K.K.'s Christmas Lessons

It was a warm time, full of promise. I'd just left behind the nightmare of three years of struggle... broken relationships, poor health, and gradually diminishing hope in my future.

James and I had known each other years earlier. We had dated for a while, but neither of us was ready for a serious relationship, and it showed. In the end, he turned his back on me at a time when I needed him most, and I, in turn, wished him all the misery I thought he deserved.

It was only half-hearted, though. And I stayed in touch, even knowing that we were over. I just felt so frustrated by the promise I'd seen in our short-lived relationship, and his not being able to recognize the potential. I wanted to hate him for it, but I couldn't. I remembered that I had never known that kind of chemistry with anyone... and I knew in my heart that for all of his faults, James was a man I could have loved for a lifetime.

We had met for lunch, in January. After we ate and talked for what must have seemed like hours, we walked outside together. Standing next to my car door, James leaned in to kiss me goodbye, and I guess the memory of that chemistry overtook us. The kiss lasted somewhere in the neighborhood of 2.5 hours.

Over the next three months, we saw as much as we could, of each other. We shared what had been going on behind the scenes when we'd known each other previously, and all that had happened in the interim. We shared our hopes and our dreams and James told me he'd never known anyone who had been so open and trusting. He loved it, he said, and it made him want to give it back to me.

My living arrangements were temporary, and because James was living in Florida and I in Virginia, and if I moved out of my house and signed a lease elsewhere, it would continue the difficulties in our relationship for at least a year, when it seemed silly not to simply take a leap of faith.

So we did. In April, we rented a truck and packed all my things inside, and I moved with James to Florida. It seemed hasty to some of our friends and family, but to us, it seemed like the most natural thing to do.

It was a nice neighborhood, but nothing to write home about. Still, it was everything I had wanted, being near to James and in a new place, where I could make a fresh start. I loved the spring weather, which was warm enough that a dip in the community pool was a welcome break.

James didn't know most of the neighbors, but he knew the woman who lived behind us, who came to fetch him when she needed a tree limb cut or when she couldn't figure out how to hook up her cable box after she moved it. She was a single mother with a pre-teen boy.

Next door to us was K.K. James told me that she was also a single mother, though her son had not been around in some time. "K.K. is... messed up." He had told me, and then he went on to tell me that she had once been very vibrant and friendly, and had seemed "normal."

I asked him what he meant about her being messed up, and he told me that she always acted stoned, and sometimes she didn't even know who he was, even though he had lived beside her for two years and been friendly with her the whole time. He said she seemed frustrated with not knowing him.

I opted to try to stay clear, as we were only planning to be there a month or two, and if she was easily confused, I may further confuse her with my presence there. James introduced us one night while I grilled our dinner. The next day, he introduced us again, after she commented that I was a "new face" and not more than a week later, she again asked him who I was.

It seemed pointless, then, to try to get to know her. So I kept my distance.

A month or so later, her son came home, and James talked to him, to learn that he'd been away in jail. I don't recall the crime he'd been convicted of, but he'd been away for a year. He was on parole. Trent was in his early twenties.

Not long after we decided we would not be moving right away, a young man who lived at the end of the block began hanging out with Trent all the time. It didn't seem that either of them was working. They walked back and forth between their two houses, numerous times daily. James was friendly with Trent, and asked about K.K. each time he saw them. He was always told that K.K. was fine, that she wasn't taking the heat well but just sat inside more often than not. We stopped seeing her on the back porch.

Over the summer, we began to wonder what was really going on next door. We began seeing K.K. walking over to Trent's friend's home.

Raymond lived with his mother and sister. The two of them often visited K.K.'s house, and after K.K. walked to their house, sometimes in her bathrobe, they often brought her back.

Around the first of August, the big front window of their house was broken out. The drapes hung outdoors. I wondered how K.K. was handling the Florida heat with no air conditioning, but I didn't pursue an answer. James asked Trent about it, and Trent said she was fine.

