CHAPTER 27: The Opera: Act II; Part 2 [cont.]
From "The Saga of One F**ked Mother"
Chapter 27, Act II, Part 2 continues. The second trial, for modification of custody filed by Herry, is over and Legion awaits the judgment. She is sure the the judge is going to give Herry what he wants: sole custody. She knows Herry’s ultimate goal/revenge is to get her to commit suicide by taking the boys away from her—completely.
Legion is so distressed at the thought of losing her boys that she’s been unable to sleep, so she asks her doctor for a sedative. But he sends her to the emergency room where she is placed in the psych unit and coerced into accepting a 2-week hold under threat of involuntary, indefinite committal. She’s sure Herry is behind the whole escapade. The judge himself had taken custody of his four children and had his wife permanently committed. It is an age-old, patriarchal tradition to institutionalize errant and no-longer-useful wives.
In the last section, a custody modification trial is allowed due to the flagrant lie that Legion had interfered with visitation. The same evaluator who spun the case against Legion in the first trial is re-appointed and her new report is chock full of blatant lies. The judge will not speak with the boys to get to the truth of the matter or to ask their preference, even though they are 14, 12, and 10. Legion testifies tearfully on the stand in her defense, suspecting the judge has already made his decision…
CHAPTER 27 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother begins with Act I of “The Opera”—from Book 3, the last part of the book. “The Opera” has three Acts with five Parts—one for each of the three Family Court and two Appellate Court trials. Chapter 27 covers Acts I and II: the first two Family Court trials and the first Appellate Court trial. [This is a long chapter and will be published in newsletter-sized bites.]
Dr. Blue’s novel is based on her own experience of the Custody Crisis. It uniquely conveys how Family Court judges are “mother-fucking” women—a form of systemic oppression and violence directed at ex-wives—as protagonist Legion is systematically and methodically deprived of her children and money and reduced to “one fucked mother”.
Chapters are stand-alone interesting so you can begin reading anywhere. A Cast of Characters follows to help readers at any point [on the web page]. All published chapters are included in the Section: “Saga of One F**ked Mother” accessible on the top bar of the home page of Women’s Coalition News & Views. Sequential chapters are published every Wednesday and subscribers will find them in their inboxes, so make sure to subscribe if you haven’t yet!
TEASERS
The Cunt won’t be dead—but shit! That––permanent maternal‑deprivation from her sons––that’ll do it. That’ll be just as good as dead! Work it, Baby! Work it! What’s that cadence again now, ya’ know, the one we in the military all march so very well to, “You can take a woman, Cut the bitch in two; I can fuck the lower half and give the upper half to you!”
…Same ol’ control, dominion and domination fuckover of the DEhuman as that of the last 12 or so millennia ...
Dr. True's Opera in Three Acts—with Five Parts
CHAPTER 27: ACT II, Part 2 [cont.]
A good, good job opened up in late August and I took a stab at it. Monday through Friday, every weekend off, only daytime hours, no nights ever, great benefits, a wonderful vacation and sick leave policy, a county government position, completely suited to me as the detail person that I am, a great deal to demonstrate to a district court judge as my trying to support my children yet still be very available to them all physically. And at nearly $32,000 per annum in salary to start!
One catch. Of course.––I had to win the upcoming November 1990, midterm election for it. The actual position?––Recorder for Storm County, running against a Republican Party incumbent who not only had been 12 years in the post then already but is still there in it today 13 more years later and doing, now, the great job at it that she had always performed. Over Labor Day weekend, the Boys and I even donned royal blue tees with my name in white lettering on them and waved my official cobalt blue and white yard signs in the courthouse town’s Lincoln Days’ Parade. We campaigned ourselves right down its main street, America’s actual federal Lincoln Highway, with cardboard bucket loads of wrapped hard candies to throw the eager youngsters! Answered local reporters’ questions, had my picture taken and my platform for office, such as it was, published in the Ames Tribune and other publications around Storm County. It would be a very good, very supporting deal for an intelligent mother of three children. The recorders in Iowa, after all, even handled all of the counties’ hunting and fishing license records for the State, a factual detail that had not escaped either Zane, Jesse or me!
