(This was inspired by my brief employment history with Bill the accountant in Gainesville. He's a true son of a bitch and is probably in some minimum security federal prison for fraud or tax evasion by now.)
The sick feeling started each evening at around eight. The euphoria I felt upon pulling into the driveway each evening was short-lived. By the time I start pulling my clothes together for the next day, my stomach began churning with dread.
On that day my boss's words were impossible to forget. I had stood across from him at his desk and took the barrage. He ended with a patronizing: "We'll just agree to part ways" and asked me to stay on for two reasons: In the early days of computer literacy, I was the only staff member who could operate the office computer. I was in the middle of putting together a detailed financial statement for an important new client. It was crucial that I stay on until the project was finished. And, because no one else in the office could use the computer, I was asked to stay on until a replacement could be trained.
Sitting at a busy intersection the next morning, I could see the top of the four-story office building where I worked. I gripped the wheel and tried to quell my stomach with some deep breaths. I tried to look on the bright side: My commitment couldn't be longer than two weeks at the most, and I'd been promised time to look for another job.
I missed the green light by about ten cars. The office building loomed ahead of me, looking more like my prison for the day than a place of business.
I thought about the deal I struck with my boss: the balding, paunchy baby-faced boomer with carefully gelled hair.I thought about other promises he had made and abandoned during my tenure at the office. I thought about the abuse flung at the staff, even in front of clients.When confronted, he would laugh nervously and accuse us of not having a sense of humor, as anyone could have seen that the insults were just innocent teasing.
My grip tightened on the steering wheel when the light turned green again. I thought about the commitment I had made and the urgency of having the pending financial report completed.
I pulled into the turn lane for the office parking lot, but what caught my eye was the road sign ahead that read :"Gulf Beaches Next Right". I was immediately tempted to bail, and break my promise. Leave in the lurch my co-workers and risk a poor reference.
Smiling smugly, I shrugged and thought, "Oh, well......"
I drove right past the office building waving gaily at the unseen minions cloistered inside, and made the next right to the beach, The bastard wouldn't have given me a good reference anyway.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Monday, October 18, 2010
A Death Story
It had been a rough fall - George had become more volatile and more abusive for reasons unknown to me. We were depressed by the infertility that was plaguing our marriage.
On a beautiful Saturday in November, in our waterfront home in gulf coast Florida, George hit me after I had dared "sass" him. Immediately repentant, he burst into tears while still holding me by the throat against the wall. I will never forget the look on his face as my eyes bore into his. I was filled with hate like I'd never felt before in my life. If he hadn't released his grip around my throat, I'm sure I would have clawed him to death with my bare hands.
The charged moment was broken shortly by the impromptu (and timely) arrival of some dear friends. We quickly regained our composure and made nice for company. The men took the Jon boat out to do some fishing. Our friend`s wife suggested lunch in a nice restaurant, her treat.
Over lunch, Amy confronted me. It was less questioning than of announcing she knew that I was being abused. When she confronted me, I was able to pour out my heart to her on the agonizing realization that I was a battered woman.
Her advice was simple.
"I'm not going to tell you to leave him," she said. "But I am going to insist you get some kind of help."
Some weeks before George and I had made an appointment with a fertility specialist for that following Monday. Instead of making the appointment, I went to the local women's shelter for counselling. I remember two things from that initial meeting: being told that I was the "textbook" battered wife, and feeling like I had more power - mental and physical- than I ever had before.
On my return home I met my bewildered husband in the driveway . He was honestly confused about my absence at the fertility specialists. I looked him in the eye, unafraid, and told him that I would never have a baby with him.
What followed was exactly as the counsellor had predicted.
There would be contrite tears on his part, but somewhere the "why do you make me do it" plea would come out along with the confession. A "honeymoon" period would follow until inevitably, the the next time - which would come.
The honeymoon period extended over a glorious Florida Christmas - blinding cloudless blue skies and temperatures hovering in the freezing zone. There had even been snow on Christmas eve! To use a worn-out but useful phrase, it was a magical Christmas. We had a wonderful time with family and friends and I forgot that George and I ever had a whisper of discord in our marriage.
The weather pattern was typical and in a day or two the freezing cold had turned to clear, warm days and starry nights. The honeymoon continued during the two-week holiday, and on New Years Eve day, we took a romantic day trip down to Tarpon Springs.
Being such a gorgeous day, and a Sunday - the traffic going down US 19 was horrendous. On a map, Highway 19 looks tempting as it winds down along the gulf coast from Tallahassee to Pinellas County. To the uninitiated, a lovely sea-side drive might come to mind. In reality, it's a ten-lane asphalt nightmare. If you like countless battered, deserted strip malls with weedy parking lots, this is the highway for you.
Somewhere further south, inching along US19 to New Port Richey, we were stopped at a lengthy light. Suddenly there was an insistent tapping on the back window.
