The Persistence of Memory & the Kindness of Strangers

Yesterday was an anniversary, of sorts, for me, and I decided to sit down and write something about it. (It isn't a good memory--although it's an important one--so I don't allow myself to go back there too often.) 

Writing has a way of opening your mind, though, and--as my fingers flew, in stops and starts across the keyboard, reliving moments from that day--I realized that something important was in the re-telling... a measure of grace, if you will. Just like that, what began as a cathartic exercise felt like a little story that needed telling. 

So today, this post is a break from the usual reviews, to do just that: to share a moment of human experience.

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The Welfare Check

You read things, in books… situations, small details, bits that you grasp, insomuch as you can, and then move on… to the next sentence, the next paragraph, the next chapter. 

For me—lover of mysteries, crime tales, and thrillers—one of those “things” has always been the police. Technically I’ve spoken—briefly—to a handful of cops, over the years… a fender-bender here, a traffic warning there, a report of some small crime or another… but that had been the extent of my actual experience with them.

Until the morning of January 30, 2019, that is. 

The day began with the sort of mundane rituals and habits everyone knows: I’d gotten out of bed, fed and played with my cat, checked my various social media accounts while having some coffee, and then, suitably caffeinated and awake, gotten dressed for the day. 

I was just about to release the clip holding the “messy bun” that keeps my hair out of the way while doing my makeup, when a firm knock sounded at the door. Odd, for someone to be at my door at 9 a.m. Perhaps it was one of the building’s repair guys, there for some routine maintenance task, or  a delivery person, making an early stop?

The peephole showed me, instead, a pair of policemen outside in the hallway.

Curious… but my brain immediately came up with a couple of perfectly-reasonable possibilities: they were doing some sort of community outreach, or maybe they were shilling for donations to the police charity fund.

Either way, of course I was going to open the door; I hadn’t done anything, so it wasn’t like I was gonna pull the “only with a warrant” line (straight from every cop show, ever) on them.

The officers ascertained that I was, indeed me—using my full name and double-checking my place of birth—and, once all that had been verified, asked if they might come inside, "to talk". (Okaaay, weird, but what was I going to say, “no”?)

Once inside, they stood at attention in my kitchen. The senior officer—handsome, early-to-mid-50s, caucasian—introduced himself first, then let his junior officer—also attractive, mid-to-late-20s, hispanic—followed suit. When that formality was out of the way, the older one suggested I have a seat, motioning to a barstool at the kitchen counter. Sitting, I sensed that, somehow, my life was about to shift on its axis… I just didn’t know how far.

The younger one pulled a little notebook and pen out of his chest pocket, while his superior asked when I’d last heard from my mother. The reason for their visit? They had the unhappy task of informing me that my mother had died—had been found dead, technically—and, following a series of phone calls the day before, an aunt and uncle from the midwest had finally been put in contact with the Los Angeles metro police department, and from there, eventually patched through to a station in my zip code, with the news.

It turns out that, when you’re an only child, with just one remaining parent (from whom you’d been estranged from for a few years, and only recently had any contact with, again), no relatives you’ve remained in touch with, and you live a couple thousand miles away, this is how such news is conveyed. A death notice, out of the blue, delivered by two complete strangers, at 9 a.m. on a random Tuesday morning.

The police stayed in my kitchen for probably 45 minutes… talking, asking questions, making notes, and watching me, oh so carefully. The younger one looked worried—but in an “I have no idea what to do now” way—while the older one, who’d no doubt been in this situation before, wore a concerned, “I really wish I could make you feel better” expression. (If I were the sort who responded to a sudden shock by crying, I knew exactly which of them would be comforting me; it was there in his eyes, in the tone of voice.)

But, the very parent whose death had me internally reeling, right then, was the same one who’d ingrained a toughness, a self-reliance (and certainly, a you-only-cry-in-private mindset) in me, so a quietly-composed shock was all the two officers got from me, and, eventually, they took their leave. On his way out, the older officer gave me his card, on which all of his various contact numbers were printed and hand-written, and—while holding onto my hand—implored me to use any of those numbers if I needed help or wanted to talk.  

(Funny how you can fully register another person’s attraction to you, even when you’re in a complete and utter state of shock.)

Once I was alone, again, I did all the things anyone does in a similar situation. I paced endlessly, in a daze. Then, when the nervous energy finally abated, I slid bonelessly down a bedroom wall, crumpling into a little heap on the floor, unable to fully catch my breath as hot tears burned salty trails down my cheeks. 

A little later, I got in touch with my closest friends, telling them the news, texted my then-boyfriend (who was away on business, on another continent), then turned off my phone. 

I hugged my cat (whom my mom had adored). 

I made a pretty cup of tea, using one of the special teas my mom had given me, and dug out her wedding rings (which she'd given me years several years earlier, when they no longer fit her, for me to someday have made into a necklace or ring for myself), and held them.

I felt very small and entirely alone… distraught over the sudden, shocking loss of a person I’d never been close to (despite eighteen years of living under the same roof), and was wildly different from… yet was still my flesh and blood, someone I'd respected, admired, and loved, regardless of how very, very different we'd been.  

Several hours later—maybe 5 p.m.—there was another knock at my door, and I knew. 

I didn’t answer, just stayed where I was… in the bedroom, on the floor, my cheek pressed into the wall, utterly spent from riding out the waves of grief.

The knocking repeated, at intervals, getting louder—my name being called (I can't imagine what the neighbors thought)—for the next 15 minutes. I could hear the footsteps as the officer walked out to the communal courtyard, pacing, and the squawks of his radio. 

Eventually, he gave up.

It was a Welfare Check. Whether to make sure I was okay, and taking care of myself? that I hadn’t harmed myself, out of despair or accidentally, distracted? or, just to see if I needed a friendly shoulder? Perhaps any and all of the above.

It was a kindness… but one I wasn’t up to receiving in my fragile state. Still, knowing that I—just another anonymous person out of the ten-million others in my adopted city—merited not one, but two visits by members of a police force (who surely had far more important matters to attend to), made me feel a glimmer of hope, and of connection, in a very big and lonely world.

I’m not sure I’ll ever be “done” with unpacking all the sadness--maybe we never should be--but that day let me know I’d at least survive it.

~GlamKitty