Cloquet, Minnesota
Congratulations, Jill!
Jill’s Bio:
Jill Pertler is a writer and photographer whose syndicated humor column, “Slices of Life,” brings smiles to Midwestern households each week. She’s written hundreds of articles for local, regional, and national publications, and, like many writers, is working on a book. Writing feeds her soul, and sometimes her checkbook. On good days, it does both. She lives in northern Minnesota with her husband, four kids and assorted pets. This is her first attempt at fiction, flash or otherwise. What a great discovery!
Feel free to visit her website: http://marketing-by-design.home.mchsi.com/, read her syndicated columns at www.pinejournal.com or email her to comment on this story: pertmn[at]qwest[dot]net.
Holding On
I sit by the bed as the respirator keeps time like a metronome. Her hand feels soft and warm. Her eyes are closed. Her chest rises and falls with mechanical resonance.
I’ve known Judy for over a decade, called in as a behavior analyst to deal with her self-injurious behaviors, or SIB, as we professionals like to say. Simply put, Judy eats things that shouldn’t be eaten. The term for that is pica, but it doesn’t really matter anymore.
It started with balloons. As a child, she loved balloons. Whenever she saw them, she grabbed them and refused to let go. She didn’t realize she was stealing; she was embracing her passion.
Not everyone saw it that way. Caregivers viewed her as a disobedient, naughty, balloon-stealing retarded child, so they took them from her. Judy was feisty and resourceful. She figured out a way to keep those balloons—by putting them in her mouth, clamping down and swallowing.
So began a lifetime of struggle—between Judy and the people hired to care for her. Over the years, keeping things away from caregivers became a new passion, and Judy learned to swallow any number of items in a fast and proficient manner.
She was one for the record books. We studied behaviors, formulated opinions and prescribed programming. We called in specialists and psychologists for meetings and observations. We had the answers, and when they didn’t work, we formulated new ones.
Among it all, I got to know Judy. She didn’t talk much, but her occasional smile communicated volumes. She was observant, smart and distrustful of everyone. I began to understand why; in her eyes the world had failed her. I developed true respect for this strong, misunderstood woman. I think she sensed that, and eventually we came to an understanding: I truly liked her; she allowed me to do so.
She lies quietly now, still and peaceful. Someone brought in a large bouquet of balloons and they are tethered to the side table. They sway in time with the beats of the respirator that is her own tether to life.
Four days ago, something she ingested perforated Judy’s colon, releasing toxins into her body. She battled against an infection that was seething inside her. Antibiotics worked, but they weren’t enough. The machine keeping her alive will prove her final downfall. Her lungs have become dependent on the respirator. Once it is turned off, she will die.
I was called in ten years ago as a professional to help fix her. Perhaps I should feel like a failure. Instead, I sit, holding the hand of a friend, looking for the words to say goodbye, wondering if anyone ever really needs fixing.
The balloons shift overhead; I imagine Judy reaching for them, her body floating up until she holds them all and they lift her high above the room. I wave goodbye and see that she is looking upward—away from diagnoses, labels and professionals with all the answers. Finally, she is free.
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