"Pam, I can't take this!"
I made a bee line down my long driveway, through the near neighbors yard, across the county road, and half jumped the ditch to get to the lady's side; she was distraught.
There she stood, dark circles under her eyes, slack skin from being tired, wearing a blue fuzzy robe, phone clutched to her ear with one hand, and holding her sides with the other. She's holding her sides because about 3 days ago she tripped and fell into her bathtub and fractured a couple of ribs. That first day she told me, "There's nothing to be done except rest and take pain pills."
But this is something different.
She'd called me at home, "Pam, can you take Eda to med-check?"
"Sure" and I start changing out of grubbies into something more presentable.
She says, "What'll I do? Eda's been hit by a dump truck!"
"Hit by a dump truck? Is she laying on the ground?"
"No, she's here on the porch, her legs been hit, and she says she's not going."
"I'll come over, I'll be there as quick as I can, but don't you need a police report."
"The truck driver says his manager's on the way."
Oh, my lands! What kind of pickle have these crazy old ladies gotten into now.
So, here I stand in her yard that's overflowing with yellow and purple flowers, and decos and outdoor teal furniture galore, and she's on the phone again.
Eda hollers, complaining of pain going from her knee to the small of her back, and everytime she moves she yelps some more. "You'd better sit down in case YOU'VE got a fracture, too," I try to guide her, "you could turn it into a broken bone if you don't sit down!"
These two are fussing at each other, one's busy on the phone and the other is limping here and there and everywhere. She won't sit, she hop-foots to the swing, then she tries to limp into the house but the excited dogs, 4 of them, won't let her. You can't guess why she's on the hunt. She's trying to find a lighter for her cigarette!
Eda's short, thin, with weathered skin. You can tell she's been a life-long smoker.
"If they take me in, I won't get a cigarette. I have to have one now if I want one. I admit it. I have an addiction."
They involved me, right? Hence, my advice? Call the police. Get it documented in case this turns out to be something bad in the next few days. We all know how aches and pains can show up later, right?
Wendy calls the police, gets an ambulance. Eda's complaining and getting fiesty. I go to the driver (which it wasn't a dump truck, it was a garbage truck, sheesh) to see what he can tell me. Wendy's too upset and on the phone. Eda's too mouthy over her smokes. And I just wanted to know how much I'm really needed here.
While I'm at the worker's truck window talking, I felt a nudge. It's Eda! Where the heck did she come from?
She asks the guy, "Do you have a lighter?" That brings up bells and whistles right along with the stench of her breath. THIS GAL IS DRUNK!!!!!
If she has any physical problems, which she says she doesn't, she wouldn't even know it!!!!
More bells and whistles -- SIRENS! Finally, a black nondescript short truck arrives (the boss), an ambulance, and a fire truck, too. Each officer, at different paces, with purpose, come up to the porch, each with his particulars - clipboards, walkie talkies, emergency aids slung over the shoulder, etc. - to make a semi-circle around her.
NOW she's sitting on the porch bench!
Like a queen addressing her court, she is!
Five guys in black uniforms meaning business and she, inebriated I finally realize, crosses her legs, leans a little sideways, looks at 'em all and jovially waves, "Hi, guys!"
Oh, my, lands! She knows 'em! She's used to this. This is just another day in the life of Eda. Well, it ain't mine.
Wendy, with broken ribs, says, "I can't sit down. If I do, I can't get up."
"Pam, I can't deal. I can't take this. She went to town and bought all this vodka, she's had two beers, and she's grouchy and being mean. I'm done! I can't do this."
I said, "You're alright. Calm down. You've raised a couple boys, you've been through a couple divorces, you'll be alright, you're a strong woman, you can do this."
Mentally I'm thinking, "Lady, it's your home, you're the head of your house now that you're newly divorced, it's up to you to run it better." Of course, I didn't say any of that.
The cop wanted to know what I knew, "Nothing. She just called me for help. I didn't see any of it happen." I shrugged my shoulders. I'd been standing behind her garden work table to be out of the way.
Turns out in Eda's alcoholic state she was going to try to help the garbage men pick up garbage that fell out of one of the bins, got in the way of the arm, got bumped, and fell to the ground. What a nut!
To Wendy, who'd been bemoaning her own anxiety, I suggested she do something nice for herself because Eda will be gone for a long time. Maybe take a long luxurious bath, read a book, have delivery, anything relaxing. "You know, she may even be gone over night."
"I know. And I'll be the one to have to go get her! I ain't doing this!" She droops her head and drags her feet pacing in the driveway.
As the uniformed officers are taking their leave, the ambulance with Eda inside, Wendy tells one of them, "She's on medicaid. She's got good insurrance. She has a bad toe that needs looked at," and the gentleman nods his head 'cause he'd already noted the toe, "check her out. Everything. Even .... " and she waves her hand in the general direction, "well, you know....even...everything"
She turns to go back to the porch.
Then she decides she can sit in the swing because its rocking motion will let her slip out of it easily. I walk her over there, wondering where to sit so as not to give her pain, and thinking I might give her some solace while the officials all take their leave. But, no, not necessary.
She gets on the phone and calls her ex!!!!
What turmoil, what inflamed anxiety, what angst -- those two!
I'll bet Eda greets the nurses and doctors at the hospital like they're old friends.
Remember? This little old dried up crazy lady greeted the County Police Force in a husky smokey voice,
"Hi, guys!"
Oh, boy.
