Lundyn Bridges Read Online Free PDF Page B

here to help us. I’m probably old enough to be your mother.”
    â€œWell, if you had a heart attack, would you only go to a doctor that had had a heart attack?”
    Francine threw the covers off and angrily got out of the bed. She walked to the end of the bed and stood facing the window. Then she turned to face me. Her glare was enough to let me know she was offended by my remark. As she punched her right fist into her left palm, she rolled her eyes, and her neck jerked to the left. Her eyebrows were raised; her left hand rested on her hip and her right index finger was stiffly pointed at me. She snarled, between clenched teeth. “Is that the answer they taught you in college? You should get your money back!”
    â€œFrancine I didn’t come here to fight with you. We have a lot of paper work to do before your discharge. I had planned to take you over to My Sister’s Keeper to see your new apartment. You still need a bus pass and the paperwork to transfer your Public Assistance benefits to your new address isn’t completed.Now do you want to play games or finish your outpatient treatment plan?” My tone was firm, but I never raised my voice.
    Francine clenched her teeth so hard that I could see her jaw muscles and the veins over her cheek bones. Her face almost looked like stone. Her eyes were piercing, but she didn’t respond. She remained silent as I outlined her goals and asked her to sign documents.
    Another week passed, and I was still struggling with my therapeutic approach. Yet, in a strange kind of way, I felt connected with Francine. She enjoyed tormenting me. I found minute successes in pricking the places in her heart she desperately wanted to keep buried, and I understood that about her. I was confident Francine would maintain her regular visits with me as promised, if for no other reason than to irritate me.
    Francine’s patronizing remarks made it evident she considered me a neophyte at life. She had no idea of the pain I had endured. My college education merely gave me a piece of paper. My childhood educated me in many things that could never be learned in a classroom or from a textbook. My experience with addiction came first hand from living with my biological mother, Barbara. Addiction is always bigger than the addict; it is a family disease which leaves a void in the heart of all who are affected by its rippling current.
    Barbara died during the second semester of my freshman year at Chatham College. Although I had not lived with her or seen her for almost ten years, it still hurt. After being released from the psychiatric hospital, Barbara spent the remainder of her life vacillating between drugs, rehab and jail until her body finally succumbed to the Hepatitis she contracted from usingdirty needles. The only thing Barbara ever really loved killed her – drugs. There was no funeral or memorial service, only a letter from my former caseworker. My immature rationale was angry because she should have loved her kids instead of those drugs. My mature heart was torn because all of the would ifs could never be, and I would forever be uncertain if she loved me. I spent that weekend in bed, unable to move, unable to cry and afraid of my feelings. My life, at that time, was cloudy, and my tears fell like rain drops that continued to water my broken heart.
    Just thinking about it brought tears to my eyes. I took a deep breath and wiped my face. It was almost six o'clock, and I left my office looking forward to attending the East End Revival. I needed spiritual refueling.
    One of my favorite songs came on the radio while I was driving home – “The Battle Is Not Yours”. I sang along with Yolanda Adams, releasing the tension from the day. “Lord,” I said out loud when the song was over, “Francine really is going to drive me crazy.”
    Before leaving work, Kiarra and I planned to meet for dinner. We often treated ourselves on Friday evenings,