By Sunday, 16 September, I was on the phone at 5 in the morning, “I need Lionel to drive me to the hospital emergency room, Grace. No, … none. Not really. Not since Thursday night, and even before I testified on Friday it wasn’t in solid chunks, ya’ know. I don’t think I should risk driving there myself. Dr. Narod won’t come out to the house and give me a shot; I called him at home. He told me I had to come into the ER. Just three days. Good. I’ve already waked up the Boys and told them. No, no need to call László just now; please do so, though, later on this morning. I’ll be waiting outside for Lionel then. O, and Grace? Thanks. Thanks ever so much, Grace.”
What I had told each child at his bedside was that this––this––was the way in which one should go about getting medicines legally and healthily––when one needed drugs in order to fall asleep. That one shouldn’t just slither on down to the goddamn street corner and score truly unknowns off of some dealer‑hawker there. “I’ll only be three days, I promise. Lionel’s coming for me and Grace is coming over, too, until you wake up today. Then she’ll take all of you over to their place, and she and Lionel’ll take good care of you for me. I’ve left Grandpa and Grandma’s and Margaret’s numbers, too, on the kitchen table, Zane. Take those with to Grace’s when you go—just in case you all or she needs them. Now just go on back to sleep, Babe.” Hug. Hug. Hug. Kiss. Kiss. Kiss. Times three. “I’ll be back in three days. By Wednesday for sure.”
“Three days and nights, Margaret. That’s all I need. The Boys are with my best friends, the Portias––Grace and Lionel, from down here in The Teacup. Tell Abraham and Adam before Meeting centers this morning. Tell them both that I went just now for some help to sleep, would you please, Margaret? No, we haven’t heard, not officially. But I know. I know. Hell, you were there, too, Margaret. You saw. You heard what went on.”
“If I can do anything … O. If, … if you were not hysterical, Legion, then … then is when I would be worried about you! My god, Woman; he is taking your children!” I have never, never forgotten Margaret Sagely’s sorrow hurtling at me over the wires and through my telephone receiver.
Times three. I would never, never, never dismiss as nothing the suffering of a mother who, with one child lost, sits and sits and sits and rocks and rocks and rocks her way back up to the surface of this holocaustic cesspool, I would not. I would not. But with three lost? Now that’s something. Mirzah was exactly spot‑on, “Mama would be so sad and do anything to get us back.” I started to before I even knew for sure that I had lost them.
Act Two Part Two. “I can’t sleep. There’s been a trial; it’s about my kids, and I just can’t sleep. Umm, I’d say it’s been, … O, a full night’s? Well, probably three weeks or more. It feels like I could sleep forever. By the way, thanks a lot for that $50, Bob! That was really generous. The campaign? O, so‑so. Kinda suspended for right now, I guess, Bob. I just can’t get rid of the adrenal surges long enough to get to sleep. Let alone, for a long, long time. Why is that, Doctor?”
“Experienced this before, Legion?”
“Yeah, once. Long, long time ago. Something bothers me a lot, Bob, I just don’t let go of it enough to fall asleep. Ya’ know, soundly. Like deep, deep.”
“Okay, well, Legion, I’m … I’m going to admit you since that’s what you want, right?”
“Well, no. Actually. No. I’d like you to give me something in my own bed, so I could sleep there. In my own bed.”
“Uh‑uh, we just don’t do that anymore, Legion. I’ll have to admit you for injections, and that’s really the only way that I can make sure you can have enough to actually get you the sleep that you need. Here—fill this out; it’s for the best, don’t you agree?”
I did not agree; but, obviously, … I had no choice.
And I liked my doctor, Dr. Narod, a lot: Bob and I had gone through the seventh and eighth grades together, and he was an obstetrician and gynecologist just like his own father before him. He truly, truly liked women and respected us; so had his dad, now deceased.
Over my protestations, Lionel besought me to walk inside the hospital to the emergency room with me––into Dr. Narod’s care, “Legion, it’s nothing. Really. I can just accompany you inside in case you need something, ya’ know.”
But I had resolutely stood there beside Lionel in the parking lot of the hospital’s emergency room and told him that I had by that time bothered him and Grace quite enough with my needs and that he should return home to her. “Besides,” I managed a sidewise smile, “you’ve got Mirzah, Jesse and Zane for the next three days, Bucko. You’ve already done enough for me this morning, Lionel. Thanks ever though!”
