Hardest Thing I Have Done

   From my end of the hall, I could see that her bedroom door was closed. If I had been fully awake, something that seldom happened before I had been through the morning routine and arrived safely at work, I probably would have dreaded the trouble this unpredictable wild child was creating in that room. But I wasn’t fully awake. Nor did I have any idea how deep dread could go.

    A suicide note was taped to the outside of her closed bedroom door.

   A suicide note! 

   A suicide note, written by my six-year-old baby, taped to the outside of the closed door that was usually open when I went to wake her for school.

    I was consumed by dread and too paralyzed to even think that every second counted.

    After a time – seconds? A minute? Days? There is no sense of time when you’re paralyzed and know you’d rather die yourself than do what needs to be done. I could not touch that doorknob. COULD NOT do it.

    Nor could I tell anyone else that, when seconds might have mattered most, I allowed paralysis to make me the worst mother ever. So, I opened that door. That simple action, turning a doorknob, I realize thirty years later, was the hardest thing I have ever done – a close second to standing in the shower, holding a phone, while the police officer who had called to ask if I was the mother of (this same) child found at the scene of an accident radioed the officers at the scene for more information.

    She was alive and physically fine (both times). Her plan had been to close the door, go to sleep, and never wake up. To her, that was how people died. And she wanted to die because people had told her that since his death, her father was in heaven watching over her – over all of us. Since she could no longer see him and going to heaven where he was meant she would be able to see him and everyone else she could ‘watch over’ with him, it seemed like a good deal to her.

    The good news was that she didn’t seem terribly disappointed to still be alive.

    Sometimes, every best thing possible lines up. Within an hour, I talked to physicians I knew and trusted, got a recommendation for ‘the best’ child psychiatrist around and permission to use their names since it probably wouldn’t be easy to get an appointment right away with him, called his office and explained my concern and need for an appointment as soon as possible. They called back almost immediately to say that he had a cancellation that morning and he would see her.

    And he was perfect. He allowed her (without me, of course) to tell him what she had done and why she had done it. Later, when he saw the two of us together, he gave me what I interpreted as a ‘please bear with me’ stare as he said they had had a great talk and agreed that they both wanted to discuss everything with me. Turned out, that stare was unnecessary because his opinion and mine were exactly the same – there is absolutely no proof that there is a heaven from which people get to watch over their survivors (or anyone else). He advised my daughter to play it safe – live a long, happy life with me and everyone else who was still alive and, then, if there really is a heaven, she can see her dad again when she gets there.

   She agreed with him that this was what she needed to do. She also stopped listening to people who tried to tell her things that they didn’t know to be true.

 

 

  

 

Tough Guys vs Smart Guys

   There are tough guys and there are smart guys. Smart guys take the tough away from bullies before they have time to do damage. 

    My dad was a smart guy. I learned this when my best friend’s abusive boyfriend called me a fucking whore and threatened to kill me because I wouldn’t put her on the phone to take his abuse. Truth was, she was in the bathroom when he called but he didn’t have to believe me because he was a tough guy. I didn’t have to put up with him when he called me a fucking whore and said he would kill me if I didn’t get her and put her on the phone NOW. I hung up. That evening, I told my dad. Not because I was afraid of the abusive boyfriend but because I wanted him to see if he could talk some sense into my friend. The boyfriend had already beat her rather severely, wrecked her car so she couldn’t go out without him, and controlled every second of her life. But my dad obviously took his threat more seriously than I did. 

   Later that night, I went to the basement to switch laundry and heard Daddy off in a corner on the telephone. It was strange, because he wasn’t a phone person. Even more shocking, I heard him, for the first time in my life, say a cuss word. “Sandy is not a fucking whore, but your words won’t hurt her. However, if I were you, I would be watching over her to make sure no one hurts her now because if they do, you made the threat and you will be the first suspect.” Abusive tough guy said some words I couldn’t hear but he must have repeated or at least admitted to making the threat because Daddy said, “Did you understand what I said? What that means? Anyone can attack her now. If she tells enough people that you made the threat, one of them just might want to hurt her and let you take the blame.” After he ended the call, without ever raising his voice, he told me I should look over my shoulder, but he didn’t think I had to worry about tough guy anymore. He left town shortly after. 

   My dad was a man of few words but when he spoke, people listened because he was usually right. The lesson that night stayed with me. It taught me how to deal with bullies and it also made me not jump to conclusions in cases like O. J. Simpson, or my own stalker years later. Just because O. J. had beat up his wife before didn’t necessarily mean no one else could have killed her. And just because one man had assaulted me, he didn’t necessarily have to be my stalker. And, every woman who has been abused by one man is a sitting duck for any other man who might want to cause her harm. 

   The next bully I had to deal with hadn’t ever tried to bully me. I worked in medical records in a large hospital. We both served physicians but getting reports on their patient charts (pre-computer age), delivering the records of previous admissions to them when the patients were readmitted, and keeping their hospital records – and we also had to flag incomplete records for completion. Their admitting privileges were suspended if they didn’t complete the records so, despite it being for their own good, they didn’t appreciate being nagged and suspended. Some became irate when they were suspended because one of their partners hadn’t completed his records, but the rules said the entire group was suspended if one doctor had delinquent records. 

   This doctor had never been unkind to me, but I watched him bully a supervisor in my department, and I had heard horror stories about how he treated nurses, one incident that I considered physical abuse. He was an excellent doctor, in a group with three other doctors. The other three promptly completed their records every time. He never did. He allowed his to sit, taking up space in our department (nothing went to permanent file incomplete), irritating his partners – who should have taken some sort of action instead of leaving it on us. There were over 700 doctors on staff, all of whom came to our department to complete their records. Because he was a jerk and no one wanted him around anyway, his charts were delivered to him on the last day before suspension. Late. Making it a pain in the ass for us because we had to scramble to check everything and notify the admissions office that he had made it under the wire and the group wouldn’t be suspended at the end of the day. 

