Bio - 39 in My Bio

Each day Tom returned from work, stopping at the mailbox on the way to the motel to tell me the card still hadn’t arrived, was heart-wrenching. I felt increasingly doomed, out of sorts, physically weak, and emotionally drained.

By Wednesday the 10th, the card still hadn’t come, and we were facing the reality of returning to the streets. The thought of just one day back out there was terrifying—multiple days felt unbearable. If we’d had a camper or even a larger, more comfortable vehicle, it might have been different. But even if we could live forever in our truck, we’d still need money for food and gas. Plus, we needed to shower.

Wednesday was the worst. I literally felt like we were almost dead. I truly believed life as we’d known it was over and that we’d done all we could to try to save ourselves. Lying in bed, trembling and crying while he was at work, I told myself, “Face it, there’s no getting out of this one. You tried your best, but you can’t fix this. Your time’s up. It’s time to focus on the positives of dying—like how you never did want to grow old, arthritic, and get diseases.”

Through teary eyes, I wrote a note to be copied for both our families by whoever might discover us. I explained that while neither of us wanted to die, and while it angered and frustrated us to know that our lives depended on a lousy piece of plastic, people do need money to live. I urged them not to be sad or mad, and to remember that there are as many pros to not living as there are to living. I left login details for my online journals, stories, and photo albums, including information about storage and mail locations. I asked that my friends be contacted as well.

It was the hardest thing I’d ever written, fully believing we’d be gone in a matter of hours. We had agreed to take our lives that night after Tom made one final phone call to the debit card company to get access to our money. The moment he hung up, exhausted and frustrated, I felt true, heart-sinking despair.

We planned to go together just after midnight on Thursday, like a real-life Romeo and Juliet, figuring that anyone around us would likely be asleep and wouldn’t hear anything. We intended to be as quiet as possible, sealing ourselves in the bathroom with tape along the door edges and vents, hoping the room didn’t have a carbon monoxide detector.

That evening, lying in bed while Tom watched TV, I imagined our tombstones. I pictured the dates and wondered where we’d be buried—not that it mattered, but I was naturally curious. Would they separate us, sending me back east? Or would they bury us together in Arizona or California?

I missed Tinkerbell like crazy but was glad she wasn’t there to go through this with us. I also realized I was afraid to die—not so much because of a potential afterlife, but more from the fear of whatever pain I might experience on the way.

I glanced at the clock: 7:15.

Next came the guilt. I felt I wasn’t a strong enough influencer and feared I was pushing Tom into something he didn’t want. Yet, he promised me we were in this together no matter what and would not let me go alone. Neither of us wanted to live without the other, even though neither of us wanted to die.

Then, sadness and anger surfaced over all the small things we wouldn’t get to experience if I couldn’t figure something out, and quickly. I didn’t care if I never got to expand my doll collection, but I wanted to see Tom do what he loved. I wanted to live to listen to my stereo, to see my dolls if I didn’t have to sell them, to hang my wind chimes, to learn Italian, and to finish my stories.

At that moment, I realized dying was easier said than done. While I still wasn’t sure if we could make it, a stubborn urge to fight and survive came over me. I thought of what I’d do differently if I managed to escape this mess.

Desperate to survive, I knew there was one last option, though it was a long shot and slightly humiliating. Thanks to my impeccable memory, I remembered Mary’s number in Phoenix.

Surprisingly, she accepted the collect call, maybe out of concern that something had happened to Tom. Knowing she wouldn’t help us directly, I asked her to contact my parents in Florida, who didn’t accept collect calls. I explained that our phone charger had accidentally gone into storage, leaving our phone dead. While she didn’t offer any personal help, she agreed to make the call and asked what was wrong.

After hanging up, each minute felt like a dozen as I waited, hoping for the best. If no one would help, we’d have to proceed with our plan of ending our lives. I couldn’t endure this emotional rollercoaster much longer—it was too agonizing.

Then, the phone rang. Both my parents were on the line. I explained our situation as best I could, though I was shaken and they, in their mid-70s, weren’t as sharp. Initially, my mother said $100 was all she could spare due to medical expenses. I wondered if they were downplaying their finances, but I also knew how tight Social Security could be. She then told me about her own health struggles, including a recent surgery after years of smoking had cost her part of one lung, and that she’d had breast cancer surgery too. Despite her faults, it was sad to hear.

My parents did far more than just help. They saved us, covering two nights at the motel and sending $300 to get us through.

By Saturday the 13th, I saw a glimmer of hope, though we weren’t out of the woods yet. We had two chances: transferring funds to the new debit card or receiving the old one.