And just exactly as I was soooo, so used to doing the things that simply needed doing––that simply needed to get done––during when I was married to Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, I walked inside those hospital walls … alone.
Biiiiiiig , big mistake!
Cuz now? Now, … I had no witness.
In addition to all that Lionel had just done for me and, along with Grace, was about to do more, Lionel also could have been my much‑needed witness to all of the events … which next transpired. But how would I know to even need one?! How would I know to need a witness to go to the doctor, for chris’sake?! As it unfolded, it clearly became only my word, alone, against theirs of the hospital staff. Again. Big, big hoping and trusting fuckup of mine! Again!
We DEhumans are so addicted to these both … dangerously––even lethally––addicted. To both hope and trust.
Directly from that cubicle in the ER then, I was wheeled up to a place in the hospital called The Sixth Floor. Its loftiest level, I could barely move, and it was now 6:30 am so with the employees’ change of shift, I could understand why no one was immediately attending to getting me a soporific injection and off into a bed for sleep. But soon it was 7:30 am, and I still remained on the sofa in an anteroom next door to The Sixth Floor Nurses’ Station. Still I sat. And sat. And sat. And nobody came. I just sat. I could not read because my eyes would not focus; for over a week now Grace had been worried for me, worried about just that very aspect––among so many, many others––of my sleep deprivation.
Finally then around 10 am a caucasian woman of ordinariness in a white coat sat directly in front of me on her own separate chair holding a clipboard with papers on it in one hand and a pen in the other. She grilled—in a kindly tone—yes; but hell, I had already answered all of these same friggin’ questions hours ago now down in the emergency room, hadn’t I? I was left thinking, “Where’s the shot, for chris’sake?! And the bed?! I need to crawl in a bed somewhere, get the medicine injected and get to sleep, don’t I?! Back down in the ER that’d been the plan Dr. Narod and I had gone with as … ‘for the best,’ wasn’t it? Where was Dr. Narod anyhow?, O yeah, the clock in the Nurses’ Station says it’s 10:30; he must be at his office. Aaaah, no … no–correction here,” I amended my soooo sleep‑deprived mind, “it’s Sunday. He’s left the building; he’s long gone away like all of those other I‑don’t‑work‑weekends’ folks!”
Ordinary Worker Woman continued on and on and on. I answered her questions the best that I could but, “Jeesh, cut me some slack here.” Then she left.
There were a lot of people it seemed just milling about back and forth … rather aimlessly. And no one appeared particularly dressed for work I thought. I again waited, expecting a bed and some help real, real soon. “For sure, not?” I thought, as a lot of pairs of eyes, too, were evidently aimed every now and then, kind of fleeting‑like, in my direction. “Don’t get paranoid, Legion,” I told myself. “Wouldn’t Herry just love to see me paranoid about now!? Whooooa, what a heyday he’d make out with that one to Ms. Canard! To Judge Seizor! He and Ms. Folie Fannie would have a hoot over that, wouldn’t they?” I remember musing to myself.
That same clock’s hands pointed to 3; it was 3 fucking pm! Not only was it Sunday afternoon, now a full ten hours since I’d first telephoned Grace; but the workers’ shifts were changing yet again one more time! And now double the pairs of eyes were sometimes affixed upon me on the couch––still sitting in the anteroom right next to The Sixth Floor Nurses’ Station.
Off of the stand beside the divan, I picked up that particular day’s usually thick morning newspaper and rolled it over into a baton, arose out of that sofa’s seat, strode on over to them all huddled up in their clutch of a shift‑change “Report” and, in front of goddess and everyone else around, banged repeatedly my new witchy wand upon their clearly o–so shatterproof windowsill, “Get me some goddamn drugs and a bed! I hafta sleep, and I hafta sleep now, Dammit! Now! I wanna go to sleep. You fucking hear me?! I. Want. To. Go. To. Sleep! Get me a bed! Geeeet meeeeee a gawddaaaaaamn bed! ! ! !”
O O O O, four of ‘em! And I mean yesterday! They were—all four of ‘em—on me like yesterday! Four men.
All in white, head to toe, except for their trouser belts. Even their tennis shoes. I soooo had me the drugs and the bed! Well, had them … sort of, shall I say.
