A Warm Blanket; A Gram's Afghan

Dear Hearts,

“I’m so stupid, because I still love him,” Jane said in between sobs.

Jane has a punctured breast implant, broken nose, contusion over her right eye, a knot on her head, and deep bruising around her belly.

The doctor said she was lucky her boyfriend didn’t puncture her liver, heart, or kidney—she could be dead.

She could be dead.

“It’s all my fault. Now he’ll never want me. It’s all my fault and I know I’m stupid.”

“I love him.”

“He never did this before. Usually he just shoves me against the wall or puts me in my place. I am in so much trouble.”

“I’m 51, men aren’t going to swirl around me. I’ve lost everything.”

“I’m alone.”

With my hand gently on her head, I said, “I understand. I really do.”

I popped my cherry on my first domestic abuse hospital-on call.

It happened just like I imagined it: a call waking me up from a dead sleep in the “middle” the night and me rushing to get out the door and smoke a cigarette on the drive to the hospital.

Now, I had almost 60 hours of domestic and sexual assault training. But, that’s kinda like taking teaching classes. As useless as a sorry from T. after calling me a “fucking bitch.”

She was bottle blonde with her roots showing and 50s pudgy. Her mascara was smeared and she had stitches above her head. She wore a small silver cross around her neck and a demur red ring on her ring finger. But, I saw and heard myself in her.

I handled it. I was professional and compassionate and said all the right things. The training kicked insofar as “what to say” about Burning Bed and how much we could help her. But my experience (years of therapy?), compassion, empathy, being around young adults for my 14-year career…and God…that’s what kicked in. I was calm. I filled out the paper work.

I was so proud of myself because I had gone to bed at 11 p.m., since I was scheduled to work at Burning Bed Sunday at eight a.m.

The call came at one a.m.

“I’m sorry to call you, since your working tomorrow, but you are on call,” said the BB advocate. “Can you go there?

“What the fuck time is it?...yeah, of course, that’s what we’re here for.”

I got home around 4.45 a.m., brushed my teeth, so I wouldn’t have too in two hours and dropped my dress on the floor. I figured I would changed my tampon before I went to work. At 7.15 a.m. the fucking alarm went off and I was up. The third time I go the dress on the right way—zipper in the back. I think I put on deodorant. Fuck the motherfucking, cock sucking dress code. I threw yogurt and my other breakfast ingredients into a container and left for BB. I hastily explained to G-Pa.

At 12.30, a wonderful, wonderful woman came to take over the rest of the shift and I went to the Garden House. I got my Cold Brew and coffee ice cubes in separate cups, my usual treat (eating it tonight) and a banana nut bagel with cream cheese.

I just discovered I like cream cheese. Huh.

After my car accident, when I tipped the Durango, I got home, showered, ate a bagel, took some Xanax and went to sleep.

I got home, stripped the bed and my “hospital clothes” showered and ate my bagel with cream cheese, banana, and yogurt smoothie. I went to sleep after I finished an episode of Royal Pains. I got under Gram’s afghan and held Maurice and Angel close. In my one ear I listened with one ear bud to the recitation of The Letters of Saint Paul.

Two hours and twenty minutes later I hear Aunt Faerie’s voice over the recitation asking what I wanted to bring me back for dinner.

(G-Pa does NOT enter my room when the door is closed or even knock. He always sends Aunt Faerie as an emissary. If I am not in there with the door closed, he will close the blind, so the neighbors can't see that...I collect Barbie?)

A grilled chicken salad—no onions or peppers.

Slowly, I came to consciousness. I wasn’t in trouble—I didn’t have to hide. I was not fit to be around people. I came out of my room like a cocoon and looked around. I was alone. I was allowed to be up. I could drink my coffee and have my cigarette. I wasn’t in trouble for anything.

I didn’t do my usual prayer litany. I just held my rosary and received God’s Grace and begged for more.

“Did those two cigarettes I had at one and four a.m. count? Nah.

Later, I sat on the couch and the ramifications of what I’d done and where I’d been hit me.

At least, I wasn’t in trouble.

He is her life. She doesn’t work. She depends on him even though she has no house or car keys. He is the guarantee of a life not alone. He is the promise of a lost dream. He’s a good man except when he drinks and doesn’t. He is her anchor and tether.

She will go back to him. He will beat her up again.

She thanked me so profusely when I left the hospital. She said she’d call me at BB. She didn’t and I was glad. I couldn’t…

Maybe one word of the many I said to her will affect her. Maybe they won’t.

She wasn’t alone from 1.30 to 4.30 a.m. She had gentle touches and soft words. She had compliments and warm blankets. She has someone on her side.

I am so fucking blessed.

I will NEVER be in trouble again.

Future Gentlemen callers out there—curse at me, threaten me or my cat, tell me how crazy I am, or don't treat me like the "motherfucking princess" I am...

See how that works out for ya’.

Smoke ‘em if ya’ got ‘em. God Bless

In the name of The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit; Mother Mary, Saint Brigid; Saint Jude; Saint Therese Lisieux; Saint Peter; Archangel Michael, and my Guardian Angel, Jed.

PS: Jane mad some bad choices. I did too. But, I have also made some good ones. Are you “rewarded” for good choices?

PPS: I'd rather be alone.

Grateful For:

Garden House treat

Aunt Faerie

Dad coming

Family

Health

Homes

Love

Faith

Sprite

Throwing a banana peel in Toothless’s bushes at 4.30 a.m.

Blessings

Not reading this over. Just posting it.

It may be my last entry for a while since Dad if gonna make it here in one day and we’re going back in one day for the big 40 on Friday.