Her own woman
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Sean of the South
The email came this morning from a 72-year-old reader named Gerald. Gerald is a Baptist minister from Arkansas.
“Dear Sean,” his letter began. “…Sometimes you write good articles, but I am so disgusted when you write flippantly about alcohol and beer. Scripture says, ‘Be not drunk with wine wherein is excess, but be filled to excess with the Spirit…’”
This is exactly the kind of positivity I needed today. Thank you for the kind words, Gerald. But you forgot to comment on my cheap haircut and my weak jawline.
Anyway, today I decided to write a special column for Gerald. This story was emailed to me recently by a reader named Lucía.
Our story begins in Utah, where a young woman named Melanie was living in an abusive relationship. She was 26.
Since abuse only works in isolation, Melanie’s boyfriend kept her away from friends and family. Privacy is paramount for abuse to succeed.
Melanie was pregnant. She went to a doctor’s appointment and found out she was 20 weeks pregnant. And it all sunk in.
“I’m bringing a baby into this world,” she was thinking. “Is this the life I want for my baby?”
So late one night, she steals her boyfriend’s car. It’s a Toyota. A crappy one. She aims the car Southeast. And she just drives. No destination in mind.
Melanie has a little money, but not much. She sleeps at rest areas in the backseat. She bathes in truckstop bathrooms. She survives on Uncle Ben’s and lunchmeat.
She lands at a halfway house in Colorado. In a few months she has her baby. When her baby is born, she is surrounded by halfway-house volunteers. Each of them, women. Each has been in an abusive relationship before.
She lives at the halfway house. She decides to go back to school. She enrolls in a community college. Melanie undergoes remedial education, then receives a two-year degree. Whereupon she decides to go into nursing.
After a long – very long – educational experience, Melanie goes into professional nursing.
By now her child is an 8 year old. She moves back to Utah. She gets a job in the ICU.
One night, she is working the night-shift. There is a male patient who looks familiar.
He is her old boyfriend.
She embraces him. She cries onto his shoulder. He is married now. He has two kids. But he is not doing so hot. He is suffering from renal disease.
Melanie cares for him. She watches him struggle. She watches him suffer. It kills her. The man who once tormented her is racked in pain upon his bed. They promise to keep in touch, and they do.
A few years later she hears through the grapevine that he is dying of kidney failure. Something moves her. Melanie goes and gets a few blood-typing and tissue-typing tests. She finds out she is a match.
Melanie donates a kidney to the man. His life is saved. And one of the first faces he sees post-operation is Melanie’s face.
“Why would you do this for me?” he asks Melanie.
All she can answer is, “Why wouldn’t I?”
Today, Melanie lives in Wyoming. She is still a nurse. She is a mother to a 22-year-old young woman.
A few weeks ago, at her daughter’s wedding, at an overpriced venue, with an overpriced photographer, an expensive videographer, caterer, and florist; among a few hundred of her closest family and friends; a man showed up. From Utah. The biological father of the bride.
He wore a cheap suit, and he offered a toast through tears. He was crying so hard he could hardly get the words out. The whole room watched him weep.
“To the woman who showed me God,” he said.
The whole room raised a glass to Melanie.
And right now I am raising an ice-cold beer to her, as well.
