Jenny's Angry Husband

I forgot what I was going to say.
This happens quite a lot these days. I’m a little worried that I’m going to suffer from some early onset of Alzheimer’s and while this is romantic and funny and nostalgic in the movies, I cared for a woman who was reduced to a fetal position, mewing and humming while pooping and peeing in a diaper.

It was not romantic or funny or nostalgic. She used to drive a school bus — her sister told me that our victim remarked in her mid-40’s that she was worried. It was about four years later that she gave up her job, then gave up her mind and her life.She celebrated her 50th birthday as an infant — although there were times I swore I could see some light in her face. It was then she’d start her little “humming”.

I began caring for Jenny (yes, that IS her real name, all you Jennifers and Jen’s that read) because the woman who was caring for her began doing meth; she asked me one fine afternoon while I was sitting at the Four Corners Bar & Grill in bumfeck nowhere — waiting for the school bus to drop off my boys — if I’d take care of this poor Alzheimer victim for a day while she recuperated from a binge.

Long story. They always are.

I agreed. Another long story. I met the husband of Jenny, who was a hard working and devoted man. He begrudgingly allowed me to care for his wife while the idiot drug addict (who didn’t know that I knew she was a drug addict) gave him some made up story about a family member in trouble.

I haven’t done much in my life that I am proud of. I am proud of telling this man — after a day turned into weeks of caring for his wife when the idiot drug addict who was also a registered nurse kept blowing them off — that he must find a new nurse for his wife. I was not qualified to care for Jenny who had developed deep, open and oozing sores in my occasional absence from the household. She was not being cared for by the drug addicted nurse — it was obvious.

The drug addicted nurse was not giving Jenny her pain meds — I was sure of this. I was sure that this drug addled nursefuck was making Jenny worse.It’s all a bit of a blur now. So much of my life is.

But I began asking around — made some inquiries. I recall that there was some politicking involved and neighborhood hoopla. Nursefuck was a well known and well liked individual in our tiny hamlet in the mountains above Los Angeles.
But you can’t con a con, and I knew that she was evil.

I stood my ground, and insisted that Jenny’s husband find a new nurse. Shortly after all the trouble began with the hunt for a better care giver — the husband asked me where I’d found my sunglasses. It was an odd thing, because Mojo worked for the state. They were government issued safety lenses which doubled as sunglasses. I said that my husband had them at work. Jenny’s husband grunted some odd thing and left. Later he told me that he had lost his, and thought I’d taken them. When he located the missing glasses in his truck later, he began thinking about the things I’d been trying to tell him.

His cable bill had been charged for the odd movie. Food was disappearing in his home. His vacuum cleaner had disappeared and then reappeared, and all along he thought it was me. I was shocked.

I may be quite a few things, but I wasn’t a thief. I drilled him about the cable bill and because he didn’t keep good records of who was in and when, I made him realize that I hadn’t rented the movies. I certainly didn’t take his vacuum cleaner and I brought my own lunch when I came to care for Jenny. That he had suspected me angered me, and I told Mojo, who rallied to my side (as usual) and pretty much told Alzheimer Husband to go fuck himself. Nicely.

It was that afternoon a miracle appeared on Jenny’s front porch in the form of a beautiful woman from Jamaica. A friend of a friend told her that a certified care giver was needed on “the mountain”. She was big and strong and could literally lift Jenny in her arms. When she appeared (and it seemed she just showed up from heaven, we didn’t even hear her drive up the long dusty road to the house) she acted like she knew me — but I’d never seen her before that moment. It was Mojo that she’d connected with earlier at the Four Points, and he’s a sucker for a Jamaican Accent. She needed directions, and they’d formed a quick friendship because of their connections with me. She had originally been looking for me, see?

It was me that was the Friend of the Friend.

I don’t remember her name, but I know that she stayed with Jenny until Jenny passed away a few years later. The husband had purchased a little trailer home and put it into his front yard so she wouldn’t have to drive back and forth into LA on the weekdays. He had hired her on the spot. I think most because when she realized that the three of us (Mojo, myself and Jenny’s angry husband) were in a bit of a personal snit — she simply waltzed through the kitchen and into the living area where Jenny was tucked into her hospital bed and began talking to Jenny. This woman’s voice was deep and lyrical, Jenny answered with her own rare song. Her little warbling and humming combined with the rich harmonics of the Jamaican woman was enough to bring our argument to a halt. Sometimes I forget that I made a difference in someones life. Sometimes I forget about Jenny and her suspicious husband. When I do remember, it’s usually because the universe is begging me to pay attention to my heart. Trying to pry me out of self loathing.

Your homework assignment this week if you’re so inclined is to remember how you’ve changed someones life for the better. And congratulate yourself for it. Pat yourself on the back. Then tell us — gimme a link. I want to read it. And tell you “thank you” too.


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