Pearl

Time for another story.  Pearl.  She wound-up being a classic Katy Intake.

Working the shelter was a lot like working in an emergency room.  Long periods of boredom punctuated by heart-thumping intensity.  You never knew what to expect when the phone rang. 

In the early days the phone set-up was pretty crude.  When I started out at Chrysalis we only had 2 phone lines, one for each major populated region of the county.  That necessitated having two phones, the "old-fashioned" sort with a dial pad and a receiver connected by a curly cord.  Do they even make them anymore?  At least they didn't have a rotary dial!  They may have been advanced enough to have a "hold" button.  I really don't remember.

What I do remember, as I said, is that we only had 2 phones lines.  There was no dedicated office line or personal resident line.  That meant that a phone call could be anything - an administrative matter, a personal call for a staff member or resident, or you would answer the phone and be ushered straight into some one's worst nightmare.  Some women would call and ask for help with the abuser fuming in the background.  We had a policy.  If the threat was immediate the caller was advised to call the police and/or get to a safe place BEFORE talking to us.  We never tried to "talk down" the abuser or defuse tense situations.  I never did it, but if the situation seemed really bad the staff would try to keep the imperiled person on one phone while calling the police on the other.

Most often, though, the women would call when it was safe - immediately after an incident or when the tension was just starting to build and they were alone.  They would call looking for support, legal advice, or a shoulder to cry on.  Many never came to the shelter.

What I remember about Pearl was that she was so sad.  Her voice was timid, she was often tearful, and she just sounded like a lost soul.  She was so broken-down she couldn't see any way out of her situation.

A quick word about abusers.  (NOTE: in my world the abuser will be "he" and the victim "she."  Same-sex relationships really weren't on the radar yet, I don't remember encountering any at the shelter, and while I know there are women who abuse men I still believe it's not as common and has a somewhat different dynamic.  So there.)  Abusers, like most things in life, occur on a spectrum: what I liked to call "ignorant drunk" through "crazy son-of-a-bitch."  The ignorant drunk is usually none-too-bright and only acts up when drinking (hence the name) or presented with some other external pressure such as money problems.  They may actually feel remorse for their actions but just don't know how to cope.  The crazy sons-of-bitches are the scary ones.  They seem to enjoy inflicting pain and get off on dominating their partner.  They are dangerous.

Pearl's husband tended towards the latter.  He was quite violent and had her pinned psychologically.

Pearl would call to talk but resisted coming to the shelter.  She did agree to meet with a staff person once.  Pearl's husband had attacked her with a pair of scissors and she had fended him off, suffering cuts on her arms in the process.  Cindy, the staff person who met her, suggested that she come to the shelter, but insisted that she get medical attention for her arms first because the wounds were not particularly fresh and they were, well, disgusting.  Pearl refused.

It was a beautiful, sunny September day when she called me.  If I remember correctly it was my future husband's birthday, so I was probably all a-twitter about making celebration plans and hoping to skate through a reasonably easy work shift.  Then Pearl called.  Her husband had just beaten her and then had left the house.  She wanted to leave.  She agreed to come to the shelter. 

Keeping a secret location was part of our security, so we always picked women up at the local police station or any public location they could get to.  There was a shopping center near where Pearl lived.  I agreed to meet her there.

OK.  She was not what I expected when I pulled up.  Imagine, if you will, a size 16 person wedged into size 12 stretchy, leopard-skin print pants topped with a striped shirt.  There may have even been a ratty fur coat involved in the picture, also.  She clutched a few possessions in a plastic grocery bag.  She was distraught.

As stated before, she had been beaten up that morning.  There were no marks on her face but I remember her telling me that her husband had kicked her in the ribs.  As we were riding in the car she started complaining that her chest hurt, and she was having trouble breathing.  I tried to remain calm but in my head I started speculating whether maybe she had broken ribs and a punctured lung.  Then her eyelids fluttered and she passed-out.  I called her name repeatedly and she didn't respond.

Now I really was fighting panic.  I was driving, so I couldn't just reach over and check for vital signs.  My imagination started getting away from me.  Now it wasn't just a punctured lung, but horrible internal injuries.  Was she even still alive?  "OH MY GOD, A WOMAN  MAY HAVE JUST DIED IN MY CAR AND IT'S MY BOYFRIEND'S BIRTHDAY, NO LESS!"

I decided it would be faster to just drive to the hospital rather than pull-over and look for help.  Cell phones did not exist yet.

I think I pulled up to the ambulance entrance and raced into the hospital babbling about an unconscious woman in my car.  She was trundled into a wheelchair and we were directed to the registration room with all of the other sad cases.  Still on overdrive, I breathlessly explained that I was from the shelter and this woman had been assaulted and she was having trouble breathing and...

The attending nurse calmly checked Pearl's vital signs, started wheeling her away, then turned to me scornfully and snapped "she's DRUNK!"

Oh.

I think Pearl had some bruised ribs, but her injuries weren't too severe.  She may have come to the shelter but I'm pretty sure she didn't last there.

The Katy Intake strikes again.