A little old lady stood there, demanding to be let inside .
"I need a ride!" she groused.
Looking at each other meaningfully, we let the old lady in - we thought: what harm can that do?'
The lady was oddly dressed in a bright green double-knit pantsuit. Her dark-red wig was askew on her head. She slid into the seat and ordered George to drive on.
Along the way, George ventured to ask a question.
" Where are you from?"
"Up north!" she shot back grudgingly. Then ordered him to keep driving with an imperious wave of her hand.
We had barely driven a mile when she spoke up again, ordering George to pull over in a parking lot. He stopped the car - giving me a "this is weird, isn't it?" look. The lady opened the car door but before she exited the car, she leaned towards George.
She put her hand on his shoulder, and told him, "You are filled with God's love and Heaven is a wonderful place. "
We left the lady in the parking lot, still a little shocked at what had just happened. Soon we were immersed again in the traffic flow along 19.
"At least she didn't tell us we were sinners and going to hell," George said.
"I mean, what she told us is kind of nice, isn't it?"
We laughed the event off - us being honeymooners and all, and referred to the incident later as "the angel lady" because we had no other earthly way to describe the bizarre events of the morning.
We spent a glorious day together in Tarpon Springs, relishing the waterfront and the fragrant salt air, having our traditional lunch of Greek salad, broiled octopus and shrimp at Paul's.
After a quiet evening celebrating at home with friends, the next day I was up and ready for the days chores. Did I mention George was a martinet when it came to household chores? If he was working, then I had to get up and work, too. Regardless of our recent matrimonial harmony, I still had my instinctive fear of George and I was unwilling to come to the end of our honeymoon period just yet.
Early on New Year's day, George went into the hospital to do some work. He came home in an hour or so, excited about the games on TV that day. I was ready to start the traditional breaking down of the mass decorations. but was interrupted by a phone call.
My young friend, Kelly, was calling. I boarded my horse at the farm belonging to her grandparents, who had given Kelly a pony and cart for Christmas. Kelly was hosting a New Year's Day weenie-roast at the barn and hoped I could come out and drive her pony. I initially declined, but George interrupted me, urging me to go and enjoy myself.
In retrospect that behaviour was a huge red flag. It was completely unlike George when it came to chores: you were there to help until the last speck of dust was gone and the house was Bristol fashion. A little confused, I was happy to have been given permission. I headed down to the barn and had a blast trotting up hill and dale of the farm in a pony cart .
Guiltily and wary, I headed home after an hour or two. Arriving home, I found the house unlocked and wide open - not unusual, especially in nice weather. I called for George when I walked inside. Not hearing a response, I simply assumed he was at one of the many neighbours with whom he was friendly.
I methodically began the breakdown of the Christmas decorations in our living room, probably spending about an hour undoing, wrapping, and packing into boxes. When the boxes began to pile up, I grabbed three of them in my arms and headed to the spare bedroom to store them.
Walking down the hall to the room, I passed the guest bath.
That's where I saw him.
Sprawled across the floor of the bathroom he lay, eyes open and staring, pupils fixed, his face beet red. In the back of my mind I knew he was dead, but I went through the typically hysterical motions of trying to shake him awake and fulitily trying CPR.
When I rolled him over I caught a whiff of soiled pants. Then I saw the hypodermic syringe on the floor beside him. A flood of thoughts washed over me - specifically, of George having had a history of what's euphemistically referred to as "an impaired medical professional". Supposedly he had overcome his impairment, and I believed it was not an issue in our marriage.
I remember thinking, "The bastard did this to himself!"
Suddenly I felt less enthusiastic about trying to save his life.
Later when the dust cleared and the house was emptied of cops and crime-lab personnel, I was confessing over the phone to the lady from the organ bank. After answering questions like" How about the mandible? And the epidermis? That as well?" I told the lady I had attempted CPR. She assured me that I couldn't have revived him anyway. They figured he had been dead over an hour by the I found him.
The culprit? A syringe destined for pre-operative sedation. George had copped it off the anaesthesiologist’s cart at the hospital earlier that day. A friends suggested that he had wanted a buzz for the games, but hadn't banked on the strength of the drug concoction. PSA - that's a good reason to keep those things in the hospital. So, I mean, like - in case you die or something?
The shock of his being a closet drug-addict was so great I wouldn't have batted an eyelash if fifty women had come to his funeral claiming to have borne his love child. The self-blame and guilt over my ignorance has haunted me for years.
Besides making me a object of suspicion at my own job, the useless death of a young healthy member of the family is the hurt that never ends. The damage his senseless death did to his parents in indescribable. The symptoms of his drug-addiction had eluded me - I was devastated by him hurting me physically and couldn't comprehend the reasons why.