Two on my upper body and torso with my breasts and left cheek crushing into the bare mattress flung once upon a time … before me … onto the equally bare floor and one fellow squarely squatted on top of both of my thighs, his buttocksy behind covering all of mine nearly. Except for Manly Man #4 yanking down my underpants and jabbing the hypodermic full throttle into that particular left cheek. Lights … soooo, so out!
I slept.
Fuck knows what I looked like those three days. Those … three slumbering days! Because I certainly don’t know what I looked like. I awakened. The doctor’s chart note, the one that I myself and a whole passel of other people would later read as well, described me simply as … “a changed individual.”
Well, I’ll say! “Sleep’s good. Sleep’ll do that for ya’!” And a whole lot of it can, when one’s had almost none of it, well, … change you. Ask any military torturer or terrorist. Or, as a matter of fact, the victims so tortured! Ask them. Or, for further ‘evidence’, ask any celebrity or sports figure on tour or on the road who collapses and drops from exhaustion and needs a few days in the clink or off somewhere at a secluded yet glitzy, mountain‑air spa for some badly needed rest. Ask all of those folks about whom we read in the Sunday celeb and sports sections nearly every week! There were probably even such stories in the caduceus which I had spontaneously sculpted out of that specific daily’s chunky, rolled‑over newspaper!
I was no longer inside the rubber room either. Someone, and most likely those particular, peculiar four men, had carried me into a regular hospital bed in a regular room. Or so it seemed. And the door was not locked. Not that door, the bedroom’s door. The ones, however, that led out and off of The Sixth Floor altogether? Now those three, stacked doors, one right after the previous and parallel other one, they all were locked. I, of course, was in the goddamn, mother‑fucking psych ward, and I now knew it, too. Come to find out––a lot later, of course––that had I not pitched my successful albeit witchy hissy‑fit, it would’ve been even more hours that I would have been left there on that sofa to languish and rot.
And I was being watched. All along when I’d thought I was being watched? I had not been … ‘paranoid’. Indeed, I was being surveilled. Was I ever! For signs and symptoms of illicit drug ingestion or whatever the hell allya’all call it when one snorts, shoots up, stashes stuff inside their vagina or rectum or otherwise takes street shit inside themselves. Also for alcohol. Poisoning? Abuse? Hell, I didn’t know. I didn’t even drink much, one or two glasses of wine a month—if I were lucky enough to be able to go out for Italian. Ya’ know, like with a spaghetti dinner! For my own personal drinking purposes, well, we certainly could not afford! for me to purchase any booze to just have it on hand! There hadn’t been a bottle or a can of anything liquor‑like in the house for nearly two years or more! Hardly a drop even of soda pop, as a matter of fact.
Just as I had explained to Mirzah, Jesse and Zane at their bedsides, immediately before Lionel’s chauffeuring me to the ER’s entry, never to do––never to go buy a dope dealer’s crud for one’s problems––I had been, myself, observed for these very abuses. I was blown away. Then, again, I had had no witness, let alone one to vouch for me and for my ‘everyday’ conduct: gracious and generous and offering Lionel had not come inside with me.
I went to the same window glass of the Nurses’ Station and asked to see Dr. Narod. “Well, he’s not here, and, anyhow, he’s not your doctor.”
“What?”
“I saaaaid he is noooot here and, anyhoooow, he is noooooot your doctor,” the worker intoned, ridiculing me.
“O?”
“O whaaaaaat? You’re in the psych ward, Sweetie, you’re not having a baby, for goodness’ sake! Oooooor, are you?!” Roar, roar, roar. The three of them gathered there split out into guffaws at Ward Clerk Blatherer’s off‑the‑cuff mockery of me.
“I want to see Dr. Narod.”
“Uh‑uh. That idn’t gonna happen.”
“What? I need to see Dr. Narod.”
“I saaaaid NO! That is not going to happen, Legion True! Er, eeeeh—scuuuuse me: … Dooooooctor Legion Truuuuuue! … it says here on your chart, dudn’t it?” He turned and smirked at the other two also sniggering through my title and my last name. Snidely First Blatherer finished, “I’ll tell your doctor you wanna see her, but you will not be seeing Dr. Narod. Dr. Bassenthwaite’s your doctor now, and she’s busy with office hours. She’ll probably stop by later––after 5 or somethin’.”
