Into the Night

Posted: June 4th, 2012 | Author: kristen from motherload | Filed under: City Livin', Firsts, Friends and Strangers, Housewife Fashion Tips, Husbandry, Other Mothers, Scary Stuff, Sleep | 8 Comments »

Last Saturday night I was woken from a dead sleep by a woman’s voice calling out, “Help me! Help me!” It sounded like she was on the sidewalk in front of our house.

It wasn’t a frantic in-the-moment scream—more of a weak, plaintive call. More after-the-fact, if you know what I mean. And it was terrifying.

It seemed clear that it was up to me to do something. And on behalf of all women in need, I wanted to put a superhero cape and come to that woman’s rescue.

I sprang out of bed, yelped something at Mark, then grabbed the phone and dialed 4-1-1. From the other end I heard, “City and listing.”

This is why you don’t want me around in an emergency situation.

I came to my senses, hung up, and dialed 9-1-1.

Mark took a moment to rouse. He had four huge pork butts cooking in our back yard smoker—an overnight process. He’d likely gotten to sleep late because he was out tending to them in the back yard.

So I was alert and ready to react first, but I faltered. I was too petrified to walk outside and suss out the situation. It’s horribly selfish, but I was afraid of what I’d find when I got there. And, ashamed as I am to admit it, I was scared that whatever had gotten her might get me too.

Plus, two men broke into a house on my block a few weeks ago. The guy who lives there was home at the time, and chased the intruders away with a knife. (I know, time to move to Montana, right?) We actually live in a lovely, charming neighborhood—despite what you may have heard about Oakland—but with this other incident fresh in my mind I was worried that the calling-out voice was part of some no-good plot to get us to open our door.

And then, who knows what.

Mark was peering out the living room blinds as I sputtered our address into the phone to the police dispatcher. Then Mark walked past me onto our front porch and I frantically whispered, “Wait—you’re going out there?! Be careful, honey!”

The calm 911 lady was asking me good basic questions I could answer, and assured me “a unit” was on the way. Then from the porch Mark said in a somewhat surprised tone, “It’s an old woman. She looks disoriented, but I don’t think she’s hurt.”

And since I had on a nightshirt and long underwear bottoms (sexy beast that I am), I ventured out to the sidewalk, still clutching the phone to my ear, while Mark ran in to pull jeans on over his boxer shorts.

The woman was in our neighbor’s driveway. A plump white-haired lady in her eighties wearing a pale blue nightgown and with a scared, lost look in her eyes. I recognized her as someone who lives one block over with her husband and caregiver. I don’t know her, but I’d heard she has Alzheimer’s.

“I’m here. I’m going to help you,” I cooed as I walked up to her. She was leaning against our neighbor’s steel blue Toyota Camry, with her hands on the back fender to steady herself. Their driveway slopes down to their garage, and she was sort of inching along, heading downhill, and wedging herself further between the car and a retaining wall.

“Don’t walk down there,” I said gently. “Just stay where you are. Help is coming.”

My new best friend at 911—who I was still on the phone with—asked me to get her name, then told me the elderly woman’s husband had just called the police to report her missing. This was reassuring, hearing that the police were connecting the dots.

Apparently she just wandered out of her house in the middle of the night. I’ve heard people with dementia sometimes do that.

Next thing I know a squad car came slowly down the street, scanning a flashlight up and down the sidewalk. Mark ran up and waved them over as the woman clutched my arm and stepped out from the driveway, back on level ground.

Maybe I’ve been reading too many fairytales, but I have to say that suddenly being surrounded by four tall, strapping police officers in perfectly-pressed navy blue uniforms drained the last drops of adrenaline from my system. And made me suddenly feel a bit self-conscious about my own get-up.

I told the nice 911 lady that help had arrived. Then she thanked me, and asked my name before we hung up. (Maybe she wants to get together for lunch some time?)

In my best attempt to exude a lighthearted everything’s-going-to-be-alright vibe, I said, “Dorothy, these handsome men are going to walk you home now, okay?”

I looked down and noticed that she was barefoot. Her toes where curled over each other in way that I guess toes get when they’ve been around for so long. I was shivering in my PJs and fleece slippers. Who knows how long she’d been outside, barefoot and confused in a thin cotton nightgown.

Back in our house, our hand-off of Dorothy complete, I hopped into bed as Mark stripped off his sweatshirt and jeans and flung them on a chair by his bedside table.

“Let’s not get really old like that and have Alzheimer’s,” I said.

He mumbled some form of agreement as he peeled back the covers, and we nestled into our familiar mattress grooves.

After a few minutes I said, “You know, that pork you’re smoking is going to be really good I think. I mean, the smoky meat smell appears to be drawing old women out of their beds and into the night.”

Mark groaned and rolled over.

“I’m just saying,” I added. “Imagine by morning… A whole group of neighbors could be gathered by the back yard fence trying to get in—like zombies or something.”

“Good night, honey,” he sighed, like a teacher whose patience was wearing thin.

And I knew it was time for me to stop talking and try to fall back asleep.

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