I noticed the pile the moment I stepped out onto the balcony. Closing the sliding screen door carefully behind me, I walked to the railing and lit my cigarette, inhaling deeply before slowly releasing the smoke into the clean air of that warm August afternoon. My position on the second floor of a house built on a slight rise gave me a sweeping view of the neighborhood.
A hundred yards away, piled on the sidewalk, were large chunks of asphalt which had been removed from the street. Fresh asphalt had been poured in its place. The old asphalt had been dumped there carelessly, covering the entire width of the sidewalk to a depth of three feet. The width of the pile must be at least three feel also, I thought to myself, thinking anyone passing by would be forced to step into the street to walk around the stack. What surprised me was the lack of warning signs or barriers, on either the street or the sidewalk, nor was the area roped off in any way. The stack was directly on the corner, which was filled with bushes and small trees right up to the edge of the cement. The corner was curved in such a way that the stack of asphalt wouldn't be visible to anyone until they were right on top of it. A dangerous situation, I thought idly, as I crushed my cigarette into the ashtray. I expected the street maintenance men would be returning shortly to clear away the mess.
Reluctantly I walked back inside the house and sat down in front of the computer. My friend was sorting through the mail which had just arrived. I started to tell him about the asphalt pile, but he interrupted me at once.
"There are five more here, Martee," he said in an exasperated voice. Wordlessly, I held out my hand for the invoices. Several days previously he had instructed me to prepare and mail out invoices. We were both shocked when they started trickling back in the mail almost at once. Through my computer error, the city and state had not been printed on the invoices, and I hadn't even noticed as I stamped them for mailing in the window envelopes. Jim had been angry.
"You know my cash flow is critical right now, Martee," he had said. "How could you have done such a stupid thing?"
"Listen," I reminded him, "I made it clear to you when you asked for my help that I was no longer Ms Efficient Secretary. You knew I had been forced into stress disability retirement, kicked out on my ass because I couldn't function effectively. I gave you every warning." And I had.
Overwhelmed by powerful medications I was taking to control bi-polar symptoms, my thinking had slowed. My handwriting had changed from large and flowing to small, squashed letters. Blurred vision made reading difficult, and tremors had developed in both hands and legs. A considerable weight gain, accompanied by a constant thirst, was also caused by the meds. Since all water had a metallic taste - another side affect - I drank a lot of milk and sodas.
Jim had graduated a few years ahead of me in our small Pennsylvania school. Thirty-five years later we had discovered we were both residents of the Bay Area and had renewed our friendship. He was a ladies man for sure, handsome, sophisticated, gifted with a great sense of humor, looking much younger than a man in his mid-fifties. He dated only younger women, and would bore me for long periods of time as he proudly told me of his latest conquest.
Knowing I was unemployed, he had been after me for several months to input his client data base into his new computer system, and finally I had agreed. The structured time of reporting to work for a few hours three afternoons a week was more incentive for me to help him than was the small stipend he paid me.
He watched me now as I reprinted the invoices, making sure the city, state and zip code were included this time, and prepared them for remailing. "I still can't understand it," Jim said. "You were always so bright. When you told me you were stuck-on-stupid, I didn't really believe it was true, I guess."
I sighed as I sat back in my chair and faced him across the small office we shared just off his living room. He was a particular man, circumspect about everything in his life. He had scolded me more than once for inappropriate behavior, such as my drawing attention from him by joining a conversation he was having with an important client who had stopped by. He was still realizing just how different I was under the influence of the medication. We discussed the appalling side affects which accompany these mind- and emotion-controlling meds, as I tried to make it clear to him that my mental illness was not my fault, that unfitting actions and words were beyond my control.
"Why don't you stop the damn medications then?" he asked.
I shuddered, knowing without the control of the meds, I would surely end up in a psychiatric hospital again. Shaking my head, knowing he still didn't understand, I turned back to the computer, ending the conversation. I thought of what the psychiatrist had told me during my last hospitalization. "Manic depression is nothing more than a physical illness, Martha, which manifests itself in mental and emotional symptoms." The condition was correctable with medication, as were other physical illnesses - if a person could tolerate the many side affects.
