved next door to us. I didn't see or talk to her often. She had several back surgeries that kept her confined to the house. When I did see her, she was using a walker though she couldn't have been more than 5 years older than me.
Then, I stopped seeing her at all. By then, her husband was working for the railroad and was away days at a time. We would occasionally see the boys I used to treat, awkward young men now. Various daughters, sons and grandchildren would come to visit, take care of the yard. They erected an awning in the driveway in between our two houses. They would barbecue and talk. One of the daughters smoked cigarettes there and we would find the butts thrown over the rail fence and into our yard. My husband would always pick them up of our sidewalk and throw them back. They would leave the awnings up over the winter. The fierce wind would lift them up completely, sailing them, frame and all up, up, up to land limply in their back yard on top of forgotten toys and rusted bikes, the frame irrevocably twisted from the flight and harsh landing. This happened to two awnings. The third one they erected in the backyard instead, where it stands to this day.
During this last year I would get calls from the neighbors across the street to ask me if I had heard the Grandmother, Gail screaming out a door or window. "Help me, help me, help me!" Until somebody would call the cops and they would take her away. One night, we were awakened by the cops busting the door down. Again they took her away. The last time I saw her was this last winter. She was screaming out the front door. It was late at night. It was snowing. Sometimes her husband was there, other times, like when they busted the door, he was not. His presence didn't seem to make a difference. She was never fetched from her yelling by her husband. Most times she had stopped by the time the cops came, but they always took her away....to the hospital we presumed. This last time, she was ushered away by two cops in nothing but her nightgown. No coat, no shoes on her feet. Barefoot. In the snow, temperature around zero. I saw her and wondered at the cruelty or absentmindedness of the men in uniform walking her unprotected from the snow and elements. That would be the last time I saw her. There were stories of garbage bags full of empty liquor bottles. I would absentmindedly wonder if someone was counting OUR wine and beer bottles and cans. I assumed it was the combination of alcohol and pain meds that would change her so from a thoughtful, loving grandmother, to a crazed woman screaming at the neighbors or God; in words understood or unintelligible.
Today, I came home late in the afternoon from shopping in the 95 degree heat. I had bought lemonade from two middle schoolers selling on the corner. There was a cop car in front of her house. Her husband, a cop and a man with a clipboard were in front of the house. Her husband, smoking a cigarette, phone in hand, standing, the other two seated on the steps. I hoped that the man out of uniform was a social worker. I later saw him in the back yard taking pictures. My husband just arrived home from a weekend camping with my son, comes tearing into the backyard, asking why the hell men in white forensic suits were walking into the house. My heart sank. The man was no social worker. We had up to 4 Sheriff's dark vehicles and 2 cop cars parked in our street thru the evening. When I walked to the front of the house to wait on my front porch for a friend, the detective walked up and introduced himself and apologized for disturbing the neighborhood. I felt insulted that cars and cops would bother me, when death had visited our neighborhood. I asked him if Gail had killed herself. He asked me why I would say that. I told him about her fights with God and pain pills. I asked if she shot herself. He said he couldn't say. I thought of my battles with pain. Fleeting thoughts of ending it all when the pain pushed through all my meds, through my bones into my brain. How I couldn't help myself at those times. How I was no help to a neighbor, once a friend, because I didn't have enough energy for one sick person, me, much less two.
I hope that Gail is with whoever she was yelling at. I hope they are listening to her and holding her. Comforting her after her abrupt and violent departure from this world. I hope her pain is gone and she is the happy loving grandmother I knew.
