The Gift of Crisis. Bridgitte Jackon Buckley
couldn’t tell my grandmother because she would have had a fit, and the streetlights were almost on! Most of the kids on the block had to be inside the house when the streetlights came on, so we had to get the cuffs off. At least ten of my friends walked me around the block to the neighborhood police station. I remember walking and crying on my way to the police station. Would they call my mother at work? Would my grandmother shuffle down to the station? She would have come down there alright, and none of us would have liked it. Fortunately, the police officer had a key to unlock the handcuffs, but he called my mother anyway.
When my mother suggests that Dennis and I buy the house on Forty-first from them, it is like a gift. They are willing to help us reach for something out of our reach. With the LA housing market pricing many inhabitants out of the market, this is our way in. And with Dennis’ home improvement skills, he can manage the renovation of the house. The house is more than eighty years old and has been renovated once under my parents’ ownership. That afternoon, my parents and I discuss the possibilities of the house at length: what it needs, what Dennis can do, how we will find a realtor, where we will live during the renovation, and how they can legally inform the tenant she will have to move.
A few weeks later, Dennis, my parents and I meet with a realtor, who confirms what we suspect. Dennis and I do not qualify for a home loan. However, we still want to go ahead with the plan to move into the house. The agreement we settle upon is as follows:
With ample equity in the house, my parents will refinance the house and take out a loan to renovate it. Dennis and I will move our family in, and rent the house from my parents by paying the monthly mortgage while we work on our credit to qualify for a home loan to purchase it.
Dennis agrees to completely modernize the house. To do this, it will be have to be completely gutted. Dennis, with occasional hired help, will have to tear out everything in the house, down to the studs, floors, interior walls, and windows, the plumbing and electrical wiring.
To use the space differently with an open floor plan, Dennis has to move the gas line and reroute the plumbing to accommodate the relocation of the stove, dryer, and water heater. He insulates the walls before installing new drywall throughout the entire 1,214-square-foot house, then new wiring and new copper plumbing, and rearranges the bathroom to install a built-in deck for a drop-in bathtub, stand-up shower, new cabinets, and crown moldings. Who has crown moldings in the bathroom? We do! There are new countertops and appliances in the kitchen and an island, built-in closets in both bedrooms, a newly constructed deck added onto the back of the house, new central heating, newly installed floating laminate flooring throughout the entire house, and recessed lighting in the living room and kitchen, along with a new gate to the back yard and newly planted flowers near the front porch. The demolition and reconstruction are extensive and take almost a year. For that year, we live with my parents and pay the mortgage on the house on Forty-first. Dennis completes a lot of the work on the house on weekends and sometimes after work. He saves us a fortune on labor, planning, and installation costs, and does absolutely beautiful work on the house.
In June 2005, we move out of my parents’ house into our beautiful new home with superb water pressure, no exposure to lead paint dust or chips, clear windows, a long driveway, and a spacious backyard for the kids to play freely. Three months later, in September 2005, after two children and seven years of being together, Dennis and I are married amongst sixty-five of our closest family and friends in my parents’ backyard. The details of my life with Dennis, Greyson, and Mckenna resemble perfection. Everywhere I look there is something beautiful to see.
In an unexpected turn of events, six months after moving into the house and three months after the wedding, the attempt to grasp our version of the American Dream slips away like the sun disappears below the horizon. In December 2005, Dennis is hospitalized due to the onset of symptoms for a stroke. He is thirty-three years old.
There is nothing unusual about that Tuesday afternoon, other than that, after picking Greyson up from school, I have a strong feeling I should go straight home. Usually, after school, I would stop at the park or library instead of going home. But, on this day, my intuition pulls at me to go home without delay. Instead of pulling into the backyard, closing the gate behind the car and entering the house through the back door as usual, I pull halfway up the driveway and enter through the front door. When I open the door, Dennis is sitting on the couch. He’s moaning and holding his head in severe pain. “What’s wrong?!” I ask and kneel down in front of him. “I have the worst headache I’ve ever had in my life.” I will never know why I don’t hesitate, but I tell Greyson and Mckenna to get back into the car. I help Dennis get up to walk outside and get into the car. I drive as fast as I can to Hubert Humphrey Comprehensive Health Center, where his sister, with whom I rarely speak, is the head nurse. As soon as we walk into the clinic, Dennis begins to vomit repeatedly. His sister is working there that day and sees us. She takes Dennis to the back immediately. The next thing I know, I hear the ambulance’s siren as it pulls up to the center. His sister comes out from behind the counter, over to me, and says, “His blood pressure is 220/180; he has to be admitted to the hospital right now! You can meet him there! I hope he doesn’t have retinal separation!” When I walk into the Emergency Department at LA County USC and say, “I’m here for Dennis Buckley,” three nursing students, who stand by the intake counter stare at me in wide-eyed silence. My chest wants to explode. What do their looks mean?! A nurse leads me to the room where Dennis lie writhing on the hospital bed, still moaning in pain. There are so many wires attached to him. I call out to him, but he keeps asking, “Who are you?!” He can’t see me. He has lost his vision. I stand motionless with Mckenna on my hip, Greyson crying at my side, and the nurse prodding me for information: “Are you his wife? How long has he been like this? Did he hit his head? Did he complain of numbness? How old is he?” The room is spinning for me and for Dennis. It takes all my bearings to remain standing upright. I nod yes to being the wife. There are two nurses and a doctor standing around the bed. One nurse is looking at the heart monitor while the doctor shines light onto Dennis’ pupils and loudly calls his name. Again, the nurse asks, “Mrs. Buckley? Did he hit his head?” My eyes blink slowly. Greyson holds onto my arm, and minutes of standing in the room feel like hours. I can barely think logically, let alone answer questions. What the hell is happening?
Five hours later, the doctor explains Dennis was on the verge of having a stroke due to untreated hypertension. The rapid rise in blood pressure to extremely high levels can cause immediate and potentially deadly damage to systems in the body; therefore, he will have to remain hospitalized to slowly bring down his blood pressure over a period of days. His vision will slowly return. The weight of Mckenna’s limp body on my hip feels like a hundred pounds. The doctor’s voice faintly drifts into the background. I stare past the doctor while he continues to explain what will happen next. I blankly look at Greyson’s awkward sleeping position on the hospital waiting-room chairs. Chow Mein. The doctor says something about more tests and monitoring damage to the organs, and I recall Dennis’ plate of Chow Mein noodles. While we were out to dinner this past Sunday evening, Dennis complained of numbness in his left arm. He kept moving it around to relieve the tingling feeling. I didn’t think anything of it because of his line of work. I thought maybe he’d strained a muscle using his nail gun. If only it were that simple. Two days later, he is hospitalized.
I finally call my mother the next morning around 6:00 a.m. She is beside herself that we went through such an ordeal without calling her to be with us. Within a few hours, my parents, two close family friends, and my best girlfriends are at our house, cooking food, bringing groceries, washing the dishes, minding Greyson and Mckenna, sitting for reassurance, and asking what more I need. Although there is love and support around me, I am numb with fear. I don’t know what I need or what to do, other than sit at his hospital bed and worry about him, about us.
Almost one week later, Dennis’ blood pressure is stable and his vision intact. The doctor says it will take four to six months for him to recuperate and regain strength. I relay the update to everyone. A few days after the hospitalization, when my friends have gone and the kids are asleep, Matt and I sit at the dining-room table while my mother cleans the kitchen. There is an unsettling quietude hovering around each of us. Matt looks at the empty coffee cup in his hands without interest in coffee. I have an idea of what is on his mind because it is also on my mind. Looking at the empty cup,