Within a week, George was dead, cremated, eulogized and disposed of at sea. His grieving relatives went home, and I went back to work. My sister had phoned me during the week and I remember her commenting dryly, "You're sure taking this well."
And I had.
The anger kept me buoyant for weeks afterwards. I relished being at home without being harangued and sometimes hit over my reluctance and/or inability to do a household task to specs. In fact, I remember coming home as a widow into the house for the first time, I practically danced with joy. Or maybe I did actually dance with joy. I was happy, to say the least! Like the perfect Daniel Steele heroine, death - someone else's- had been a godsend. I was in hell and hadn't known it - now I was relishing the fruits of widowhood: the independence and the freedom. Plus I still had George’s wonderful loving family, and have them to this day. In death, at least along with everything else you don‘t have to lose family like you do in a divorce.
The pain George left his family will stay with them until their dying day. The encounter with the funny lady on Highway 19 was a comfort to them, who are convinced, along with me, that the funnny lady was an angel of death. How else could you explain that bizarre occurence?
But mine is a happy ending. I have found true love with a man who is kind and gentle. There is nothing on earth like living in a quiet, peaceful, safe home. I have left the unbearable pain behind.
On a beautiful Saturday in November, in our waterfront home in gulf coast Florida, George hit me after I had dared "sass" him. Immediately repentant, he burst into tears while still holding me by the throat against the wall. I will never forget the look on his face as my eyes bore into his. I was filled with hate like I'd never felt before in my life. If he hadn't released his grip around my throat, I'm sure I would have clawed him to death with my bare hands.
The charged moment was broken shortly by the impromptu (and timely) arrival of some dear friends. We quickly regained our composure and made nice for company. The men took the Jon boat out to do some fishing. Our friend`s wife suggested lunch in a nice restaurant, her treat.
Over lunch, Amy confronted me. It was less questioning than of announcing she knew that I was being abused. When she confronted me, I was able to pour out my heart to her on the agonizing realization that I was a battered woman.
Her advice was simple.
"I'm not going to tell you to leave him," she said. "But I am going to insist you get some kind of help."
Some weeks before George and I had made an appointment with a fertility specialist for that following Monday. Instead of making the appointment, I went to the local women's shelter for counselling. I remember two things from that initial meeting: being told that I was the "textbook" battered wife, and feeling like I had more power - mental and physical- than I ever had before.
On my return home I met my bewildered husband in the driveway . He was honestly confused about my absence at the fertility specialists. I looked him in the eye, unafraid, and told him that I would never have a baby with him.
What followed was exactly as the counsellor had predicted.
There would be contrite tears on his part, but somewhere the "why do you make me do it" plea would come out along with the confession. A "honeymoon" period would follow until inevitably, the the next time - which would come.
The honeymoon period extended over a glorious Florida Christmas - blinding cloudless blue skies and temperatures hovering in the freezing zone. There had even been snow on Christmas eve! To use a worn-out but useful phrase, it was a magical Christmas. We had a wonderful time with family and friends and I forgot that George and I ever had a whisper of discord in our marriage.
The weather pattern was typical and in a day or two the freezing cold had turned to clear, warm days and starry nights. The honeymoon continued during the two-week holiday, and on New Years Eve day, we took a romantic day trip down to Tarpon Springs.
Being such a gorgeous day, and a Sunday - the traffic going down US 19 was horrendous. On a map, Highway 19 looks tempting as it winds down along the gulf coast from Tallahassee to Pinellas County. To the uninitiated, a lovely sea-side drive might come to mind. In reality, it's a ten-lane asphalt nightmare. If you like countless battered, deserted strip malls with weedy parking lots, this is the highway for you.
Somewhere further south, inching along US19 to New Port Richey, we were stopped at a lengthy light. Suddenly there was an insistent tapping on the back window.
A little old lady stood there, demanding to be let inside .
"I need a ride!" she groused.
Looking at each other meaningfully, we let the old lady in - we thought: what harm can that do?'
The lady was oddly dressed in a bright green double-knit pantsuit. Her dark-red wig was askew on her head. She slid into the seat and ordered George to drive on.
Along the way, George ventured to ask a question.
" Where are you from?"
"Up north!" she shot back grudgingly. Then ordered him to keep driving with an imperious wave of her hand.
We had barely driven a mile when she spoke up again, ordering George to pull over in a parking lot. He stopped the car - giving me a "this is weird, isn't it?" look. The lady opened the car door but before she exited the car, she leaned towards George.
She put her hand on his shoulder, and told him, "You are filled with God's love and Heaven is a wonderful place. "
We left the lady in the parking lot, still a little shocked at what had just happened. Soon we were immersed again in the traffic flow along 19.
"At least she didn't tell us we were sinners and going to hell," George said.
"I mean, what she told us is kind of nice, isn't it?"
