Love, Justine

When the boys were about a year old, my friend Felicia from the EB community lost her 16-year old son to Dystrophic EB. Also, bizarrely, there was a set of twins born to a neighbor of hers, one of which had EB, and they were struggling to care for him. They already had one set of twins who were six years old, so their hands were full. I decided to go to Lancaster, PA to see Felicia and the new baby, and offer my support. I took the boys with me. My friend Folly had loaned me her car. We stayed for three days, during which time I taught the new family how to take care of their new EB baby. 

However, the boys were refusing to sleep in this foreign environment, so I got very little sleep. The second night, I had a migraine from stress and not sleeping, so Felicia gave me a Percocet, which I gratefully took. 

The boys and I then headed home. 

My bipolar symptoms were in high gear because of not sleeping, and although I didn’t know it, I was in a full-blown manic phase. My apartment was a wreck. I had left dirty dishes in the sink, and there were clean clothes hanging everywhere because my dryer was broken. I called my friend Din to see if he could fix the dryer, and he came over. 

The boys, once home, fell immediately to sleep. I laid on the couch and also tried to sleep, but I was so uncomfortable and stiff from driving for five hours that I couldn’t sleep. My brain was also running wild with delusional thoughts.

Din noticed that I was having trouble getting up the stairs, and offered me some of the joint that was in his pocket. I thought about it and decided that it was harmless, as the boys would be sleeping for at least two hours. 

I smoked a little of it.

Around this time, a teenaged boy appeared in the front a lawn that I shared with the neighbor tenants–we lived in a duplex–and began trying to mow the lawn. This was no easy feat, because the grass was nearly a foot high, and all he had to work with was a rickety old push mower, which kept stalling, while burping out big clouds of black smoke. This was also creating a huge amount of noise. I tried to tell the neighbor, a young woman with a three-year old of her own, that my windows were open and I couldn’t shut them because it was 80 degrees outside, and my kids were sleeping and my son was asthmatic, so please stop with the mowing, which wasn’t doing any good anyway.

This somehow devolved into a screaming match about the 10 pit bulls she had in her house and how my kids couldn’t play outside safely anymore. She called the police and told them that I was harassing her.

The policeman, Officer Copperhead, came, and when I asked him why he was there, he screeched, “Well, I wasn’t going to write you a ticket, but NOW I AM!!”

He did.

By this time, Jaxon and Henry had woken up. They scooted out on the front stoop (they were developmentally delayed from being preemies and weren’t yet walking) to watch me carry stuff from our “vacation” from the car to the house. They were wearing only diapers because it was so hot.

The neighbor called CYS and the police this time to report that my boys were “running around outside naked unsupervised,” none of which was true. The police came again and wrote me a ticket for misdemeanor child endangerment.

I was livid.

CYS came and interviewed me and took pictures of both of the twins.

Then they demanded to come into the house.

This was the last straw, as far as I was concerned. I’d had an Early Intervention teacher in my apartment that morning, and it was still a disaster of a mess. Also, legally, I do not have to let them in my house and I know this, so I said no, deadbolted the door, and took the twins upstairs for their bath. It was almost bedtime.

If they wanted to see the inside of the apartment so badly, they could come back tomorrow, when it was cleaner.

NO.

The local police then called the state police, who flooded my front yard in riot gear with flashing lights. 

I didn’t know this.

I was giving the boys a bath.

When I came back downstairs, my phone was ringing.

I answered it.

It was Copperhead, screaming that he was going to take my kids. 

Then, in slow motion, I saw the deadbolt lock on my front door turning to open.

I dropped the phone and ran for the door, throwing myself against it.