I was surprised later that afternoon when I noticed the pile of asphalt was still there, and still not roped off, but lost in my own problems, I thought no more about it. When a week passed, and the asphalt chunks were still there, still unmarked, without flashing lanterns of caution at night even, I decided to call the City of San Mateo business office and bring the situation to their attention. But even as I dialed the number, it occurred to me that someone would get into a lot of trouble over this. By not roping off that area and placing warning lights on it, they had left the city wide open for a law suit, should someone be injured. The person might even get fired. The pain and humiliation of my own termination was fresh in my mind. I replaced the phone and did not make the call.
It was the following week when the seed of a plan began worming its way through my mind. Inexplicably, the unmarked pile of asphalt remained. A person injured stumbling across it could collect thousands of dollars. Try as I might, I could not keep that fact from repeating itself, over and over, in my mind.
I thought of my children. My youngest son, although unaffected by manic depression, was struggling to complete his education at the University of New Mexico in Albuquerque, carrying a full 16- to 18-credit schedule while working nights and week-ends as a bartender. I could pay his tuition and book fees, as a proper parent should, if only I had the money.
My daughter was not employable. She had battled furiously her entire life to function and exist in a world in which she could not keep step. She would invariably be fired or walk off the job on the first day. She had multiple diagnosis, including schizophrenia, PTSD and the same personality disorders with which I had been diagnosed. (In my opinion, she also suffered with the damnable bi-polar illness which had passed through my DNA to three of my four children.) Tam had been in and out of mental health hospitals -- mostly in -- from the time she was twelve years old. Now, she was raising her daughter alone. She needed help - she needed my help.
My eldest son was voluntarily paying child support to the mother of his young son, never missing a payment, while trying to support his new wife and her children on what was left over. He refused to medicate for the bi-polar disorder, saying there was no way he could afford the high cost of the lithium carbonate and anti-depressant meds. He had been in a state of agitated depression for many, many years.
My other eldest son, his twin, was having difficulties as well, barely able to support his wife and three children while adjusting to, and paying for, the same medications I was taking. The manic-depressive disorder was causing strange behavior in him which needed extensive treatment if he was to save his marriage. I could help them all, ease their lives, make everyone happy, if only I had the money to do so.
Motivated by this, I became consumed with obsessive-compulsive thoughts, playing over and over in my mind like a broken record. By the end of the week, I made the firm decision. I would do it. I would have an "accident," injure myself, and sue the City of San Mateo. The thought of all the money I would surely be awarded excited me. I pictured the surprised pleasure and gratitude on the faces of my children when I magically appeared and solved their problems. I felt pride and happiness at the thought of being able to do good things for my children. I hoped the good I would do would make up for the bad years I had put them through.
They hadn't understood my wild mood swings, bad judgements, and the poorest possible choice of a mate following a divorce from their father after thirteen years of marriage. Hell, I hadn't understood it either.
I hoped also the happiness I would feel at being able to help them would overcome the feelings of guilt and shame which I was already feeling. Those feelings, I knew with an absolute certainty, would greatly intensify following this desperate act I was about to do.
Tunnel vision crept in as I made my plans. I could think of nothing else; see no other solution. The end justified the means. No longer did I care that the responsible person might get fired. This opportunity was serendipity, I decided, the answer to all my problems.
I made my plans for days, going over and over in my mind just what I would do. The walk from the bus stop to my friend's home did not take me past the pile. I would get off at the next stop, which would force me to walk past it. Doing "it" during day light hours when I was normally in the area wouldn't work, I decided, for reasons which were unclear even then. So I made up an excuse to stop by Jim's house one evening, when it would be dark, with no moon.