Then the police began a nightly cruise through the neighborhood, and at least two or three nights weekly, were at K.K.'s house, looking for Trent. He was never there, having taken to slipping out the back way and through the neighbors' yards. The policemen would talk to K.K. and then they would leave.

In September, we had become very concerned by the fact that K.K. seemed impaired. She was walking slowly, and leaning to one side. Her steps were tiny; it must have taken her a half hour to walk to the end of the block.

I began researching, and called DCF to report what was going on next door. K.K. was obviously in need of medical help, and we were nervous about confronting Trent, since James traveled a lot and I was left home alone about 50% of the time.

A case worker came by and questioned me, after which she visited K.K. A call later from her office told me that they would not be taking immediate action, but to please call if I had any further concerns.

In late October, Trent was arrested at his home. Thereafter, Raymond, his mother and sister were constant visitors at K.K.'s house.

James and I were house-hunting, and looking forward to leaving the neighborhood behind, as it seemed to be swarming with policemen too regularly. Not to mention, the fact that K.K.'s house had gone downhill rapidly. The front window was still broken, and the outer front door hanging on its hinges. The plants that K.K. had once taken great pride in, were dying off.

It was early December. James and I were talking about Christmas plans on a Friday morning. He had a meeting to go to, and stood in the kitchen talking to me for a few moments. Then he went through the door, into the garage, and I heard the garage door open. I heard him backing out. I was busy; I didn't listen to make sure he shut it.

A few minutes passed, before he came back in, breathless and looking exasperated. It seems he had found K.K. lying in the driveway. She was not hurt, but could not get up. She was wearing nothing but a bathrobe and what appeared to be a filthy diaper.

James had carried K.K. back to her house, and had told her that he would get some help for her. She was rambling, incoherently.

I tried calling for help, but had no idea who to call. I tried calling the non-emergent police number first, but no one answered. That's right. I let it ring for five straight minutes, then called back and tried again, with the same results.

I called 911 and was told that it was not an emergency. Well, who do I call, then? I asked, and was given the number I had already been calling.

I had no idea what to do, but James went back outside and found K.K. in the street again. Lying down next to her mailbox, with a skinned knee and thigh.

I don't remember who I finally got through to, but within about twenty minutes, the fire department showed up, and after another half hour, they put K.K. on a stretcher and carried her away. Two police officers showed up and questioned James and myself about what we had seen.

We told them everything we knew, and once they had left, we breathed a collective sigh of relief. It was good, we thought, not to have to worry about what was happening over there any more. At least for a while.

It would be a very short while, as it turned out. Just before dark, there was a knock at our door. A cab driver was standing there. "Can you help me get your neighbor into her house?" He asked.

"My neighbor??" I asked.

"The lady who lives next door to you." He told me.

"She's in the hospital!" I protested.

He shook his head. "No Ma'am. I picked her up at the hospital. They told me to take her home."

I looked past him, past our driveway into hers, and saw K.K. sitting in the passenger seat of a taxi van. My jaw must have hit the floor. "No, I cannot help. Take her back."

Back and forth we went. He couldn't take her back; he was just doing his job, and if I wasn't able to help, he would have to just leave her on the driveway. I told him to wait a moment.

James was in his office. I walked in; I must have looked like I was in some sort of trance.

"What's wrong, Honey?" He asked.

"There's a cab driver at the door. He wants help getting K.K. out of the cab and into the house."

He jumped to his feet and raged into the other room, confronting the driver.

Meanwhile, I was on the phone with the case worker who had left her card with me two months prior. Actually, I only reached her voice mail, but it gave me a chance to vent.

James, seeing that I was handling things, helped the cab driver get K.K. out of his van, this time in a cleaner diaper, and he set her in front of the house, on a patio chair. He then climbed through the window and opened the door from the inside.