   To her credit, a supervisor who didn’t want any of her employees to have to suffer his rants wheeled a loaded cart up three floors to his office to make his job easier for him. Before leaving the charts with him, she opened each one, turned over the pages he needed to sign or dictate, and stacked them on his desk. And, when she went back to retrieve the records, he would have tossed each one over his shoulder onto the floor. Pages would come out of the folders and scattered. It was a total shit show. She’d stuff them back in the cart, wheel it back down, and the entire department would rush to put them all back together. Sometimes, it required tape. 

   One day, I beat the supervisor to the cart and said, “My turn. I want to do this today.” She argued that he would eat me alive. I promised he would not. 

   He was surprised to see me. He neither smiled nor yelled, so I was off to a good(ish) start. I asked where he wanted me to leave the records and he looked confused, so I pushed the cart around to the far side of his desk, kindly allowing him the ability to walk out without having to go it. And I smiled, like I had done him the big favor that I HAD ACTUALLY DONE FOR HIM. He was obviously dumbfounded. 

 

   When I reached the door to leave, without him throwing anything at my head, I stopped and turned back to ask, “Will you do me a huge favor and put them back in the cart carefully when you’re finished? It’s a real pain in the ass to have to reconstruct every time you finish.” The charts were completed, without anyone turning pages back for him, and placed neatly in the cart when he was finished. And they were from that day on, no matter who took them up to him. 

 

   I was two feet from the door one night, on my way out, when THE KNOCK sounded. The unmistakable, this-is-not-good-news knock on the door. I opened it and there stood the two unmistakable men in suits. They showed their badges and said they had some questions to ask so I invited them in. But they said they didn’t have a warrant so I could just talk to them at the door. They had reason to believe that an escaped prisoner had been in my apartment. Stranger things may have happened somewhere, sometime, but it’s hard to imagine. A few days before, someone had come into my apartment while I was at work and cleaned it. Seriously cleaned it like it had never been cleaned before. No one owned up to it, but I believed it had to have been my mother, even though she didn’t have a key and the resident manager swore she hadn’t let Mom, or anyone else, in to clean my apartment. The manager came up to look, agreed that it was cleaner than it had ever been before, and said she hoped she got so lucky. 

 

   So, I figured someone had been inside my apartment. And I knew I was innocent. So, I said I didn’t care about a warrant. I wanted them to come inside and I wanted them to search. I knew there was no one in that apartment at that time but I wasn’t sure they were ever going to really believe me if I didn’t make them search for themselves. They searched. Oh, did they search. They looked in drawers far too small for even the smallest prisoner to be hiding in – silverware drawer, toothbrush drawer, electrical panel, under the beds, behind books on the bookcase, and they unscrewed the mouthpiece on the rotary phone. (And I’m no dummy so I said hello to them most every call in or out for a long time after.) 

 

  I followed them when they left – because I really was prepared to leave when they showed up. Down the stairs and at the main door, they waved off the SWAT team before I stepped outside. 

 

   Another pair showed up many years later, at another door, looking for my daughter. Again, I invited them in, without a warrant. I talked to them, assured them they were looking for the wrong person. My daughter had not done the crime they were investigating. I was positive. I called my daughter home. I’m not sure she has forgiven me yet for that, but I was right – she had not committed the crime – and I would rather they find that out in my home than chase her down anywhere else where she could be embarrassed or possibly harmed. 

 

   I went to outpatient group therapy after I was assaulted. PTSD was the diagnosis. Everyone else in my group got to invite their family members for a session to try and work through their fears, difficulties, etc. But, because I had a restraining order, they denied me that opportunity. I pleaded. Said I needed to look him in the eye and ask why this had happened. Nope, couldn't be done. 

 

   When I left the center that day, I drove to his house, knocked on his door, and said, “If you are going to kill me, do it now because I would rather be dead than spend my life fearing you.” Scared the living shit out of him. 

 

   Facing fear, claiming your time and rights, taking the wind out of their sails, being smart instead of tough . . . that’s how you deal with bullies. 

 

   I’ve written about a few of my experiences here. There were plenty more. And I believe that’s what we must do with the fascist-Republicans now. We cannot allow them to spend the two months we have left before midterms spreading more lies and fear, hogging up media with their nonsense. We must take the wind out of their sails. Tonight, I tossed out the idea of every living president demanding that the FBI come search their homes for documents they carried out of the White House, or proof that they were involved in an insurrection or other acts of treason. Make them look like the fools they are if they continue to lie, to distract, to what-if, to ask why them and no one else. Give them exactly what they are asking for – PROOF that they are not martyrs, they are not being persecuted, they are being held accountable for what we all saw them do, and, more importantly, for what WE STILL SEE THEM DOING.

Careful With Clicks

Ever wonder why you have to click five times to actually get to play Candy Crush or a game of gin? Or why someone wants to tell you what dog you are, or why you need to click multiple colors to find out what color undies your neighbor is wearing? I wonder often WHAT is behind the lost clicks and if people paying for ads that those clicks sometimes lead to realize that the game sites play the same ad five times in one game, making me hate them so it's counterproductive. 

Here's how easy it is to make a link that isn't what it says it is. Even I, with no real developer skills, can do it. 

I am more than pretty sure that this is how I ended up in a pro Rand Paul group, as well as on some mailing lists I didn't want to be on.

Tap here for list of RBG scandals  

Grandmother Problems

My granddaughter tells me stories about when she used to be a grandmother. I am torn between believing she remembers past lives or she's a liar. She also tells me I will always be a grandmother and she will always be a kid, making me wonder if the grandmother in her is watching over the child in her.