I worried that neighbors might have noticed me on the balcony during my smoke breaks, staring down at the jumbled asphalt. I didn't want to get caught in a lie. What I was about to attempt was fraud and I knew it. I didn't want to end up in jail, or worse - the county psych ward.
On the bus ride that ominous evening, I continually rationalized my actions, trying to justify them to myself. I went over again and again the good things I would do for my children, and myself, with the money. I was scared, nervous, trembling, as the bus approached the stop. Feeling weak, I had difficulty getting up from my seat, and stumbled on the stairs as I exited the bus.
It was dark, cool, as I began the one-block walk to the corner. My thoughts raced. How should I do it? I wanted to injure myself, yes, but not permanently. I wanted to break an ankle maybe, or even a leg, but not a knee. I didn't want to limp the rest of my life or have to use a cane. Should I lift my foot high as I approached the pile, and step onto it? Or should I just let my foot slide into it? I would barely be able to see the asphalt I thought, even though there was a tall street light just ten feet from it. The short walk seemed very long. I wanted to walk faster, but my heart was pounding, the strength had drained from my legs. I felt as though I might collapse any second into a sorry heap on the sidewalk.
Would the pain be bad? How long would I lay there, suffering, before a passing motorist would spot me and call for an ambulance? Maybe I would be unconscious, which would be good, I decided. San Mateo police officers would report to the scene, I knew. I had worked as secretary to the chief at a Bay Area police department for nine years. Lying to the police, therefore, would be difficult. They had a sixth sense and could usually spot a liar. That thought send a scurrying of related thoughts through my mind. Me? A liar? I had always prided myself, and was known for, my total honesty and candor. What was going on? What was I doing here? These sensible thoughts rushed through my mind too quickly for me to grab on to them.
I was nearly at the corner now. My heart was beating so fast it really scared me. It was thumping in my ears so loud I couldn't hear the engine of a passing car. I was so scared. The tremors increased to the point where I could barely continue walking. Indecision flooded me. Could I do this thing? Was I really going to deliberately hurt myself?
The point of no return was reached. Closing my eyes tight, pushing all thoughts out of my head, I stepped as firmly as possible and rounded the curved corner of the sidewalk. Stifling a scream, I forced myself to keep walking, not permitting even a slight hesitation. Nothing but smooth concrete under my feet. I opened my eyes. In the dim light from the street lamp, I could see the sidewalk was clear. The asphalt was gone.
I sank to the curb, swinging my pack down beside me. The trembling, rather than going away, increased. Today had not been a work day for me. Obviously a work crew had finally cleared away the mess. Mixed emotions rushed through me. Relief that I wouldn't be hurt, have to suffer pain, came first. That was followed immediately by recriminations. Why had I put it off for so long? Why hadn't I done it sooner? If was a lost opportunity - all because I had delayed too long. Now I wouldn't be able to do anything for my children, wouldn't be able to make up for the suffering I'd caused them. That regret soon overshadowed every other emotion. My children deserved far better than I had been able to give them.
Feelings of shame and worthlessness overwhelmed me. My head dropped down to my knees. Can't help them, can't help them, can't help them. That broken-record thought pounded at me, to be followed by an even more distressing thought. I did not deserve this precious gift of life.
Then, as always in times of great stress, my spastic colon kicked in. My need was immediate. Dragging my pack, I crawled into the bushes and quickly jerked down my jeans. When it was over, I tried to dig up loose soil with my fingers. A sense of great urgency grew in me as I raked in leaves, twigs, gum wrappers, whatever was under those bushes. I had to bury my shame. I felt like an animal and acted like one, by covering my leavings.
Back out to the curb then. I don't know how long I sat there. Only an occasional car passed. A loud, rude honk roused me. With great effort, I forced myself to stand. Movement was difficult. I felt I was having to force myself to breath even, as I began a slow walk back to the bus stop.
I fully comprehended what a desperate act I had planned. I was a desperate person, and desperate people commit desperate acts. What would be next? ~~~
Martha R. Thomas
1993
Belen, New Mexico
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