So unknowingly slogged I, after those three terrific soporific nights and days, into … another entire fortnight! at the SpaChezResort Hotel Sixth Floor. Dr. Bassenthwaite did come around that evening, a person whom I liked right off. She informed me that she’d had a call from some attorney who was representing me.
“O, Ms. Klutz? You’ve heard from Ms. Klutz?!”
“Well, yes, I have; but that’s not the lawyer I’m talking about now.”
“Ah, um, with Ms. Klutz. With Ms. Klutz, Doctor, what did she say? Has the order come down? Is it back? Did she say?”
“She didn’t. No. She called, in fact, to say that it wasn’t back yet actually.”
“What? O. O. I see. Jeesh. Umm.” I was despondent but not wanting to show the doctor this face, of course. I mean I liked her, but I didn’t know her like I knew Bob Narod so how could I trust her? “What’d you say?” I remembered now, something about some other lawyer.
“Did you sleep well, Legion? You seemed to. Did you, do you think?” Dr. Bassenthwaite eluded, evaded. I did not like this. “Do you know what day this is?”
“Well, yeah! I’ll say! I loved it. It was great. I feel great. That’s just what I needed. It is what I came to see Dr. Narod for in the first place. And, ah, … yeah, as a matter of fact, yes, I do know the day: it’s Wednesday. Wednesday, the 19th.”
“Um‑hmm. It is,” the doctor nodded nicely, her tone rather a bit syrupy I reckoned.
“So, Doctor Bassenthwaite. My kids, I haven’t talked to them yet. But I won’t really need to make but one telephone call. They’re with friends, and the husband’ll come get me tonight so can I go do that now then?”
“Ah, no, I don’t believe he will be coming for you tonight.”
“O Yes! Yes, he will. He promised. Anything I need he and Grace, his wife? They’ll do it. Lionel will come.”
“Ah, … noooo, he won’t.” Evasion, elusion.
“What the fuck is she saying? What the fuck is going on here?” I pondered and purposefully maneuvered my hearing ear, my right ear, closer to this doctor’s lip direction, “What do you mean?”
“A man named Mr. Zaffar telephoned me this afternoon. He is now your attorney, too.”
“No, he isn’t. He most certainly is not. I know Mr. Zaffar, and he’s cool. He’s all right, but he is not my lawyer. What are you talking about?! Why’d he call you anyhow?! What is somebody I have not hired talking to my doctor for, a doctor by the way whom I haven’t even hired––either!” I was getting righteously pissed––to say the fucking least!
Come to find out, ‘the Court’ had appointed an attorney for me. Mr. Dario Zaffar. That’d be the same ‘the Court’ of Storm County, of course. And the same Mr. Dario Zaffar whom I had known for a long, long time from party politics and from high school, as a matter of fact, a tall, dark drink of water whom, for what I knew of him through those long‑ago channels, I liked. For a lawyer anyhow, no shyster he. That I knew of. And further, I liked his wife, a biology technician at the University. She and he had had three little ones, bang, bang and bang, too. “Whatever the hell for?”
Dr. Bassenthwaite so unsuccessfully struggled to maintain eye contact, “Well, ah … there’s been an emergency hearing and a’, um …, you’re going to be getting a visit from Sheriff Stout later on this evening. And ah, um, … an’ Mr. Zaffar, um, ah, on your behalf, well, ah, he’ll be accompanying the sheriff here …, ah, … here to The Sixth Floor.”
“What the …, ‘an emergency hearing’, you say?! Wha’ … Whatever are you talking about? I think you’d better tell me straight up now, Dr Bassenthwaite. Now what do you mean just exactly here? And why the hell do you know all of this anyhow and I don’t even know any of it yet? Why is that exactly, huh? Why?! … an emergency hearing? Why? What the hell is that all about?” I feigned dumbfoundedness … as I surmised was expected of me. But––in that very instant—I knew. I knew what an ‘emergency hearing’ meant. I so knew just exactly what was going on!
Come to find out, quite a mother‑fucking bit had been going on out those Sixth Floor triplet doors of this locked‑up‑tighter‑than‑a‑drum Hotel during all of those nights and days of mine off in sweet, sweet somnolence. It’s an ol’, ol’ story though; and most folks already know of it, we DEhumans, very, very many of us, having already lived it ourselves.
