By Ingrid Silvian
I knew that a 911 call was imminent now, but she guarded
the phone to prevent me from getting near it. We both felt
trapped, only in very different ways. We just sat there,
until finally, her phone rang. She let it ring while
I kept urging her to pick it up. When she finally
did, I knew this was my only chance for a dash out the door.
But when I got up, she dropped the phone and ran after me,
catching up with me just as I locked myself in behind the
wheel of my car, and Linda yelling and screaming like an
abandoned child. This couldn’t be my daughter, I
thought, when I had to leave her there as I drove off to the
corner store where I called 911.
She needed help right now, and fast. The 911
operator at the other end understood and said, “We’ll have a
dispatcher there in a few minutes; are you all right?” “Yes,
please hurry.” My heart pounded. I left and
slowly drove back to Linda’s apartment house, away far
enough so she couldn’t see me.
I waited about five minutes when a saw a cruiser entering
the parking lot. I knew my presence now would only
make things worse, and they were much better equipped to
handle her than I was. I waited a few minutes, and
soon all three of them, Linda in the middle with two
officers on each side of her, came out and entered the
cruiser.
Those were the days of a caregiver’s worst nightmares,
but for now, Linda was out of harm’s way once more.
And tomorrow would be another day. Linda still has ups and
downs, but she has become more accepting of her illness;
maturing and realizing that she must take her medications to
stay out of hospitals and live a stable life. For me,
hope was all I had along the rocky way from which both
of us learned that recovery is possible.
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