Post by Robin Leigh Anderson on Jan 14, 2008 22:49:07 GMT -8
Announcing the winners of the
2003 Writer's Digest Writing Competition
Inspirational Winners
2003 Writer's Digest Writing Competition
Inspirational Winners
85. Robin Leigh Anderson
Santa Barbara CA
Santa Barbara CA
Intervention
“Sam tried to kill himself. Again.” Randy’s voice shook with emotion. Randy wouldn’t shake if an atom bomb exploded outside his door. But then, one ordinary September Tuesday in 2001 worse than a bomb had exploded the lives of twenty-five of my friends and our entire nation.
“Where is he?” I didn’t recognize my own voice either.
“Nancy and Jason are staying with him till his mom can make it down from Upstate.” Randy cleared his throat. “He told me not to call you. He said please.”
“Please be damned, my dear,” I said. I shook off my anger. It wasn’t my good friend Sam that made me angry. “I can be there in ten hours.”
Randy sighed. “Who knows what will help.”
I knew. I hoped I knew. I leaned over and flipped open my business address book with my free hand. “Have Nancy call me from home later and we’ll work it out.” I couldn’t let there be a third try. Sam would succeed.
“It’s almost Thanksgiving,” Randy objected. “We can’t ask you…”
“God asked me,” I interrupted. “And have Sam’s mom call me once he’s asleep tonight.”
I sat for a long time with my hand on the phone. The airline had said after my visit in October three weeks after the attack that they would fly me to New York any time we all felt the need for me to be there. That trip was physically taxing on me, so soon after orthopedic surgery, but my buddies needed me. I punched in the number and waited, then added the four-digit extension. A pleasant female voice asked for my emergency authorization code.
“How may I help you, Ms. Anderson?” she inquired.
I knew what I was asking of this beleaguered airline. My crippled legs and I would need a first-class seat to travel from Pacific to Atlantic coast the day before Thanksgiving, on a moment’s notice. I could hear fingers tapping on keyboard in the background. I had a confirmed reservation in five minutes and another 20 minutes to throw things into a bag before the airport shuttle bus left Santa Barbara. I boarded the plane in Los Angeles as the sun set over the Pacific.
As the plane flew east, the sky darkened quickly. I stared out at the night, the dots of light below and the stars above. I couldn’t focus on them for the tears in my eyes. The words of Sam’s mother rang in my ears: “Sam never made it out of that burning building.”
Hadn’t we done all the right things? The minute the last of my nineteen surviving friends was released from the hospital, we all gathered in Midtown Manhattan to remember the six who hadn’t survived, to share our thoughts and emotions. Before I’d left California, I’d called grief counselors to be with us for the weekend. For 42 hours we lived and breathed and ate and slept together, one wounded heart. I would not have left New York if I had believed anyone was in jeopardy. The news of Sam’s first suicide attempt rocked us all to the core, Sam, steady Sam. After frantic calls across the country Sam’s family was convinced to fire the idiot psychiatrist who had prescribed SIXTY barbiturate capsules to a man who had endured such a trauma. Sam connected with another counselor. We called him, e-mailed him, those nearby knocked on his door and spent time with him day and night.
Hadn’t we done all the right things? When Randy had told me that Sam had tried to kill himself with street drugs, I could not wrap my mind around such a concept. I would sooner believe the Pope capable of scoring street drugs, but not Sam, not upright, dependable Sam. We hadn’t done quite enough. I closed my eyes so tightly they hurt as I tried to pray, to ask for the wisdom and strength to help my good friend Sam walk out of Hell.
Nancy met me at the Newark airport shortly after dawn Thanksgiving Day. I was pleased to see that the scars on her forehead and chin had faded to fine pink lines. I was certain they were invisible when she smiled, but we weren’t going to be smiling quite yet. The ride into the city was spent in contemplation of the agenda of the day. We went to Nancy’s apartment so I could shower and change.
At nine o’clock Sam opened the door of his loft as I was raising my hand to knock. I snapped a smile into place. “I thought I’d spend Thanksgiving with my favorite tall blonde,” I said to his astonished expression. He looked like Hell, too, gaunt, pale even for a fellow Norwegian.
“I was just on my way to my aunt’s” Sam said, not able to focus.
