Our 'Broken Bird" has flown, if that expression isn't too off the mark for a person missing a leg. It wasn't of her own volition - or should I say it wasn't because she thought there would be actual consequences for her actions Monday night.
I didn't realize it until Tuesday morning taking the dog walking out front, when I passed a pile of collected things at the corner of the yard. It wasn't recycle day, though it is recycle bin location on those days. Dim as it was so early, I had enough visibility to make out a folded walker in the stack. Shea's of course.
Once the dog was done, I went in the back of the house to wake up Rich. He confirmed she'd gone, while fighting waking up so strongly that I decided to let the details wait till later. I knew he'd been up late in pain from an abscessed tooth. I didn't know why else he was so tired.
Since the last post about her, there have been some changes. Broken Bird has had problems getting the right kind of insulin prescription. It seems, if I have this right, she needs a combination of fast acting and slow release versions. Her doc sent the wrong scrip in, and as a result she spent a day sick to her stomach in the back of the house. Rich explained that her blood sugar levels were too high, and spent most of a day keeping her hydrated and cleaning up after her.
The dog got walked elsewhere all that day, apparently as revolted as we would have been by the smell she would have to have passed through on her way to the back yard. While concerned about Shea, we found the dog's reaction somewhat amusing. I guess I won't expect canine company if I ever get the stomach flu.
When Shea was well, many of her days were spent with a woman friend, sometimes here, sometimes out and about since her friend has a car. Shea's pharmacy transportation and other trips became the friend's responsibility, presumably voluntarily. Her mother also picked her up for a few hours, but returned her. There is apparently some conflict there.
When I woke the morning after Shea was sick, it was in a bit of a panic. I hadn't seen her go through the house to the bathroom the previous day, hadn't heard her at night, as I have done on most others. Were either of the two making sure her blood sugar levels were OK during that time? Might I find I needed to call an ambulance for her after whatever I saw of her when I took the dog through that now clean(er) space? However, she was sitting up and busy on her phone, either texting or surfing. I didn't ask, just let her know I was glad she felt better.
That was Sunday. Tuesday she was gone, her possessions at the sidewalk. I immediately woke up Rich. I hadn't gone out that way with the dog because Rich spent Monday working on the rollers on the patio door and the way was blocked.
Around 10:00 he rose, and came into the living room and talked to both of us. He had kicked her out the previous evening. She had informed him she was going to quit taking the medication which is the equivalent of methadone but for those addicted to fentanyl, keeping the body from withdrawal but denying the high.
And here I thought just having diabetes was scary enough!
As soon as she finished passing on that information to Rich, she proceeded to start smoking something she called "blues". (More ignorance here: I never knew there was a smokeable form of fentanyl.) Rich immediately kicked her out of the house, then packed up her belongings, meager as they were, and hauled them to the curb. He informed her that this particular location is a traditional location to anybody passing that whatever sits there is available to anybody wishing to claim it, and if she wanted any she needed to pick it up before they did. As he was explaining this to us, he glanced out the window and noted that most of the pile had disappeared. We have no idea with whom, Shea or somebody passing. Her wheelchair is gone with her. The folding walker and a tote of clothing remained, and I went out and pulled both into the carport. They will be donated locally, per Rich's directions of where, presumably in the next day or two, or perhaps Steve will find he needs the folding walker and it will stay. His balance is getting worse these days.
Rich's Broken Bird has chosen to remain even more broken than we knew. We are left wondering how much of what we "knew" was true: the flu? The reasons for getting kicked out of other places? Was it abuse aimed towards her? Or defense against her version of self abuse? Or are they even mutually exclusive? Did the friend become supplier? I do know we all tried to be kind. She seemed appreciative. But we couldn't fix her even temporarily, just kept her safe from the elements and prevented her diabetes from winning this round. We are a little sad, yet a little not, disappointed but not angry. I guess we've seen too much by now to be angry.
Rich is doing his best to deal with his tooth. Our lives go on.
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