And I certainly did know it, too, now––almost at that specific, earlier bolt‑like slug of hers: Back there at Dr. Bassenthwaite’s exhortation of, “No, he won’t… ,” … meaning, the ‘good’ doctor had been, that Lionel Portia would not be coming for me
– – buuuut … that the Manly Man White Coats would be. If. If.
Hadn’t taken much convincing to daJudge, to daMan who himself had removed his own daughters’ mother remotely from those girls’ residential vicinity, for Herry to sway this man and get an invocation in to him for a real bit of Southern‑applied, maternal‑deprivation aprovechar here, “Just let me see here how much further I can fuck her over! To take advantage of and to swindle the shit out of this situation of hers! The Cunt’s sleep‑deprived and utterly exhausted, O JYeah! Judge Seizor already’s seen her crying; he’s seen her blubbering. Now she’s in this joint. Not a prison but no clinic clink either. Hey, get the Twat sent up the river for good I can. With Scheisser’s maneuvering, we can get this done—and no one’s the wiser! Certainly not Zane, Jesse and Mirzah! Cheap, too! Won’t even cost me! It’ll all be ‘on the county!’ Hey, go for it, Shindy! Get her! Unstable. Unfit. Crazy. Loony Tunes. Get her! Gut her! Gut the goddamn Bitch right in her friggin’ belly! Get her put away. The Cunt won’t be dead—but shit! That––permanent maternal‑deprivation from her sons––that’ll do it. That’ll be just as good as dead! Work it, Baby! Work it! What’s that cadence again now, ya’ know, the one we in the military all march so very well to, ‘You can take a woman, Cut the bitch in two; I can fuck the lower half and give the upper half to you!’ Yeeaah! Work it, Scheisser!”
Same ol’ control, dominion and domination fuckover of the DEhuman as that of the last 12 or so millennia ...
Certainly enough: Sheriff Stout and Mr. Zaffar did––together––appear. On The Sixth Floor. With papers.
Two more weeks in this very palace at the least or? Or … I was to be placed smack‑dab on the fast track to Cherokee. The very next day.
That would be Cherokee State Mental Hospital hidden from the public’s cognizance in the far upper northwest quadrant of the state, at least a full and contorted three hours’‑plus drive away from Ames. There––to be hauled, locked away and, most certainly, to forever be forgotten all about!––cuz it was obvious to every man, to all pillared men for sure, wasn’t it? i) Legion True was nothin’ if not wholly rode hard and put up wet. ii) She––that Whore––deserved this.
A place––Cherokee––about which I had often, often heard ever since I first was a rebel teen and had also at such rebellious times been threatened with incarceration there by some not‑so‑witty persons of Mehitable’s acquaintance, “O, once inside, Sweetie, you don’t see the light of day again! And your family, Girl? Ha! That’s the last they’ve seen of you, too!” That is what I had known of Cherokee. For just years and years and years.
“Sign ‘em. You’ll wanna be signin’ ‘em,” the lawman as rotund as his name proclaimed.
Looming from around the obese sheriff’s backside at about 6’6”, Mr. Dario Zaffar was quietly nodding, too, and trying unsuccessfully to smile. “At least another two weeks, Legion. That’s what the doctor’s saying. Please. You’d better sign. It could get bad if you don’t. Real bad. It’s nice to see you again, by the way, Legion.” At least Mr. Zaffar, unlike the fat fuck of a “peace” officer in front of him, not only could look straight into my eyes but also actually address me by my first name! Twice!
I did. I signed. That was Wednesday evening, 19 September 1990: the “Wednesday” of exactly when I had promised to all three of my Boys that I would be home to them again. Instead, of course, AmTaham and Mehitable were called and motored right up to take the Truemaier grandsons back over from Grace and Lionel’s to Havencourt where Mehitable, for the second time in my adult life, immediately proceeded to set about rearranging our entire home––starting, of course again, with my kitchen drawers’ compositions. I’ve never known for sure how it was that Mehitable already knew, when telephoned to please come up, that I was not around the condo and the Boys that week, whether it was from Zane or Jesse or Mirzah––or from Herry and Fannie Issicran McLive. But she did. She knew.