Since we hadn’t been able to go online due to his desktop’s lack of an antenna, Tom rigged a makeshift one. Online, he attempted to transfer half of the funds on the old card, now up to $850 with two paychecks, to the new card.

What Tom never told me, likely to keep me from panicking even more, was that the card probably wouldn’t come until Monday the 15th. Instead, he told me it could arrive any time.

The suspense was agonizing as I waited for Tom to get off work on Monday. The moment he called to tell me the new card had finally arrived, I felt the true meaning of “relief.”

I wrote a detailed letter to my parents, explaining why we left Oregon, the issues with the debit card, and our goals. I also asked them not to share our contact info with Larry or Tammy, as I didn’t wish to reconnect with them. At that time, I only provided our postal address, withholding our phone number, and skipped the email since they hadn’t had internet access for years.

In her reply, my mother promised she’d never share our address and assured me we didn’t need to repay them. She never expressed love, though, either by phone or by mail.

I was grateful for their help, but I was also faced with a tough decision. I had to ask myself if my gratitude was worth having them back in my life. After all, their help didn’t erase the past, and I knew that reconnecting would likely bring old cycles back. I reminded myself of why I’d walked away from the family drama. I’d rather be hated for what I am than loved for what I’m not, and I had no desire to engage with people who’d struggled to accept me as I was. I decided to keep things simple by sending a letter every month or so. I continued until six months went by without a reply from them.

It seemed they’d made the decision for me, and I’ll admit a part of me was relieved, suspecting they thought, “We helped her, and now she’s on her own again.”

To this day, I’m still unsure why my folks chose to help if they weren’t interested in a relationship. Perhaps they felt that, while they didn’t want to know us, they also didn’t want to see us starving on the streets.

I went to bed that night with a full stomach, knowing our room was paid for a week. I was no longer afraid to dream.

Eventually, we found ourselves out in the country, but not without another six months of struggle. Once we could finally access our money, we were briefly ahead, but it didn’t last.

My stomach took a month to recover from the poor diet we endured during the worst days. Each day, I prayed for life’s necessities and guidance toward a peaceful place to live.

Near the end of the year, a few months before we found our current rental, I noticed that my dreams never took place in apartments. Despite thinking an apartment would be our only option, I wasn’t haunted by apartment nightmares.

Toward the year’s end, things began improving. Tom transferred to the second shift, allowing us more time to search for rentals during the day. My wins started to pick up too, and I hit it big. I won a 32-inch flat-panel TV, multiple $100 gift cards, cash, shopping sprees, a $500 check for a cleaning tip selected by Clorox (plus a year’s worth of cleaning supplies), and a Yamaha Rhino ATV! We hoped to sell the ATV for a few thousand, though we doubted our chances of getting a house with our imperfect credit.

In January 2008, we learned we’d receive a cash equivalent for the ATV, which thrilled us. Plus, we expected a $1,000 IRS refund in May. For the first time, we had enough money to fulfill our goals: finding a decent rental and a reliable used car. But there was a catch: we had to wait nearly three months for both the nine grand and the $500. Once again, we nearly lost everything. The stress of waiting for them to write a lousy check was agonizing, and we had to pawn more things, including the TV. Just when I doubted we’d ever get the money, both checks arrived in late March, finally offering a glimpse of light at the end of our long tunnel.

Tired of noisy neighbors, a faulty AC, and a leaky fridge, we moved to the room next door. The new room felt like a fresh start.

Tom found a 1994 Ford Taurus wagon for $2,500 after taxes and licensing. It felt amazing to drive a fully legal car. The constant anxiety had been a huge burden for him. Whether it was prayers or just luck that kept him from getting pulled over, we were grateful.

Looking back, things could have been worse. The truck could have been impounded or broken down before the big check came. But I didn’t miss that old, uncomfortable truck, which Tom described as reliable to the end.

That night, with the new car, I realized all we had left to do was find a decent place to live.

That night, I drifted into sleep, dreaming of floating through the woods.

Since the check was so large, Tom could only cash part of it initially. It took a couple of weeks to access the full amount from his usual check-cashing place.

About a week before he withdrew the remaining funds, I dreamt of living in a house with significant space around it. I peered through binoculars at a house a few hundred feet away, its interior warmly lit but empty of people. I wrote it off as wishful thinking when I awoke.

Just after midnight on April 5th, Tom found an ad online for an old single-wide trailer in the tiny town of Auburn, 30 miles east of Sacramento. The secluded, country setting intrigued us. However, the ad lacked contact info, so Tom notified the site.