When I lived in Texas, I managed a group of twenty or so people developing and delivering custom and product software. In the group was a young woman whose work was brilliant–when she showed up. The problem with her performance was that her attendance was erratic, and sometimes when she did show up she was too sick to do much. This became enough of a problem that, as her manager, I had to have one of those discussions with her. The woman was brave–very brave–and decided to confide in me. She had, she said, been beaten by her husband. Sometimes it was so bad she couldn’t function because of the pain pills. And the pain. I don’t think it was just a story. She showed me the scabs, the bruises, and the scars. This was a woman who wore long sleeves and turtlenecks in the summer in Texas. I tried to help her find counseling and courage, but I don’t think I was very successful.

Later, after I no longer managed the group, she died. It was, they said, “a freak accident” involving a fall down a flight of stairs. I couldn’t go to the funeral because I couldn’t face her husband.

During the same period, I became acquainted with another young woman who worked in a different group in the same area. She was pretty, very young, and seemed very competent. I liked her much more than the degree of acquaintance would suggest. She died suddenly. I was told that it was “a freak accident” in the bathtub. I didn’t go to the funeral because I didn’t know her particularly well, but the loss always stuck with me.

It was maybe only last year that I put the two “freak accidents” together and began to wonder. Of course, I will never know.

The other day I read a plea from a victim of abuse who had been living in a shelter for a while and  has finally qualified for housing for herself and her children. She writes under the name “Broken Dreams”. She has nothing and needs everything. I offered her whateverI could think that we have to give her, and she needs it all. And I want to find more.

This has all come back to me so hard. I can’t stop crying. This woman is so brave. Leaving an abusive relationship is one of the hardest things a woman may ever have to do. My heart goes out to her.

I found the following poem in a New York City subway car in 2007 with no attribution. I wonder how the poet is doing.

You are the man

you are my other country

And I find it hard going

You are the prickly pear

you are the sudden violent storm

The torrent to raise the river

To float the wounded doe