Dr. Bassenthwaite assured me over and over as did Dr. Narod the couple of times in that 15 days’ stint––“hospitalized away”––when he actually did visit me on The Sixth Floor, too, that this information had not gotten to Mehitable from them nor from any of the hospital personnel. Staff had had strict orders from the doctors and from me not to speak to her. And its workers had not the doctors pledged to me. Anyway, it was (alleged … ) to be the hospital’s and its medical records’ departmental policy. And as well, at 42½, I was a friggin’ adult after all, and they (again allegedly … ) could not release information to anyone—simply by that fact alone. Indeed, one of the nurses in a chart note––a copy of all of which for my own ‘research’ in preparation to later be able to rebut Mr. Shindy Scheisser in ‘the Court’ I eventually had had to buy for myself … costing me 20 further bucks! … –– described just even Mehitable’s conversational mannerisms to the ward’s staff members when she telephoned them, which they told me she frequently did do, as … “dithering.”
How the fuck had I ended up on The Sixth Floor ward in the first goddamn place?! From Dr. Narod, my ‘good, good man‑doctor‑pillar’! “It feels like I could sleep forever.” That’s how! Dr. Narod had written on the hospital’s admission note beside that quotation, the one back down in the emergency room which had been my bleary‑eyed, lids‑at‑half‑mast answer to his query of how I felt, “Legion expresses suicidal ideation!” … something which I never, ever had stated!
But. But I?! I, a mere DEhuman–girlchil’–peon? A loooong, long‑time adult though I so be?! I … had had no witness! “No,” I had told Lionel before walking inside alone, “I can do this all by myself. But thanks ever so much anyhow, Lionel.”
“What the fuck!? Suicide? That is friggin’ puissant, Dr. Narod! What a stupid thing, what a contrived, arrogant and so‑male assumption! for you to have gone and written down?!!!! Why the fuck had I had Lionel drive me in to the ER if I didn’t care about living or dying? Or, better yet, if I’d really wanted to kill myself, then I should bloody well have driven myself to the hospital’s emergency room; I could’ve maybe killed a few other people in the process and taken them on down out of their frickin’ miseries, too, for chris’sake!”
For someone whom I had trusted for quite some time, the $50 that Dr. Narod had contributed to my short‑lived political campaign was—now—peanuts. Why, it took me, at 15 frigging dollars a month and never more than that, until the end of 1998, to retire the entire amount of that hospital bill balance! The county pay? As Herry had likely fantasized?! The county pay for this forced and unjustified incarceration, this jailing?! Fuck, the county didn’t pay; I had had to! I had had to sign away two mother‑fucking weeks of my life!––as well as to pay these bullyingly entitled mother‑fuckers to take it from me, too! And suffer threat and fear of the Cherokee life imprisonment and, therefore, loss of everything including my very physical freedom besides. I was to lose all of my rights––including the one to parent my own Children. How was this at all U.S. Constitutional?!!!! Herry was behind this. His mark was all over it. As Andrea Dworkin buttresses about documents not working if they aren’t, as well, working for women, “How was this at all constitutional?!!!!”
The medical employees were under siege, too, some said. Because of lawsuits as well. The hospital and the psychiatric ward’s specific staffers including both its nurses and the doctors. If they had given me something for sleep right away that first Sunday morning early and I had been drinking alcohol or had had something else in my system––and all of that together had interacted badly, even fatally,––why, then the hospital might have been liable. Or, that had been the story that one of the nurses there told me much, much later. She also had children at Kate Mitchell School and lived in our neighborhood known affectionately by us, its residents, as The Teacup. That made sense to me, a doctor myself; but, fuck, 10 more hours than necessary! without something to finally help me sleep?! Then when I, at last, had had to get a little loud with the personnel, why, they all flew into routine drill mode for a possibly violent combatant gone mental on them!!!! O, had they ever!
If I’d only taken Lionel Portia inside with me like he had wanted to go. If only.
With Pillared, Privileged Herry in the pathology business and himself on this hospital’s very medical staff, he definitely had obtained private information about me as a physician that he was nowhere, no way––never––entitled to know, to have––or to (ab)use––as an ex‑husband, as a person, as the other, opposing ‘parent’ embattled with me, a client there, for my Children’s very custody.