“Good,” I said, the false cheer holding. I slid my suitcase in the open door. “Let’s go.”
Randy, Nancy, Camille, Tom, they had told me what to expect with Sam. His mother had cried for half an hour before I had to turn off my cell phone to board the plane. Yet I still wasn’t prepared for this ghost of a man who sat beside me for the cab ride from Manhattan to Brooklyn. My plan was underway. I only had to keep the momentum going. I engaged my infamous motormouth and didn’t shut up until we were inside the home of his aunt and uncle.
I hated sports, but this one Thanksgiving Day I was thrilled with the nonstop football. On cue Sam’s father, uncle, and two male cousins drew Sam into the living room where two televisions were blaring. I followed Sam’s mother, two aunts, and two female cousins into the kitchen and closed the door. I said the only silent prayer of thanks for traditional male-female roles that I would ever say in my lifetime. Sam would never venture into the domestic arena of the house as long as there were football games on the tube.
We sat down in various corners of the kitchen and pulled out cell phones and lists. Dinner was in the oven and refrigerator and would be there at the appointed hour. We had more important things to do.
No one missed an opportunity to keep the conversation going through dinner and into the evening. I combed my mind for something to say, anything to say to keep Sam occupied. I didn’t want this very bright man to have a moment to pause and question why I had flown 3,000 miles, something I would not do under ordinary circumstances.
I chattered like a baby bird all the way back to Sam’s loft. Sam was the consummate gentleman, and my mind raced as the elevator rose, how to get Sam to walk through the door to his loft ahead of me. He turned the key in the lock and I stepped behind him and pretended to cough. The broad door swung open as Sam turned his head to see what was wrong with me. I pushed this man who was a foot taller than me through the door. I put my hands on my hips. There was no getting by me.
Sam turned slowly, aware that we weren’t alone. Three dozen people rose to their feet and faced Sam. His family stepped off the elevator and came into the loft, closing the door. Sam looked at each face, ending with me. He shook his head, walked to his favorite chair and almost fell onto the fat cushion, put his face in his hands and sobbed, “I need help.”
I knelt down next to the chair and put a hand on his knee. “Honey, why do you think we’re here?”
Forty-five people settled on the floor in a horseshoe around Sam’s chair. Nineteen fellow survivors, Sam’s boss who had been holding Sam’s job open all those weeks, several co-workers, Sam’s pastor and members of his church, friends, counselors, so many people who cared enough for this man to give up a part of their family holiday to be included in this outreach.
I started. “Sam, you need to engage your mind now while we engage your heart.” I took his hand in mine. “I don’t care what we have to do, we’re not going to let you do this to yourself, not again.”
One by one each of us told Sam how much we loved him, how important he was to us. We shared our hearts and minds and tears. Halfway down the horseshoe, directly opposite Sam, was the CEO of his company, a man well known for his impeccable grooming and stiff manners. This man pulled loose his tie, tossed his suit coat aside, rolled up his starched sleeves, and crawled across the floor on all fours to put his head on Sam’s knee.
“You can’t leave me, son, not after all we went through.” This very proper man looked up at Sam, tears running down his face. “You can’t tell us how you got down from that upper floor, but you did it. You can’t leave me,” he repeated, his voice cracking. “I need you.”
From eight that evening, for almost eight hours, we cried and laughed and prayed and talked and even threatened a little. We ate the food everyone had brought and drank the flavored iced teas Sam had always loved. Sam listened, and he heard. Finally at 3:45AM Sam slumped back in his chair. “I’m exhausted,” he announced. “I need some sleep.”
“Amen, brother,” Randy said, yawning. He rose to his feet and stretched. “I’ll tuck you in.”
Sam looked up at his friend. “You don’t trust me.”
“Not a bit,” Randy answered.
Sam shrugged and stood up. The two men walked into the bedroom and closed the door. I ran my hands through my hair and sighed.
“Now what?” Sam’s father asked.
“Now everyone but Renee` goes home,” I said. “Renee` is more than Sam’s church buddy, she’s a psychiatric nurse,” I added to his raised eyebrow. “She’ll sit in the kitchen reading while I zonk out on the couch. I’ll call you if we need you. Pray to God we don’t have to repeat this.”