We laughed the event off - us being honeymooners and all, and referred to the incident later as "the angel lady" because we had no other earthly way to describe the bizarre events of the morning.
We spent a glorious day together in Tarpon Springs, relishing the waterfront and the fragrant salt air, having our traditional lunch of Greek salad, broiled octopus and shrimp at Paul's.
After a quiet evening celebrating at home with friends, the next day I was up and ready for the days chores. Did I mention George was a martinet when it came to household chores? If he was working, then I had to get up and work, too. Regardless of our recent matrimonial harmony, I still had my instinctive fear of George and I was unwilling to come to the end of our honeymoon period just yet.
Early on New Year's day, George went into the hospital to do some work. He came home in an hour or so, excited about the games on TV that day. I was ready to start the traditional breaking down of the mass decorations. but was interrupted by a phone call.
My young friend, Kelly, was calling. I boarded my horse at the farm belonging to her grandparents, who had given Kelly a pony and cart for Christmas. Kelly was hosting a New Year's Day weenie-roast at the barn and hoped I could come out and drive her pony. I initially declined, but George interrupted me, urging me to go and enjoy myself.
In retrospect that behaviour was a huge red flag. It was completely unlike George when it came to chores: you were there to help until the last speck of dust was gone and the house was Bristol fashion. A little confused, I was happy to have been given permission. I headed down to the barn and had a blast trotting up hill and dale of the farm in a pony cart .
Guiltily and wary, I headed home after an hour or two. Arriving home, I found the house unlocked and wide open - not unusual, especially in nice weather. I called for George when I walked inside. Not hearing a response, I simply assumed he was at one of the many neighbours with whom he was friendly.
I methodically began the breakdown of the Christmas decorations in our living room, probably spending about an hour undoing, wrapping, and packing into boxes. When the boxes began to pile up, I grabbed three of them in my arms and headed to the spare bedroom to store them.
Walking down the hall to the room, I passed the guest bath.
That's where I saw him.
Sprawled across the floor of the bathroom he lay, eyes open and staring, pupils fixed, his face beet red. In the back of my mind I knew he was dead, but I went through the typically hysterical motions of trying to shake him awake and fulitily trying CPR.
When I rolled him over I caught a whiff of soiled pants. Then I saw the hypodermic syringe on the floor beside him. A flood of thoughts washed over me - specifically, of George having had a history of what's euphemistically referred to as "an impaired medical professional". Supposedly he had overcome his impairment, and I believed it was not an issue in our marriage.
I remember thinking, "The bastard did this to himself!"
Suddenly I felt less enthusiastic about trying to save his life.
Later when the dust cleared and the house was emptied of cops and crime-lab personnel, I was confessing over the phone to the lady from the organ bank. After answering questions like" How about the mandible? And the epidermis? That as well?" I told the lady I had attempted CPR. She assured me that I couldn't have revived him anyway. They figured he had been dead over an hour by the I found him.
The culprit? A syringe destined for pre-operative sedation. George had copped it off the anaesthesiologist’s cart at the hospital earlier that day. A friends suggested that he had wanted a buzz for the games, but hadn't banked on the strength of the drug concoction. PSA - that's a good reason to keep those things in the hospital. So, I mean, like - in case you die or something?
The shock of his being a closet drug-addict was so great I wouldn't have batted an eyelash if fifty women had come to his funeral claiming to have borne his love child. The self-blame and guilt over my ignorance has haunted me for years.
Besides making me a object of suspicion at my own job, the useless death of a young healthy member of the family is the hurt that never ends. The damage his senseless death did to his parents in indescribable. The symptoms of his drug-addiction had eluded me - I was devastated by him hurting me physically and couldn't comprehend the reasons why.
Within a week, George was dead, cremated, eulogized and disposed of at sea. His grieving relatives went home, and I went back to work. My sister had phoned me during the week and I remember her commenting dryly, "You're sure taking this well."
And I had.
The anger kept me buoyant for weeks afterwards. I relished being at home without being harangued and sometimes hit over my reluctance and/or inability to do a household task to specs. In fact, I remember coming home as a widow into the house for the first time, I practically danced with joy. Or maybe I did actually dance with joy. I was happy, to say the least! Like the perfect Daniel Steele heroine, death - someone else's- had been a godsend. I was in hell and hadn't known it - now I was relishing the fruits of widowhood: the independence and the freedom. Plus I still had George’s wonderful loving family, and have them to this day. In death, at least along with everything else you don‘t have to lose family like you do in a divorce.
The pain George left his family will stay with them until their dying day. The encounter with the funny lady on Highway 19 was a comfort to them, who are convinced, along with me, that the funnny lady was an angel of death. How else could you explain that bizarre occurence?
But mine is a happy ending. I have found true love with a man who is kind and gentle. There is nothing on earth like living in a quiet, peaceful, safe home. I have left the unbearable pain behind.
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