Indeed, those of Dr. Elitist Edinsmaier’s Leader‑of‑the‑Community marks were all over this one. It was no stretch, either, to further imagine Ms. Fannie Issicran nodding her balding bobblehead as she stood, er, as she soooo plopped that unctuous, male‑identified McLive carcass of hers fully down beside her man!
A couple of cool, cool things did happen in the joint, inside the SpaChezResort Hotel Sixth Floor. In addition to the wonderfully refreshening sleep. Friends from out of the woodwork called so much that by the end of the first week, my telephone “privileges” had been severely limited by the staff. Abraham and László took me on long, long around‑the‑block walks; that is, the second week there we daily went round and round the hospital complex’s gardens, courtyard and grounds as long as I was “allowed” outside. From The Teacup nurse I obtained the name of the Reverend Mr. Keith Log, a therapist she said truly, truly knew pain and suffering––and survival.
[to be continued…]
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dr. Legion True: One Fucked Mother
Dr. Herod (Herry) Edinsmaier: Legion’s husband/Sperm Source [“re: I am snide” backwards]
Jesse Truemaier: Legion’s son
Mirzah Truemaier: Legion’s son
Zane Truemaier: Legion’s son
AmTaham True: Legion’s father [Mahatma backwards]
Mehitable True: Legion’s mother [Me hit-able—i.e. she was abusive]
Ardys and Endys: Legion’s sisters [names backwards]
Sterling: Legion’s brother [her mother’s planned name of next son (who never came)]
Mi Sprision O'Revinnoco: Herry’s sister [misprision: concealing knowledge of treason/O'Revinnoco = O'Connivero backwards]
Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier: Legion’s father-in-law [juggernaut; aut = 0; misein = “to hate (misogyny)”]
Detanimod Edinsmaier: Legion’s mother-in-law [dominated backwards]
Ava Saffron True and Zebulon True: respectively, Legion's paternal grandmother and her husband, Legion's paternal grandfather
Rowland and Wyman Natures: respectively, Legion's most favored uncle and most favored male first cousin
Fannie Issicran McLive: fawning enabler of ex [narcissi(st) and Mc(Evil) backwards]
Mary Jane: daughter of Fannie Issicran McLive; stepsister of Zane, Jesse, and Mirzah
Legion’s Friends: Margaret, Mona, Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl, Abraham (Quaker elder)
Legion’s Best Friends: Ms Grace and Dr Lionel Portia and Rachel
Wende: = Legion's friend after divorce [committed suicide due to Custody Crisis]
Jim Cornball: Herry’s acquaintance from AA and realtor
Loser Lorn: Insurance agent referred by Cornball
Judge Harley Butcher: Family Court judge
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: Family Court judge
Judge Barry Crowrook: Appellate Court judge
Judge Pansy Shawshank: Appellate Court judge
Jazzy Jinx: Legion’s first Family Court lawyer
Carlotta Klutz: Legion’s second Family Court attorney
Shindy Scheisser: Herry’s lawyer [shindy = noisy; scheisser = German for shithead]
Li Zhang: Herry’s Aussie affair
Dr Freddie Goldstein & Ella: Herry’s colleague and wife
Mick: = Herry's acquaintance from high school; best man [not in Herry’s life after that as he had no true friends]
Varry Wussamai: Herry's AA sponsor (not a real friend) [I am a wuss backwards]
David Humes: nursing student; classmate of Legion's, y1968 - y1971, New York City
Edmund Silver: Legion's boyfriend pre-Herry
Braemore St: where Legion and her family lived, y1983 - y1986
Havencourt condominium: Legion's Ames apartment; after separation
Zephyr: tabby cat of Zane's, Mirzah's, Jesse's [pronounced “Zay – fear”]
Rex: Jesse’s pet Eastern Florida Kingsnake, female
Lady: Zane's pet Zebra Finch, female
Madonna: realtor
Larry Brouhaha: court-mandated marriage counselor
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: District Court judge on first two trials
Judge Harley Butcher: District Court judge for third trial
Dr. Shark: Herry’s residency supervisor who fired him
Carrie Canard: twice judge-mandated custody evaluator
Author: Dr. Blue, aka Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE's Handmaid)
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