Betty's Descent

Betty told me her only child... her beloved son.... 17 years old, was a passenger in a car that was going 120 mph when it hit three trees.
Evidently, the vehicle missed a curve, went airborn and bounced from tree to tree until the third tree stopped it.
Betty's son got 135 staples in his head and a massive brain injury.
He broke his neck, his right collar bone, three of his right ribs, broke two bones in his leg and a bunch of small bones in his ankle. His spinal column was in bad shape too. It took the Jaws of Life to release him. He would be confined to wheelchair for life.

There was no auto insurance for the car he was in, she said.
Betty's own auto insurance had lapsed months earlier.

The kid driving the car died. His parents lived in a mobile home, paycheck to paycheck.
There was no money to go after, Betty said.
Her son was now in a "special home."

Betty told me this was just of a string of "unfortunate episodes" in her life.

Right after her son's accident, her father died.

Two months after that, her mother had a stroke.

Between the the family chaos and the stress resulting from it,
"I snapped," Betty said.

She started taking more and more of the Xanax the doctor prescribed to help her sleep and to stave off her panic attacks.
Then she moved to Ritalin to "keep me moving because its balances out the Xanax."
And when she fell off her chair and hit her back while drunk, the doctor prescribed painkillers.
She topped off her chemical cocktail with a vodka chaser... or two... or three.
Starting with breakfast, ending with a shot before bed.

Then one day, she decided to go somewhere, she could not recall.
She got into her SUV, which she also could not recall.
Nor did she recall turning her SUV into a missile that took out a parked car and a city street light.
Fortunately, the only person she took out was herself.
Arrested at the scene, a DWI, hospitalizations, surgeries, and jail time brought her back to her senses, she said.

Until... Betty's husband left her and moved on to a younger woman.

Then she lost her job, her health insurance and her home.

She told me all this for no reason, except to tell someone -- because we both know no one can change the past.
We either linger on the past or dwell in it...
attempt to bury it or "forgetaboutit"... and move on.

When I met with Betty she lived with her sister, slept on the living room sofa.
"I'm essentially homeless" Betty said without emotion. "I can tell my welcome is wearing thin."

Betty's grip on life grew even thinner since our first and last meeting.

One Saturday evening, the night before she was scheduled to leave her sister's and move into a shelter, she was alone in the house.

Betty decided she couldn't take the physical, emotional and financial pain any longer.
She took over 50 10mg. Xanax she'd collected, drank a whole bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold.
And just before she felt like she was going to pass out, she put a plastic bag on her head and sealed it with duct tape. (That's a use the duct tape originators never imagined, I am certain.)

Whoever "they" is... "they" say.... when we reach our ultimate limits, the break point where we can take no more, we either commit homicide or suicide.
I talked about that with another P.I. over lunch today.
We both agreed if we snapped we'd take ourselves out before we'd take anyone else out.

I got the whole story over the phone, about how Betty did herself in.
It consumed me for a while, her death.
Did I suspect she was suicidal when I met her?
No.
Could I or anyone have stopped her?
Doubtful.

Yet there is a lesson in this madness. And that would be this:

There is always, up until the very end, a choice.
And even when you think you've exhausted those choices, there are still other choices.
Had Betty told someone what she was thinking, things may have turned out differently.
Or not.

Bottom line is you never know how the story is going to end... unless you end it yourself.
Then, and only then, is all hope lost.