Kay

Her face is shattered, as is her spirit. She is the victim of many years of domestic abuse. She comes to me for help, since she knows that I have gone through the same. But it is her soul that I worry about. She talks of giving up, of doing the unthinkable. She feels that she is so worthless that even her sons want nothing to do with her.

I've known her for about six years, and have seen the damages that, all too often, have been done to her. A black eye here and there, two broken arms. The police don't like to 'meddle' in domestic cases, and the shelters are full. She has few friends, and they don't like to get involved. A phone call to a friend helps. I tell her that I am calling in favors. The friend finds that a space has just opened at one of the shelters, and I send Kay to her.

She comes in again about six months later. She is much better, she tells me. The time she has spent at the shelter has given her a new lease on life. She has found an apartment, gotten a job, and is learning how to do for herself.

The next time I see her is about four months later. She again has a blackened eye, and her wrist is in a cast. When I ask what happened, she tells me that she returned to her husband. She spent the previous night in the emergency room, having her wrist x-rayed, and resting from his onslaught. When I call the shelter, they tell me that she left of her own accord. A month later I learn that she is dead -- at her husband's hands.

She was not young, nor was she old. Forty-five at most. She had been a vibrant woman when I first met her, and I had seen that woman become broken and despondent. Sadly, I knew exactly what she went through, and her thoughts could have been mine -- at another time. Gratefully, I knew when to get out, and I learned how to deal with what life threw in my path. Perhaps she could have learned; I will never know.