I followed him outside, still on my phone. I called every number I could find. Every social services number, sheriff's office number... wherever I thought someone would listen.

Two hours later, a police car finally showed up, followed by two fire trucks and five more squad cars. James and I answered questions, described all that had happened, and announced that we would not let the issue drop until she had been taken away and hospitalized. One of the police officers had also arrested Trent, weeks earlier. He had never mentioned that his mother was home alone and that she was an invalid.

My tears may have made an impact, or perhaps it was simply James' tenacity. Whatever it was, a short time later, we had people listening. The ambulance came again, and they strapped her on the gurney and carried her away.

I went inside, and checked her Caller ID. I got every number off of it that I could. Then I began calling them, looking for family members, friends... anyone. I left messages, while taking stock of her home. It appeared that K.K. had spent weeks in her recliner, probably not even getting out to go to the bathroom. The house reeked so badly of feces and urine that I was surprised we had not smelled it from outdoors. There was a tub of Country Crock, a small squeeze bottle of yellow mustard, and a brown head of iceberg lettuce, in the refrigerator. That was all. On the bar were three empty pill vials.

I wondered how long it had been since K.K. had a meal. How long since she had someone who cared about her..? I felt overwhelming guilt for having not known what the situation was. I had all the right reasons for not pursuing it... my own personal safety was one of them... but there was nothing which made me feel better. I stood in her kitchen and wept for her.

Late that night, I got a return call from someone in Michigan, and K.K.'s friend and I shared information. It turned out that K.K. had multiple medical issues. There was only a four month age difference between her and I. I may have had MS, but K.K.'s condition was a more serious... and terminal one. Actually, she had two separate and unrelated diseases, both of which were terminal.

The friend took care of notifying K.K.'s next of kin, a grandmother in her nineties. We were in touch for weeks, on a daily basis. We looked after the house as best we could, and tried to catch K.K.'s elderly cat, which seemed baffled by the goings-on. He would never let me near enough to do more than a light touch, but he wanted affection; I could see that. He just didn't know where his people went.

K.K.'s grandmother had sent a perishable Christmas gift to her, and she called me to ask me to take it "for your kindness." I felt more guilty than ever. I knew that it was because of me (and James) that K.K. was finally being cared for, but there was that time in between my arrival and her decline, which ate at me. James and I did enjoy the fruit, but not without thinking of the smell of that house. I wondered, how desperate K.K. had been, to pull herself out of that stinking, rotting recliner and get outside.

Over the next couple of months, the state took ownership of the house, in return for taking responsibility for K.K.'s medical care. We were told that she would never be released from the long-term care facility that she found herself in.

Her friend called me to tell me that K.K. was doing well in the facility; that because she was so mentally impaired, she did not even realize she was there. She thought she was a little girl, and away at school. She did not call any more, after that, and neither did I.

A few weeks ago, I got a call from her, telling me that K.K. had passed away. I was moved to tears, again, for a woman I never really even met. The friend told me that Trent got out of prison and became very devoted to his mother, feeling so guilty about the way he had disrespected and neglected her. He was at her bedside when she died, still thinking she was a little girl.

I pray for him. I am proud of him, for turning his life around, but there is great sadness and likely tremendous fear in his decision to do so. It turns out that the illness which caused his mother's early death is hereditary, and that the chances are very good that he has it, as well.

There is a lesson in all of it. I know there is, though I have not really figured it out. Would I do things differently, if I knew then what I know now? Would I carelessly toss off my concerns for my own safety, to help a woman I had never known? Would I impose myself on her till she remembered who I was?

The one lesson I am surely taking away is this one: that I am blessed. For all my son's faults, I know this: that he would never allow such a thing to happen to me. The day I heard of her death and rehashed the situation to him, I told him I knew that he would never let that happen to me.

"I'd never let that happen to any human being, Mom." He told me. I thought I saw tears in his eyes, too.

Yes, I am blessed. And I will never forget that.